Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Abandonment

The Batcave was filled with the familiar hum of machinery and the steady tapping of keyboards, but for Damian Wayne, it felt more like a hollow echo of a family he no longer felt a part of. He sat perched on the edge of the training mat, fists clenched and heart heavy, feeling more like an outsider than a member of the Bat family.

Tonight was supposed to be a family dinner, a chance for everyone to come together after a grueling week of missions. But as the clock ticked on, it became clear that the rest of the family had other priorities. Bruce was deep in conversation with Tim about some new technology that needed analyzing. Dick was off in the corner, practicing his acrobatics, while Jason was too busy sharpening his knives to join in the camaraderie. Alfred was the only one aware of Damian's growing frustration, but even he was preoccupied with preparing dinner.

As the evening wore on, the table was set, but the chairs remained mostly empty. Damian felt his heart sink as he watched everyone engaged in their tasks, the laughter and excitement flowing around him while he felt invisible. He longed for a moment where someone would just turn and acknowledge him, but it never came.

"Damian, can you help with this?" Bruce's voice called out, but it was directed at Tim, who was busy recalibrating the Batcomputer. Damian's shoulders slumped, a wave of disappointment washing over him.

With each passing minute, the feeling of being overlooked intensified, and the weight of loneliness settled heavily in his chest. It was as if he was a ghost, drifting through a place he once called home but now felt so alien. The thought clawed at him: Maybe I don't matter. Maybe they don't need me.

When dinner was finally served, Damian sat at the table, his plate untouched, as the conversation flowed around him. They spoke about missions, victories, and plans, but his contributions were met with distracted nods and fleeting glances. Each laugh and cheer felt like a dagger in his heart, deepening his sense of isolation.

In that moment, he felt the world closing in around him. It wasn't just the Bat-family's laughter that echoed in his ears; it was the sound of his own insecurities whispering that he would never measure up, that he would always be the lesser Robin, a shadow of what they wanted him to be. He pushed his chair back, the scraping noise cutting through the conversation.

"Excuse me," he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips before he stormed out of the room, leaving behind a baffled family. He fled to the training area, where he began to lash out at the training dummies, each strike fueled by rage and pain. The rubber and foam felt satisfying under his fists, but with each blow, the emptiness inside him only grew.

Eventually, exhaustion washed over him, and he slumped to the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks as the weight of his feelings came crashing down. Alone in the cavernous space, he felt the overwhelming desire to be seen, to be acknowledged as a member of this family that seemed to have forgotten him.

In his despair, he resorted to desperate measures. He reached for the small blade he kept tucked away, a decision fueled by the belief that the physical pain would drown out the emotional turmoil swirling inside him. With trembling hands, he pressed the edge against his skin, releasing the pent-up anguish in a moment of misguided relief.

But as the crimson lines appeared, he felt the weight of his actions settle on his chest, heavier than before. This wasn't what he wanted; he didn't want to hurt himself. He wanted to feel something—anything other than the crushing isolation that had become his constant companion.

That night, as he lay in his bed, he realized he had crossed a line. The blade lay discarded on the floor, a silent testament to his struggles. Was this really the answer? He closed his eyes, the tears soaking the pillow as he wished for things to be different, for the Bat family to recognize his pain, to understand how much he craved their support.