I'll be good

There's Something Dark Inside of Me

The pain hit him instantly, though he couldn't be sure where it had come from. It was sudden and intense, and it completely covered his whole body with an immediate, overwhelming agony.

He had never felt this pain before; it wasn't like the pain he was used to. It was like he was slowly burning from the inside. Like his insides were being ripped open with a jagged blade made of ice, and set alight with fire.

He was too afraid to move, too afraid of what the consequences would be. He willed himself to stay upright, despite the excruciating torment that was happening inside of him, he willed himself to stay standing. But his body refused to obey his command. His head felt too heavy, his legs too numb, and he could feel himself giving in to the feeling of weakness all too quickly.

He could hear the wind howling from above, could feel the beginnings of light raindrops seeping into his skin as they fell onto his face. But at the same time, he couldn't feel those things. He couldn't really feel anything, except for the burning sensation beneath his flesh, and the lingering taste of copper on his tongue.

Grimacing, he felt the breath catch in his throat as he swayed dangerously on shaking legs. His hands shot out as he hurtled towards the ground in an attempt to brace himself for the harsh landing. But it didn't help any; his body still smacked hard against the cold concrete as his strength left him.

He tried to breathe deeply, tried to focus on something he could do-- anything he had learned-- that would save his life. But it was too hard to focus. The pain was too unbearable. And at that moment, he felt too helpless, too weak to do anything to save himself. He could barely move, could hardly breathe. It was easier to stop fighting. It was better to let the darkness consume him. It was better to let it win.

It was not what he'd been taught, however. He'd been shown how to survive, how to evade the inevitability of death. How to persist against all odds.

If his past self could see him now-- his four-year-old self-- the one who faced the harshest of blizzards to make it to the top of an ice-covered mountain, with only bruised and broken bones to serve as a reward. The one who defied death itself, just to prove how strong he was to those who doubted he could one day lead.

Yet here he was, six years later, giving up and so easily.

How disappointing.

He wanted to cry out in frustration, wanted to scream at himself to get up. Ignore the pain.

Get up.

Ignore everything!

But he also wanted to be held. Wanted to be comforted, to be taken care of. He wanted to let his wounds heal, and let his scars fade. He wanted somebody to scoop him up into their arms and hold him close, to hear the soothing rhythm of their heartbeat. He wanted to be told that everything was going to be okay and that he was safe.

He didn't want to die.

***

Damian was pretty certain that he was slowly bleeding out; he could practically feel the absence of blood as the seconds passed away. And he was fairly sure somebody was shouting his name, but it was unclear. Like he was too far underwater, and his lungs were in agony, threatening to burst, but he just couldn't surface. Just couldn't save himself.

What he couldn't understand was how he ended up in this predicament. He couldn't comprehend how he let his guard down so easily. How had he not anticipated an attack from behind? Had he forgotten everything? Had he been so senseless to believe that they had won-- that his mother could be so easily beaten?