Chapter Text
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Living in Gotham was never easy. But with the presence of your twin, Jason, making it through life made it more bearable.
Then came the dust-up between him and Batman when he got caught stealing his tires. Where our entire lives took a gigantic turn. Who would’ve thought? A pair of scrawny street rats being taken in by one of the biggest billionaires in the city. One in a billion it is.
It was a warm season— the middle of spring when Bruce came back from his trip from the other side of the world in pursuit of Jason, bringing news I never thought I’d ever hear.
Jason Peter Todd, is dead.
My only and remaining blood-related family, gone by the hands of Joker. I felt— actually no, scratch that. I didn’t feel anything. Like I had gone numb, all emotion and thought, free of this god forsaken soul of mine.
“No…” I mumbled. Next thing I knew my legs went weak and my vision was dark.
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He had been missing for months before all of this. He said he’d find our mom. Our real mom. I thought he was just fooling around.
There was no point trying to go after a person who wasn’t even interested enough to be in our lives in the first place. I was here. We were content. We didn’t need to watch our backs at every turn, hoard whatever we can find, or eat too fast in fear of it being taken away. Wasn’t that enough?
In between those nights, I’d get nightmares of him. Agitated, ear-grating screams coming from his mouth as he endures hit after hit. At first I’d wake up early in, but then they started to get longer— and more detailed. Like… it was real.
“What hurts more?” Joker raised. “A,” As he took a swing with a crowbar in hand, “or B?"
But dream-me sat there and watched as he painfully begged for everything to stop and uselessly cried for help. However, every single time I tried moving, I always woke up with sweat running down my temples, panting, and my pillows wet with tears.
They seemed to get worse the more it happened, eventually waking up from a horrified scream that made my throat go hoarse.
Bruce barged in and caught the sight of me disheveled and shaking, rushing to calm me down.
“You have to find him, Bruce.” My lips trembled, looking up to meet his eyes. “Promise me,”
“I’ll bring him home no matter what,” He pulled me in tighter, his chin resting against the crown of my head.
He’d be fine. I reassured myself. He can take care of himself. He’s Robin, things can’t possibly get any worse. All I can do is wait patiently here in Gotham and hope for the best. He’ll be back.
Or at least that was what I thought.
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“Jason, wake up! I made waffles from the stuff you brought home yesterday.” I shake him awake.
He groggily rubs his eyes, “Five more minutes,” I roll my eyes, putting my hands around his to pull him up. “You say that all the time. Come on, before the food gets cold and you get antsy about it again. It’s not everyday we get to have this.”
“Ugh, you’re so lucky I’m your brother.” He mumbles as he takes a seat in front of me.
“And you’re so lucky I’m your sister!” I smile at him. A memory forever ingrained in my brain, clutching on it as if it were worth more than pearls.
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I open my eyes to see the ceiling of my bedroom. Looking around, I see an IV drip attached to the back of my hand, its hose running from my arm to the side of the headboard.
After a while, Alfred walks in with a tray in hand. “I see you’re awake mistress,”
Without letting any emotion go through me, I ask. “How long have I been out, Alfred?
“About 4 days, mistress. I suggest you have a meal to replenish the nutrients you’ve lost from the days you were unconscious.” He informs.
“That won’t bring him back.” My voice quivers. I clench my fist against the sheets, sitting up.
Alfred sits beside me, rubbing his gloved hand over my back in an attempt to comfort me. “I’m sorry mistress…”
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A few more days, passing in and out, being dehydrated here and there while staying confined within the walls of my room, the sunlight barely touching my skin as I don’t even move past the invisible barriers of my bed. As if it gave consolation any more than it did more harm.
A knock on the door sounded.
Bruce walked in as I lied on my side, opposite of facing him, dissociating unblinkingly. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
I give him no response.
“I expect you to be there no matter what.” He says.
Still radio silence.
“Please say something.” He sighs. “You haven’t been out of your room since… Since I brought him back. You aren’t even eating. How are you supposed to go on like this?”
As if the last sentence ticked something in me, I instantly sat up and met his eyes.
“How could I?!” Tears pooling in my eyes once again. But this time, out of anger, a feeling of irritation and exasperation. “When he’s out there, in a coffin! While I’m…” I flail helplessly.
“I promised him we’d go through everything together. A-And now…” I weakly inhale in between my cries. Bruce encases me in between his arms as I cradle myself.
“Oh Jason,” This time, I let everything out. No more silent whimpering and sniffling in the corner like a kicked puppy.
I wail.
It’s painful and the feeling is heavy. Like a thousand waterfalls were just dumped onto my shoulders.
I choke uncontrollably from my gasps, crying out in loss of my other half, grief, and bereavement— all at the same time.
I pathetically sobbed louder, putting my hands over my face in an attempt to dampen the noises at the agonizing realization that I am never seeing him again.
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The day of the burial has finally come. There weren’t a lot of people. Just a few important ones. Bruce, Alfred, Commissioner Jim Gordon, and his daughter, Barbara.
“Condolences, dear. What happened to your brother is truly devastating.” Commissioner Gordon offered.
“You and your daughter’s presence are well appreciated, Commissioner.” I reply taciturnly.
Before the actual burial, I gave him one last glimpse. A resting face that will surely follow me till the day of my death. How could someone look so peaceful? As if we were back in that run-down apartment building and I was watching him in deep sleep.
I could see the areas they especially put heavier makeup on to cover the bruises and injuries on his face. They were applied well. Enough not to look natural. But not good enough for me not to recognize. His face is the only one I’d grown to remember, memorized every line and scar as time went by.
But what ultimately struck me, was the scar that ran across his cheek. This was new. Which means it happened during the time he was gone. And thinking about how much it must’ve hurt, it ran deep.
Not being able to keep my composure any longer, I turn away from him and they shut the casket. The box of death descends, down below the soil where it shall never see the light of day ever again.