Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Shattered Mirror

Damian Wayne stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the boy reflected back at him. But all he saw were flaws. His green eyes seemed to glow with the same intensity as the rage bubbling beneath his skin. He couldn't shake the memory of overhearing Bruce in the Batcave earlier that day, the words cutting deeper than any blade could.

"Damian just doesn't measure up. He's too reckless, too emotional. He's not ready to be a real Robin."

Those words echoed in his mind like a broken record, each repetition gnawing at his self-worth. In that moment, he felt more like a disappointment than a son. Damian clenched his fists, feeling the sharpness of his nails digging into his palms. The mirror reflected a version of himself he despised—a version he wanted to destroy.

He turned away from the mirror, pacing the small bathroom as the anger bubbled inside him. He had trained hard, pushed himself to the limits, but none of it seemed to matter. Bruce's words were like poison, seeping into every crevice of his mind. He felt trapped in a body that didn't live up to the expectations he couldn't escape.

After a few moments of frantic pacing, a dark thought crept into his mind: if he couldn't escape the reflection in the mirror, maybe he could destroy it. A chilling wave of determination washed over him. He had the power to control his pain, to punish himself for not being good enough.

Damian grabbed a small, jagged piece of glass from the sink, the remnants of an old picture frame. The sharp edges glinted under the fluorescent lights, and for a brief moment, he hesitated. But the anger inside him pushed the fear away.

With a deep breath, he pressed the glass against his forearm, feeling the sting as it broke the skin. A small gasp escaped his lips, but the pain was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil swirling in his chest. The physical pain grounded him, anchoring him in a world where he felt utterly lost.

He traced the glass over his skin, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. Each line felt like a release, a way to channel the chaos that was becoming unbearable. With every cut, he felt the weight of Bruce's words lift, even if only for a moment. The momentary relief pushed away the feelings of inadequacy that consumed him.

Damian couldn't stop. He continued until his forearm was a canvas of scars, each mark a testament to the flaws he was trying to erase. He knew this wasn't a solution, but in that moment, it felt like the only way to regain control over his life.

After what felt like hours, he finally dropped the glass and leaned against the bathroom wall, panting. His arm throbbed, a dull ache that contrasted with the rush of adrenaline coursing through him. He turned back to the mirror, wiping the blood from his arm and watching as the crimson droplets slipped down into the sink.

The boy staring back at him was a mess—a reflection of the chaos inside. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wild with a mix of anger and desperation. Damian felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction at the scars, each one a battle fought in silence.

But that satisfaction was short-lived. The reflection of the boy he saw was still flawed, still broken. He felt an overwhelming urge to lash out again, to punish himself further. He needed to escape the prison of his own mind.

In the days that followed, Damian descended deeper into this destructive cycle. He began skipping meals, believing that if he could just be smaller, he could somehow be less of a disappointment. He trained harder, pushing himself to exhaustion, believing that if he could prove his worth, Bruce would see him differently.

But no matter how much he trained, the darkness continued to close in. He felt more isolated than ever, unable to confide in anyone. His brothers, Dick and Tim, noticed the changes in him, the bruises he tried to hide, and the weight he was losing. They tried to reach out, to help, but each time they did, Damian pushed them away.

"Leave me alone," he snapped one day after a particularly grueling training session. He could see the concern etched on their faces, but all he felt was anger. He didn't want their pity. He didn't want their concern. He wanted to be alone with his pain.

Eventually, the physical punishments escalated. Damian found himself experimenting with more dangerous methods. The self-harm became an addiction—he craved the pain, the sense of control it gave him. He began to wear long sleeves and bandages to hide the evidence, telling himself that no one needed to know.

But he could feel the weight of his secrets pressing down on him. The nightmares returned, haunting him in his sleep. Each night, he would awaken in a cold sweat, the memories of his training resurfacing—memories of the people he'd hurt, the violence he'd been a part of. No matter how much he tried to escape them, they lingered in the shadows, refusing to let him go.

One night, after another failed mission with the Teen Titans, the floodgates opened. Damian sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, the weight of his failures crashing down around him. He felt utterly alone, trapped in a cycle of pain that he couldn't break.

With shaking hands, he reached for the small piece of glass again. This time, though, he hesitated. He could see the reflection of the boy in the mirror, and the boy looked lost. The realization hit him hard—he was spiraling into a darkness he couldn't control, and it was consuming him.

But the fear didn't stop him. With tears streaming down his face, he pressed the glass against his skin once more, but instead of relief, he felt a deep, hollow ache. The scars he had created were becoming a reminder of his failures, not a solution.

As he sat there, the glass in hand, he finally understood that the punishment he had imposed upon himself wouldn't erase the hurt he felt inside. It wouldn't make him feel any less broken. The darkness that surrounded him wasn't just about the scars or the blood—it was about the feelings of worthlessness and despair that had taken root in his heart.

In that moment of clarity, he dropped the glass and collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. He wanted to scream, to shout out all the pain he had been holding in for so long. But all he could do was cry.

Hours passed, and Damian finally pulled himself up off the floor. His heart felt heavy with grief, but the weight of his despair had shifted slightly. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to talk about his feelings. Maybe he could reach out for help instead of retreating into the shadows.

He walked back to the mirror, looking at his reflection once more. The boy staring back at him was still flawed, but for the first time, he didn't see just the flaws. He saw the potential for change, for healing. He took a deep breath, knowing it would be a long road ahead, but he was willing to try.

As he turned to leave the bathroom, a flicker of hope ignited within him. Maybe he wasn't as broken as he thought. Maybe he could find his place in the Bat Family after all.

But before he could reach the door, a sudden crash echoed from the other side, jolting him back to reality. Damian's heart raced as he opened the door, bracing himself for whatever awaited him.

He didn't know what was happening, but deep down, he realized he couldn't face it alone. Maybe it was time to confront his demons, to reach out for help. He stepped into the hallway, ready to face whatever came next, determined to start the journey toward healing.