Bat-Family One Shots

Suicide (Dick)

TRIGGER WARNING! Serious angst chapter guys!

*****

Worthless.
One slice into his arm.

Alone.
Another slice.

Weak.
Slice.

Failure.

Slice.

Dick Grayson stood in his bathroom, repeating the same sequence until blood started to drip down his figures and onto the white floor, making it impossible to grip the broken razor blade.

He winced with every cut, at first he'd found it hard, but as soon as he'd started he seemed to create a rhythm and was unable to stop.

The feeling of pain, watching his own blood, put him into a sort of trance. He raised his arm, smiling sadly at the red warm liquid spilling down his biceps.

Tonight.

Tonight he ends it.

Dick lowered his arm and returned his gaze to the dirty mirror in front of him. Dark patches under his dull blue eyes made him look even paler, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept for more than an hour or slept at all. His cheekbones were more pronounced than normal too, he hadn't eaten in a long time. He wasn't worthy of food.

He shifted on the spot, not wanting to see the failure that was himself, instead Dick cast his eyes to his clothes. He'd changed out of his Nightwing suit. When they find him, he wouldn't want to make another job for them. His recently white shirt now had splashes of red colouring it and even though he'd rolled the sleeves back, they too were dyed a crimson colour.

It started when Bruce kicked him out, they'd been fighting over... Something... He hoped it was important. None of his brothers complained. Jason went back to killing, again, and Bruce had told Dick to stop him. Of course, that didn't work, only fueling the hatred The Dark Knight felt towards his first son. Then came the incident with The Light, no one forgave him for putting the team and Artemis in such danger. They voted him out and off the team.

Wally's death.

That's when the cutting had started. His choices had killed his best friend. Dick's inability to focus lost him his job and his already tainted reputation as Nightwing.

None of his brothers had contacted him in weeks. Not Alfred or Bruce. None of the Justice League or the team.
He was alone.
No one needed him anymore. No one wanted him.

He wasn't a cop anymore, it was getting harder and harder to get up in the morning, he'd lost his job. No job meant no money, he'd lost his nice flat and was currently staying in this dump of a building, no hot water and scarce electricity. All he had to do was sleep with the landlord once a month to stay. It was better than the streets.

He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, not caring about the red splatters appearing on the bleak carpet. He was beginning to feel dizzy and lightheaded. He would have usually stopped at this point; however, tonight he wasn't planning to. With a glass of water gripped in his shaky hands, he began to stumble to his bedroom.

He slumped onto the bed, sighing. Everything and anything used up so much energy, he was both physically and mentally exhausted. Dick had thought about writing a note, however, he could figure out what he'd say and to who he'd say it too. Sorry? But he wasn't. He wasn't sorry for wanting the pain and the loneliness to go away. He wasn't sorry for being weak and wanting to end his suffering.

By now, the room was spinning more vigorously. If it was anyone else, he'd be worried. But it was himself, and he wasn't going quick enough. He could still be saved, that was not the goal. Rummaging through his bedside table, he found the blue and yellow pills -given to him by Alfred a few months before he left the manor- they were supposed to help him sleep. In a way, he guessed it would.

One pill, one sip, swallow.
One pill, one sip, swallow.
Two pills, one sip. Swallow.
A bitter taste now filled his mouth, making his tongue and throat dry.
Three pills, swallow.
Four.
Five.
Three, sip, swallow.

All the pills were now gone and swallowed. The darkness creeping into his vision proved they were working.

He could be with Wally now.
Happy; at peace.
His parents were waiting for him.

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Dick to stay awake and upright. With a deep sigh, he slouched back onto the bed, ignoring the blood that was staining his once pale sheet and covers.

It would all be over soon.

Dick Grayson allowed a smile to done his features as he lay dying on his own bed. He wasn't afraid of death like he was when he started out being Robin. He was calm and accepting, this is what he wanted.

It was becoming hard to breathe, like a weight was slowly being lowered onto his chest, slowly but surely suffocating him.

He would die, soon.

He would die.

Alone.

*****

The End?

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