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'What does it take to kill a person?'
He remembers the day he heard it. It was a windy afternoon as he sat in the corner of the classroom, cradling his arms.
A copy of the hamlet was tucked inside his desk. He looked out the window to see green ivy leaves fluttering with the breeze. He wondered what Alfred was making for dinner. Perhaps he could coerce Bruce into patrol with him.
What does it take to kill a person? Jason scoffed. The answer was so simple. A bullet through the head and that’s all it takes. But the real answer was the opposite.
Everything. It takes everything to kill. Through hatred, grief, pain, whatever things that cloud his brain to the point that the weight of a trigger feels like nothing.
It all starts with a simple question.
'Let's play a game of truth or dare. I'll start first, Little birdie.'
Jason's breath hitches with the piercing pain on his chest.
'What hurts more, forehand? Or backhand?'
He rolls over in time to barely avoid the hit. The smell of a strong cigar makes his eyes water.
'Oh. You still care for her, don't you? Next time, don't believe in someone who calls themselves a mother when they left you in a crib!'
Jason crawls desperately towards the slumped women. He realizes the blow too late. Blood pours out of his lungs as he coughs.
'You're boring. And here I was wondering why Batsy would ever keep a thing like you. Well, I'll just leave you here then.'
He watches the timer tick by. The bombs stacked in a pile flickers to life as he throws his body over Sheila. He dies. He dies but why on earth is he still alive?
On his nineteenth birthday, he decides to visit his grave. The grass is up to his ankles, and nothing more. There are no flowers on his grave. Not like they used to. He was not someone to mourn for anymore. Only a hollow statue of an angel watches over him in the dark night.
Jason kneels in front of the grave. He didn't have the guts to visit before. Now that he's here, he can't move. He stares. And stares. Into the engravings of a boy once loved.
He feels like crying. But he's too tired for that. All Jason wants is to crawl back under the mould and sleep. The place where he belongs. Where he was supposed to be. Instead he's standing six feet up, drenched in sweat and rain, utterly exhausted.
It was never his choice to come back to life. It was never his choice to be put into the pit. Become the monster he read out of a fairytale a long time ago. To become the same as the men who killed that boy.
A murderer.
Jason topples down onto the ground. He presses his face against the headstone. It's cold, and slimy with moss. He traces the words over and over with his fingers. Every word feels like daggers to his heart. A child so full of life, who believed in the wonders of the world.
'Look at the stars, Jay. Isn't it cool that there are so many of them- yet only a few of them are chosen to form constellations?'
Bruce's rumble sound past his ear. He thinks of that night. The stars across the sky, so many of them, they seemed to almost fall onto him. Holding Bruce's hand, leaning into the warmth, he looked up to the night sky.
What he failed to tell him that day was how badly he wanted to be one of those shining stars. So that Bruce could find him without squinting. How he had wanted to be a guide to the man he was holding, just like how travelers would look at polaris when they were lost. With the stars, people always found their way back. Robin guided them to their safety.
He wanted to be chosen by his father.
For a moment, when he looked at the cowl, Jason thought that he might. For one time. Just this time, for him. Then he could ignore the cackling laugh of the green haired men. That psychopathic monster would collapse onto his own joke, and Jason would wrap his arms around his father. To go back home.
But it never happened. Jason choked back a sob as he watched Batman leave, holding the laughing man. A fallen batarang on his footstep, wrapping his bleeding neck with his bare hands. Blood kept falling and falling.
You are not his son. Why would he choose you when you mean nothing to him?
So why can't he just do it? He's afraid. A coward. He never stopped being a coward since the day he let Willis beat Catherine up. The sounds of breaking bottles, screams, but he would be frozen in the cupboard, afraid of defending his mother- and she died. She died and he didn't save her.
Joker was right. He always ruined things. Everything he got involved in went downhill. Everyone he got near left him in the end.
It's because you're such a failure, Jason. Who would want to be close to freak like you?
No, no. That's not true. He wasn't a failure. He needed to keep his hallucinations from influencing him. That turned out to be increasingly hard now. He dreamed of the warehouse everyday. A bloody boy looked at him in sadness every time he pulled the trigger. Sometimes that became his mother. Penguin. Joker. Sometimes Batman.
Don’t look at me like that.
Jason wanted to scream. He wanted to beg them not to leave him. Because the night was so cold, and he was utterly alone in the middle of the city. Anything was fine. Tell me what a disappointment I was. So reckless and naive, a bloodthirsty second-rate criminal- just don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here alone!
But all he could do was tremble in shock as they turned their head and walked away. His efforts just lead to more pain in his throat. He couldn’t say a thing.
Just do it. He's tired of this shit. And he is definitely beyond saving. How much blood was on his hands? Why try to live when it really doesn't change anything?
Jason blinked in resignation.
You know it's really very easy. I just have to make it bleed enough.
Jason looks at the mirror. Then looks at his arm.
You look just like a dying bird. Ha! What a name for someone so insignificant. Does it hurt? How much does it hurt? Come on. It's rude to ignore someone's questions. No manners.
Will Bruce miss him when he's gone? He did for the first time- but this time it's just him. None of the smiles, no hugs, no helping. Gunshots and dead bodies everywhere. Not the scrawny boy with a goofy grin. He was a man who killed cold blooded.
No one to grieve him.
Oh you're crying. Too bad that I don't care. Big bad bat seems to agree with me today. He will not save you.
The mirror shatters into pieces. Jason can still hear the faint tick of the clock somewhere. It was something that never seemed to go away. The only thing that stayed with him till the end.
Stop crying! It's making me sick. You know what? There's a great way to make it stop.
How funny it all ends in the same way. He laughs in paused gasps. Holding his wrist, Jason lowers himself into the tub. Water bubbles past his ear.
He tried to make things better. Because saving meant that you sometimes have to make hard choices. He was just so tired. He tried. It doesn't matter in the end.
Black spots filter his vision. He swears for a moment he feels a strong pair of arms pulling him up. No! No, not again... Stay with me. Jason!
Too late, old man. He closes his eyes and lets his mind float away into unconsciousness.