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Cold and wet, tired and exhausted he makes his way through the forest. He's been walking for so long. His legs . . . he has legs, right? He can't feel them. His hair sticks to his forehead with sweat as the dirt crumbles off him, falling down to the ground like snow. It's not snowing. Is it fall? It's certainly not spring. No, the leaves are not returning to the trees, but rather crunching under his shoes, under his feet and the sols of his shoes. Shoes. These are nice shoes, he would muse if he could think.
Return. He's returning from somewhere, he believes. He can't remember where. He can see that the path is dark. Dark, no light. So dark. Endless darkness enveloping him and his skin is burning and peeling but the darkness is freezing and it's everywhere — everywhere is pain and everywhere is —
He stumbles along the path. His legs are shaking, shaking like his battered, bloodied hands. He can't feel his fingers. The blood, thick and oozing down his fingernails, trailing down his wrists that are brown with the mud he dug through and mixing with the sweat from the strain and the blood from the wounds and the pain from the —
Where did the pain come from? He can't think. He clutches his head, maimed fingers twisting in crusted, thin but once thick locks that feel like molasses to comb through so he rips, rips at the hair because his head is pounding. He whimpers as his head pounds, pounding like he did on the coffin, the coffin that muffled his screams, silencing him from the person he wants to call out to but he's lost his voice so all he can do is open his mouth and gasp and pant and heave.
He wants to throw up. He doesn't remember the last time he ate. His stomach has digested knives because surely that's what happened. What did happen? His clothes are still on them but he thinks a rock tore apart his — left? right? — sleeve and the other one clings to his skin — a man, clinging to his body but why can't he respond to the man? — sticky with blood. It's his blood, right? How much blood is in the human body?
Someone teached him that. Taught? Teached? No, it's taught. He learned it. Where did he learn? Where does someone go to learn? Where is he going?
He can hear the sounds of the things around him. An owl hoots, springing from the trees and swiping and soaring towards him. He ducks. The owl flies over his head as he trips over his feet, yelping hoarsely as he stumbles, tumbling and tumbling over branches that scratch his frozen skin. He falls, rolling over his head and landing on his side. His side screams when a sharp dagger of a twig digs into his skin, tearing apart flesh to let loose a wave of blood and —
blood everywhere. pain. Bruce. Bruce dad. joker. make it stop. makeit stop.stop. stop stop stopstop—
Bruce.
He has to get to Bruce. And Bruce . . . he's warm. It was a . . . a cold day. Autumn? And . . . and the wind was . . . the wind was blowing. Or it blew. It blew but he wasn't cold he was . . . protected. Protection? A hat. Around his head and his ears. He thinks he can feel his ears now but the hat helped him back . . . back then? Back when? And Bruce points. He points to a rock with an odd formation at the top. He points and he points up to a tree with an 'x' shape knifed? Carved? Carved into it. And he points ahead.
'A mile's walk more,' says Bruce. And Bruce's voice is so soft. It's loud but in . . . in a good way. Yeah, the boy thinks. Boy? What's his name? He knows Bruce's name. Bruce. Pointing. The, the rock?
The boy looks down. He reaches mutilated hands — the bone is showing, Alfie says that isn't good —out to where his knee has hit something sharp. No, not sharp. Lumpy. Rocky. He brushes and tears the leaves off of the lumpy rocky thing and he sees the rock. The rock? Isn't that what Bruce pointed to? Yeah. With the odd formation, sounds about right. But why is the boy looking for it. He whines loudly because his head is on fire. Shouldn't there be flames?
What did Bruce say? Is Alfie who the boy is? The boy groans. He doesn't remember anything. And his gut feels rocky and his throat is tightening and he hates it and his eyes are burning and his head is hurting and he wants it to stop but he doesn't even know what it is. He balls his fist and the dismembered fingers and the pressure don't mix so he shrieks at the top of his lungs, falling backwards and the fall takes forever. He lands on the leaves and he curls up into a ball and he hits his head against his head because it hurts and he wants it to stop so he hits, again and again and again and again, the new blood mixing with the old as his sobs and his shrieks fill the air butt no one is coming, just like before and it's unbearable and —
'A mile's walk more,' says Bruce. He's . . . oddly warm that day. He's smiling. Fatherly? No, fondly. Fondly down at the boy. His eyes are happy. The boy is made happy. 'And then you'll be back home.'
Home.
The boy forgot that word but his body, agonized and screaming, did not because his throat loosens and his eyes stop burning and the pain in his head is less tight than before. Suddenly, he stops rolling on the ground and he stops hitting his head. He doesn't think he can make it 'home' if he continues. He thinks he likes home. Why did he leave? Home is a place, he decides. And if it's a mile more, well, he doesn't think it'll be too much. But . . . will home still be there?
He has to try.
Slowly, he turns over to his front, biting down harshly enough to tear through his lip to suppress the scream that tries to pass. No, silence is better. At least maybe for the ringing in his head. He needs the ringing to stop so he can think. He looks down. Oh, right, he thinks, he has legs. He moves a leg from under him to in front of him, eyes transfixed on his knees. He blinks a few times. He needs the other. He kneels with both legs before he stands up.
He's wobbly, stumbling backwards. His back smacks into a tree and he leans against it because the tree is his only lifeline. Life. He — he doesn't want to think about that word yet. He needs to get home first.
Determined, he places both feet in front of him. He reigns in a deep breath — deep breaths, my boy — and another one after that — deep breaths, chum — until he places both feet out in front of him and begins to walk. It's a mile. It's a mile more.
He doesn't know what he's looking for. Maybe if he finds this 'home' and he finds the voices, finds Bruce and Alfie, then he'll feel happy again. He'd like that. He'd like those warm sensations back. He thinks he wants their arms around him. And he wants the hot water than pours down because the dirt in his hair and the blood on his skin makes him want to throw up. And he wants to eat food before he throws up. He misses food. He doesn't know why he was away.
Away.
Run.
Away.
Bruce — mom, Alfie, I'm sorry —
Garzonas
Bruce
Alfie
Mom
Joker
stopstopstopstopstop stop pain pain stop pain stop—
He can't take it. The darkness behind him growls and he gasps. He shuts his eyes because there's a monster there, a growling one and it's coming for him, it's coming for him fast and he needs to move, move, move before he's eaten or — and he needs to keep going and he shuts his eyes and his legs feel odd and the wind beats at his face but not with the intent to hurt. The wind beats at the monster and the boy opens his eyes and he begins to run.
He runs like the entire world depends on it because it does. His legs take him faster than he ever has before, arms madly and furiously beating up and down, side to side as he screams, shouting and running so fast that the world running in the opposite direction barely has the chance to keep up. The monster is one with the darkness but — but the boy can see it! He sees the light up ahead! It's blocked by a hill but he can see it!
He runs faster. He didn't think it was possible but he pumps and pumps his legs, rushing and running up the hill with such ferocity that he can't believe it. He doesn't feel like his head is still on his body and he reaches an arm out to the light. He sees a wall so he climbs up the tree because the dark monster is right behind him and he'll only be safe in the light, in the home which he just knows is behind the wall. He jumps to the tree branch and the blood that's left is furiously pumping through his veins, overpowering him and fueling him as he swings, the wind his friend and the light his entire soul that's just calling to him. He can see a table through grand windows and he wants to cry but this time of happiness because he knows happiness is waiting for him.
He sees figures approach the door and it hits him as he swings down from the branches, gasping for air and breathing so heavily that he can feel it in his feet. He stops running, stumbling and nearly falling over. No, he does fall over but the darkness is on the other side of the wall and he thinks he's home but — but not yet. God, what is missing?! What doesn't he have yet?!
He picks himself up from where he falls and the door swings open and there's a clicking sound and the slimmer man is holding a threatening-looking stick. He feels as though he should be wary of the stick but — but that's Alfie! The boy would smile but he can't.
The slimmer man says something before he moves out of the way and there, dressed and looking with hardened, red-rimmed eyes, looking at the boy, standing right there, so close to reach, so much like everything the boy remembers and everything he loves because he does love, he's overflowing with love and with joy and happiness and relief and safety and protection and love, and the man is loving and the man is right there and the man is Bruce.
He scowls down at the boy. "You're trespassing." No. He sounds like the monster. But the monster didn't know the boy. Not like the boy knows Bruce does.
So the boy stumbles forward on dead legs and he opens his arms as he dangerously sways but he looks up at the man with what he can hope is a smile in his eyes and he asks, "Bruce?"
"Jaylad?"
And Jason collapses.