Traumatised

Monster

He hated English. When he had first gone to live with Bruce, he had been able to speak it. But until that point in his life, it hadn't been a language he had used much. He spoke Romani with his parents and mostly French with the other members of the circus. English was a tricky language. Nothing really made sense, there were so many rules to follow, but then so many words that broke those rules. He had lived in America for a little over half his life, he had verbal English down to a fine art, to the point you could only really hear his accent when you listened for it. But writing the damn language was another matter.

Dick glared at the laptop he was working on. He was currently writing an essay, or rather, was trying to write an essay. The words wouldn't come. He had never been very good at expressing himself in English. It was one of the reasons he and Bruce got on so well; not only could the man speak so many other languages, but they rarely even needed to talk to be able to communicate with each other. That was why Bruce knew him so well.

Correction. Used to know him.

Dick sighed at the thought and tried to concentrate on his work again. He was meant to be writing a descriptive piece about a photo at the top of the assignment. It was a picture of Adolf Hitler, walking hand and hand through a garden with a little girl. The point of the assignment was to describe how the image made you feel. Dick found the image disturbing, but he couldn't express why. It made his skin crawl and his teeth grind, but the motivation behind these bodily reactions was unknown. He couldn't bring it to words.

With a sigh, Dick shut the laptop and carried it towards the door. As his hand rested on the door handle, he realised Slade was talking. Then there was a pause and Slade spoke again. He was probably on the phone, Dick thought, opening the door and heading down the short corridor to the kitchen space. He could still hear Slade talking, but figured he would sit and wait for the man to finish his conversation. He knew the man wouldn't mind. When he had to take calls which he didn't want Dick to hear, he always went outside. The fact he was stood in the kitchen meant he didn't mind if he was overheard.

But as Dick rounded the corner, he stopped in surprise. Slade was not on the phone, there was someone else in the room with him. They both stopped and looked at him as he entered.

The newcomer looked to Slade and used his hands to sign.

Is this him?

Slade looked agitated. 'Yes, this is Dick. Dick, this is Joey. My son.'

Joey was a young man of around 21, his blonde hair was cut short against his head and his eyes were the same piercing grey as his fathers. But unlike Slade, Joey had a kind face. He waved at Dick and the younger awkwardly waved back.

'Hi.' Dick said, shifting from one foot to the other.

I thought you said he was sixteen? He's tiny – Joey signed.

'I am sixteen.' Dick huffed. Both men looked at him in surprise.

'You understand sign language?' said Slade, he was impressed.

'Of course, it comes in handy when you don't want to be heard.' Dick looked over at the blonde, he wondered why Joey was using it. Was he deaf?

Almost as though reading his mind, Joey smiled and pulled down his turtle neck to reveal a brutal but old scar across his neck.

Had my throat slit when I was a kid. Completely mute – He explained.

Dick couldn't help the look of shock that spread over his face upon seeing the scar. But he relaxed a little when he saw the grin on Joey's face; he also saw Slade roll his eyes.