Work Text:
He's fourteen when he first realizes how good fire in his skin feels. He's exhausted and tired and trying to light a joint (it's the 1970s in a tiny ass town of less than 3000 people and there's nothing to do but smoke because you can) and the lighter accidentally knocks his skin, the fire sharp and burning in his finger. He lets it linger, until he feels his flesh starting to bubble, and he releases the button.
He relishes in the feel of the burnt skin and he presses on it hard and he lays back in his bed, joint forgotten. This high is much better. It makes him feel alive.
His aunt asks him about his scar over breakfast the next morning.
He says nothing. He simply chews on his bowl of Cheerios and remains stoic.
His aunt leaves him alone, sighing quietly.
He doesn't deserve her. She does so much for him, too much. She lost her husband because of him. She never told him that, but talk in small towns discriminates against no one. Everyone knows about the poor woman whose husband left her because he didn't want kids, not even her estranged brother's son who watched his mother get murdered, especially not when said son was moody, angry, and sullen, even at age 11. So he packed his bags and he left, the house at first, and then town, something about bigger business opportunities in Akron.
It's been three years since then, but the kids at school still talk about him, in hushed whispers with quick glances and a million other awful things. It's worse than outright bullying. No one sits with him. No one talks to him. No one partners with him for projects unless the teacher forces them to. He'a social outcast, but he could care less.
He keeps his head down and he does his work.
His physics teacher accuses him of cheating one day when he gets a ninety six on a test that he majority of the class fails. Bruce doesn't blame the teacher. Bruce is the only freshman in a class full of juniors and seniors. He's had high marks all year, but this subject it particular was just so simple.
The teacher threatens him with a zero if he doesn't retake a different version of the test the next day, and as angry as Bruce is about it, he knows that he can't say no.
He goes home and lights the fire to his skin. He's just tired, and the fire makes him feel alive. He burns a long line down his leg and then he drags on a pair of pajama pants to cover it.
He aces the test, jets a hundred this time, and one of the jocks throws him against a locker for killing the curve. It's dumb, but it infuriates Bruce and raises him temper until the damn bursts and Bruce begins to scream.
Most of it is obscenities, but there's a few coherent words in there. It isn't long before the principal comes running over, demanding that Bruce stop.
Bruce just breaks down and cries.
He gets suspended for three days, and he goes home and burns a hole into his thigh. He doesn't stop until the emotions are flowing through and out of him like a broken faucet. He's bawling and crying and jumbling incoherently. His aunt comes in and soothes him until she thinks that he's asleep.
"I want to die," he says quietly, but his aunt has already left the room.
Things don't get better, but Bruce doesn't care. He just sits in his room and burns his skin away.
His aunt questions the smell of smoke but she finds joints in his room and the questions stop.
"I'm here for you," she says one day over breakfast. "You can tell be things, you know."
"I'm fine," Bruce snaps.
"You never bring friends home," his aunt says.
"I don't have any," Bruce responds. "Everyone at school is an asshole."
His aunt's eyes widen at his statement but she remains silent. "Let me know if you need something, alright baby," she says and then she walks to the sink and begins to wash dishes.
-X-
He's fifteen when a classmate yanks down his pants in gym class. It's the first outright attack on him since the encounter after the physics test, and as he struggles to pull his pants back on, he knows that the whole class and even the gym teacher can see his scars.
He's called into the guidance office barely an hour later.
"Is everything okay at home?" The woman asks. She looks bored.
"Things are good?" Bruce says. "I'm fine really."
The counselor looks skeptical, but she sighs. "We've contacted your aunt and suggested to schedule an appointment with the psychologist in Mansfield."
Bruce runs a hand through his curly hair. He should cut it, maybe he'll look better if he does.
-X-
His therapist, Maya, is better than he expects, but there's no fixing him.
She doesn't let him get away with any bullshit.
He refuses to talk for the first three sessions until finally Maya looks at him and says, "You can refuse to talk for an hour and we can sit here and have a horrible time, or you can talk and then we get to play with play-do or something fun."
"I hate play dough," Bruce says. "And I'm just tired, okay?"
"Tired," maya says. "I can work with that. Which type of tired are you?"
"There are types of tired?" Bruce asks.
"There's exhaustion," Maya begins. "It's when you're feeling drained, maybe you gave a long presentation or did group project or something that just sucks. Then there's being bone-tired. It's like running a mile at a full sprint or doing a long workout. Your body just gives out. And then there's being soul weary. It's when you're tired with you're completely emotionally drained and you're so tired you can't explain it. So you're tired, Robert, but which one is it."
"Please don't call me Robert," Bruce says. "It's what my dad called me. Bruce is fine."
Maya nods. "Well, Bruce, how are you tired?"
-X-
He goes flying down the street three days later, sprinting and feeling exhaustion in the depths of his bones.
He's drained and he just needs to feel something. His brain is exhausted from trying to make friends, to connect with someone all day, but it's abundantly clear that no one wants to be friends with the creepy, angry boy with scars.
He comes home sweating, in pain, and struggling to breathe.
His aunt takes one look at him and simply gasps. She helps him towards the shower and assists him in getting undressed.
He doesn't remember climbing into the shower, only turning the water to the highest setting and feeling the scalding burn on his skin.
He climbs out of the shower and catches a look at himself in the mirror.
He doesn't look like he did a year ago, or even six months ago. His eyes are dead, and he feels so tired, so god damned tired, bone-tired, exhausted, and soul-weary. He blinks and examines the scars on his skin. He looks like a monster, like the boy his father always told him he would become. His body grows cold as he stares, and finally, he looks down and tears his eyes away from the monster in the mirror.
He snaps the handle of his razor against the edge of the bathroom. He's learned about the human body and major veins in anatomy class. He knows what one simple slice could do to him.
He wouldn't be tired anymore.
The razor pops free after a moment, and Bruce carefully traces a line down his arm, slowly, gently. It's not deep enough yet, but he needs to practice.
He just doesn't want to be tired anymore. He doesn't want to be exhausted, or bone tired, or soul-weary.
He runs a bath the next day, and he plays with the razor, finally digging deep enough to release tendrils of blood.
He gasps in pain, but he continues drawing the line.
He doesn't know how long he's there for, but he knows that eventually everything begins to fade to black. He only thinks that he won't have to be tired anymore.
He wakes up in a hospital room, an IV in his arm and something monitoring his heart.
His aunt is sitting in the chair near him, staring at him.
"You're awake," she says.
"Hi," Bruce says. "I'm sorry."
"I thought you were gonna die, Bruce," his aunt says.
"I wanted to," Bruce admits. "I wanted to so badly."
"I'm so sorry, Bruce," his aunt says.
Bruce doesn't respond. He just shuts his eyes so that he can pretend he doesn't see the tears in his aunt's eyes.
-X-
They let him out a month later, after three weeks in residential treatment after he was officially released from the actual hospital, with the recommendation that they upgrade his therapy to twice a week.
Maya seems upset when she sees him again.
"Why didn't you say something last time we talked Bruce?" She asks. "I don't understand."
"I want to die," he whispers quietly. "I'm so messed up I can't even die right."
Maya is quiet. "Bruce," she says.
"I don't wanna talk," Bruce shouts, and he storms out.
He doesn't look back.
-X-
Two years after the incidents, he builds a bomb designed to kill his classmates. It's dumb, and nothing really comes to fruition, but someone finds his plans and calls the police and suddenly he's in a treatment center.
The people at the center are nice enough.
But Bruce hates it there. He doesn't participate in therapy, doesn't talk to the therapist, only eats enough not to raise any alarm bells, and he quietly slips under the radar.
He's in his dorm reading one day when a counselor comes in.
"Someone would like to speak with you," he says.
Bruce follows the counselor stoically.
The counselor opens the door to reveal a man dressed in a military dress uniform.
"Hello," the man says. "My name is Thaddeus Ross."