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As a kid Jason used to dream of having happy life. Maybe he'd get adopted, meet a nice boy or girl and settle down, have kids, grow old, and die happy. Obviously he knew that would never happen but his dreams kept him going. When Bruce Wayne had adopted hi, false hope made him believe that maybe his dream wasn't so far fetched.
He knew better now. He wouldn't get a happy ending and he'd come to terms with that. He'd stopped fighting for one and settled for the life of a vigilante. Fight and fight till he died.
His family and friends had stopped caring about him long before he died so why should he care about himself. Why should he fight for a happy ending.
That was his identity. A Vigilante.
He rarely slept anymore. How could he when all he saw was violence and death when he closed his eyes. The look in his victims eyes as they took thier last breaths would forever haunt his dreams and the screams of fear in children's voices at seeing Hood murder would wake him up.
Blood stained his hands and tainted everything he touched, even people. He avoided contact in fear of tainting them and they avoided him aswell. Jason was glad they knew he was poison, that way he wouldn't hurt anyone else.
He wished he could wash away the sins of Red Hood but he couldn't. He had considered creating a new identity and leaving his past alone but he knew it wouldn't work. The ghost of his past would always haunt his future.
He heard the rumours on the street. The vile words flung his way. Criminal. Bad Omen. Murderer. Villain. Insane. Killer. Drug Lord. Cursed. Worthless. Scum.
He knew them all to be true and didn't deny it. He did what he could to make amends but he never would.
This was his identity. A Criminal
He had tried so hard. When he became Robin he'd tried to follow all the rules. He obeyed orders and never skipped patrol. He trained daily and watched Batman and Nightwing's every move in attempt to fight as good as them.
He tried to kill the habits that had kept him alive. He didn't steal, didn't sell himself, and didn't flee from those who wished him harm. No one acknowledged his efforts but would scold him when he slipped up. It was so very hard.
Just color in the lines people would say. Behave and you'll be fine. Listen and obey and you'll improve. He had tried but ultimately failed.
This was his identity. A Failure.
After Jason died he broke. His hopes of fitting in and being loved, tossed to the side.
He bit the hand that had fed him. Rejected the morals Bruce had provided, tossed Nightwings fake love away, beaten out the love of the boy who idolised him and been cruel to anyone who tried to help.
He killed and kept killing. Fuck the rules. He'd obeyed the rules and it had only left him dead.
Proof he'd never been loved wasn't hard to find. Bruce hadn't killed the Joker, hadn't even tried. Dick didn't attend his funeral, was he not deserving of his brothers grief? His grave was rarely visited and when he'd dug his way out of it he found no flowers. Tim Drake had replaced him and been a better Robin than him. Even when he beat the kid up and acted superior he didn't believe it. He was a terrible Robin. But just maybe he could be better now. Stronger, faster, more ruthless.
The Lazeraus Pit provided him enough fuel to take ove Crime Alley and run it. A Crime Lord was a far cry from the happy ending he used to dream of. The green Haze fuled his vengeance against the Bats but had left him all alone after his goals had been completed.
One slip up and he'd be dead.
That was his identity. A Dead Man Walking.
He knew he was ill. His mind was fucked beyond repair. He doubted even Bruce's money could find him a cure.
The mirror showed a pale man littered with scars and near death with exhaustion. He needed a remedy but he couldn't find one.
Blood was a daily occurrence now. It didn't matter wether it was his or so else's, it still followed him everywhere. Some days it was from a wound, others a nose bleed and on some occasions it was coughed up.
If he kept fighting he would die.
This was identity. A Sick Man.
Being a Crime Lord was easy. Throw a few explosives here, collect some debts there, sell some weapons and distribute some drugs. Meetings were boring and he'd missed to many to count but as long as they still feared him he'd be fine.
This was identity. A Crime Lord.
Jason had lost himself long ago. Long gone was the boy with hope, innocence and joy. It had been a murderer. His soul was long gone. Thier was no hope for intervention.
Once he'd forgotten his mask and had got gassed by scarecrow yet his fears seemed nothing other than the reality he was already living.
His reflection was so warped from what it used to be. The muscles seemed out of place, his eyes were lifeless, his hair greasy and stipes of white, and scars as numerous as the stars. The body he once had was lost.
This was identity. A Lost Boy.
Jason was pathetic. He knew he was. He was desperate to prove otherwise. Criminal after criminal was wiped out but it was never enough. As time went one he stopped trying to prove himself. He just pushed through his day and survived patrols. People hated him and he hated himself.
This was identity. A Pathetic "Hero".
His days were filled with mindless televion and microwave meals. His nights were filled with fights and pain.
He began to embrace it. He allowed the scripts to numb his mind and the fists to ground him
Keeping his sanity was very difficult, he wondered why he was still clinging on.
One wrong move and he'd be dead. That should scare Jason but it didn't. He kept fighting.
He wanted to reconnect with his family and be loved, but that would never happen.
Maybe he should give in.
After all, no one wanted him.
He was nothing.
He had no identity.
He gave up and let the knife plunge into his gut.