Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Unseen Cries

Damian Wayne, the son of Bruce Wayne and the latest to take up the mantle of Robin, stood in the shadows of the Batcave, watching the others on the large screen. Nightwing was handling a major operation in Blüdhaven. Batgirl was tracking down a high-profile mob boss. Red Hood, off doing his own thing, was chasing down his own leads. His father, Batman, was in the field dealing with a threat from Ra's al Ghul's forces.

And Damian? He had been left behind. Again.

"Stay here, Damian," Bruce had said before leaving. "There's nothing more important than your safety."

Damian clenched his fists, frustration bubbling inside him. He was trained by the League of Assassins. He was more than capable of handling himself in the field. Yet, time and time again, they chose to leave him out. He was Robin. Wasn't he supposed to be by his father's side? Part of the Bat Family?

But lately, it felt like they didn't trust him anymore, like he didn't matter.

The following days only worsened his feeling of abandonment. Every time Damian tried to involve himself, he was brushed aside. They told him to stay in the Batcave, to focus on smaller missions, to "be patient." Each time, his frustration grew, and a dark sense of loneliness began to consume him.

One evening, after another conversation where Batman had dismissed his request to join him on a mission, Damian stormed out of the Batcave. He didn't even know where he was going, but he had to get away. Away from the rejection, the feeling of being unwanted.

As he wandered through Gotham's streets, he found himself in a small convenience store. His eyes scanned the shelves, not really looking for anything. But then he saw a pack of cigarettes behind the counter.

Damian had never smoked before, never even thought about it. But in that moment, it felt like a way to push away the thoughts swirling in his mind, the constant voice telling him he wasn't enough.

"I'll take a pack," he muttered to the cashier, not caring about the legality of it.

The man didn't ask questions. He handed over the cigarettes, and Damian slipped into the alley behind the store.

Sitting in the darkness, Damian lit his first cigarette. The sharp, burning sensation filled his lungs, making him cough. It didn't feel good, but it was something. Something to focus on other than the crushing weight in his chest.

As the days passed, the Bat Family stayed distant. Nightwing was busy, Batgirl was constantly out on missions, and Batman... Batman didn't even notice. Damian started carrying the cigarettes with him everywhere he went. He smoked them on rooftops, in back alleys, wherever he could be alone. The nicotine wasn't enough to ease the emptiness, but it distracted him for a little while.

Soon, even that wasn't enough.

He didn't remember exactly when he started using the small blade hidden in his suit. At first, it was just one small cut. Then another. It was easier than he thought it would be. The sharp sting of the knife on his skin was a brief moment of release, a way to feel something other than the overwhelming loneliness.

Weeks passed, and Damian spiraled deeper into his self-destructive habits. He wore long sleeves to hide the growing number of scars on his arms, covered his fingers so no one would notice the cigarette burns. But no one even looked close enough to notice.

Nightwing came back to the Batcave a few times, laughing and talking about his latest mission, but he was always too busy to stay long. Batgirl would pass through, focused on the next big criminal to bring down. Even Bruce, his own father, was wrapped up in his world, fighting bigger battles that left no time for Damian.