Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Blade's Edge

Third Person

The sun had set on Wayne Manor, but the shadows lingered longer than the fading light. Inside, tensions simmered among the Bat family. Damian Wayne paced back and forth in the living room, his fists clenched and his heart racing. He had just gotten into another fight with his brothers, Dick and Tim, and the anger that brewed inside him felt like a boiling pot ready to overflow.

"You think you're better than me, don't you?" Damian snapped at Tim, his voice sharp and filled with resentment. "You think you can just waltz in here and play the perfect son?"

Tim stood with his arms crossed, a mix of frustration and concern etched on his face. "Damian, this isn't about that! We're trying to help you!"

"Help me?" Damian spat, the words bitter in his mouth. "You're just trying to control me! I'm not one of your projects!"

Dick stepped forward, trying to mediate the situation. "We're worried about you, Damian. You've been shutting us out, and it's not healthy."

Damian's chest tightened as he felt the weight of their words pressing down on him. He hated feeling vulnerable, hated that they could see his pain so clearly. "I don't need your help! I'm fine on my own!"

"Fine?" Tim challenged, his voice rising. "You're anything but fine! You've been distant and angry, and we want to know what's going on with you."

Damian felt a rush of frustration, and before he could think, he shouted, "You don't get it! You don't know what it's like to be me!"

The room fell silent, tension hanging thick in the air. His brothers exchanged glances, the worry in their eyes palpable. But Damian didn't care; he felt isolated, a storm of emotions swirling inside him.

"I'm done with this," he declared, turning away from them. "I'm done with all of you."

Storming up to his room, Damian slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the halls of the manor. He leaned against the door, his heart pounding. The anger and frustration coursed through his veins, but beneath it lay something darker—a deep-seated pain that he couldn't shake off.

"Why can't they just leave me alone?" he muttered to himself, sinking down onto his bed. "They don't understand."

In that moment of solitude, he felt the familiar urge rise within him. The thought of controlling his pain, of transforming it into something he could manage, was tempting. He opened the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a small blade he had hidden there—a cold, sharp edge that seemed to glint in the dim light.

He hesitated, the blade hovering over his skin. "This is the only thing that makes sense," he whispered, his voice trembling. "It's my choice."

With a deep breath, he pressed the blade against his arm, feeling the sting as it pierced his skin. The pain was a release, a momentary escape from the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to engulf him. As he drew the blade across his skin, he felt a strange sense of control wash over him. It was as if, for those few seconds, he was the one in charge of his pain.

But as the blood welled up, the relief quickly morphed into guilt. "What am I doing?" he thought, panic rising in his chest. He dropped the blade, watching as it clattered to the floor, and the reality of his actions sank in.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the curtains, illuminating the room that felt so dark just hours before. Damian lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the previous night weighing heavily on him. The scars on his arm were a reminder of his moment of weakness, but they also felt like a badge of honor—a sign that he had found a way to cope, however unhealthy.