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When asked about his grief by reporters it was always easier to put up a face. To feign an easy level of sadness rather than show the extent of what really lies below. No, it was easier to beat around the bush, to skirt around the questions instead of answering them truthfully.
But then again, how would one even begin to explain his position? What his grief had come to. How could he tell anyone about the loss of his son, when his son was still here? Always with him. Always present.
It was a stark contrast to his other grief. To the loss of parents whose faces and voices he couldn’t remember. Who he knew had always been present, had loved him and been with him up until the very moment they died. And suddenly they were ripped away from him so entirely. They became a story for the people at the loss of his own. Names in the paper to fill the empty space of a quiet week.
In turn his son was forgotten. To the world nothing more than a street rat taken in and lost. To no loss of the world. No loss to anyone but Bruce himself. It was his son, his story. His fault.
And he was always there to remind him of it. Not that his son needed to, Bruce would never let himself forget it. No matter how many times Bruce found himself on the ground, unsure of how long he’d been there for, but uncaring enough to bother getting back up. There was no one there to witness it anyways. No one there to help him up.
No one but him. And he never got close enough to Bruce to help. Not anymore. Not when Bruce can so clearly see the hardened look in his eyes. The hurt. The hatred. The look of disgust that was so evident and far too familiar. A look that Bruce himself saw so often in the mirror.
Though he wouldn’t admit it, in the quietest of hours, at the lowest of lows, when there was nothing else to distract himself with, Bruce felt himself break just that tiny bit more. A small piece of him being chipped away. And he did nothing to stop it. Made no attempt to hold onto the piece forcefully taken from him. Because what good would that do now?
He wants the one thing he cannot bring himself to ask for after all. Knowing there is no reprise, no release from this torment. Not one that he deserves at least, no matter how much he silently begged for it.
Bruce stared at the empty chair across from him. It didn’t matter how many rooms he went through. How many times he searched the manor. It remained the same. Always the same. "Oh, how long has it been? I don’t know...”
“But it feels like an eternity,” his voice trembled. So broken, so utterly broken in a way that felt far too familiar, and far too old. He wanted to go back, wished he could go back just for the chance to see him again. To save him. He didn’t even know if it was worth it anymore. How could it possibly be worth it? “Since I had you here with me.”
Though Bruce wouldn’t admit it, there was comfort in that familiarity. Something so… easy to remember how to do. “Since I had to learn to be,” But it was different this time. For learning to get through the death of your parents was indeed not the same as getting through the death of the son you chose. “Someone you don't know,” In that same way, it had changed him. Altered him so much– his feelings, his wants, his beliefs –that he felt almost unrecognizable.
"To be with you in paradise," To escape and be free again. To be okay again. To feel okay again. “What I wouldn't sacrifice,” What I would give. What I would trade. What I would do. All to just follow his son, wherever that may be now.
And to know it all happened so soon. So fast. “Why'd you have to chase the light,” To know of all the things you chose to listen to. To know so much of what I said was ignored or refuted. That so much of what I said was unbelievable to you. “Somewhere I can't go?”
“As I walk this world alone,” It was said so quietly. Bruce’s thoughts a million miles away. It was said like a prayer. “As I walk this world alone.” Although he wouldn’t admit it aloud, never admit it aloud, Bruce was tired, so so tired of being alone. He wanted his son back. Although he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he did not truly care how.
And for no more than a moment, it was as though the wind had answered. “It's an endless night, it's a starless sky, it's a hell that I call home,” And for no more than a moment, Bruce so desperately wanted to believe it was as though his son had answered. “It's a long goodbye on the other side, of the only life I know.”
Maybe it was his son. Maybe Bruce was tired. Yet as the truth of his thoughts seeped in, Bruce only wanted to lie, to deny it, to push him further away. “But I know you know who I am,” the wind seemed to whisper. His son seemed to whisper.
“No.” Bruce whispered, looking up. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw him. But he knew he hadn’t. He couldn’t have.
And yet, “I know you know who I am.” It felt like the voice was coming from everywhere and nowhere. And he was so tired of it. So used to it. So familiar. It had haunted him. Always haunted him. Always weighed him down.
“Can’t you just leave me alone?” The prayer held no weight though. Bruce knew he deserved what was happening. He always let it happen when it did. He had failed him.
The taunting never stopped. Never quieted as it filled his mind day after day after day. “I know you know who I am,” It was His son’s voice. Always his voice just over his shoulder, always in his head, on his mind. Filling the quiet void that his absence, his death, had left.
“Why didn’t you go with her?” Bruce couldn’t help but ask the empty air. Maybe if Bruce hadn’t taken him in… Maybe if Bruce had known more about her, about him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe he could forgive himself if he understood. Maybe if Bruce could accept his son's death, maybe she would accept him. Maybe then Bruce would be free. Maybe he could go with her too. Maybe it was all a cruel joke. But his son was never much of a joker.
“Cause I’m holding on,” and his chest felt tight. Tight with the loss of way too many people. Tight with the burden of every night. Tight with far more feelings than anyone ever believed him capable of.
He wanted to continue to cry, to beg and plead. He wanted control. He needed control. But control was something he had lost so long ago. “Let me go.”
“And I won’t let go,” Because it didn’t matter how many times he tried. Tried to make up for it. Tried to move on. Tried to forgive himself. It was never enough. He would never be enough. Would he?
Yet he begged, prayed, anyways. “Let me go!” Because sometimes he wondered if that would just be easier. To let go. To give up. To take the easy way out. But things had never been easy. Not for him. Never for Bruce.
“Yeah, I know you know.” Because no matter how hard he tried, it consumed it. For as much as he was in control, it controlled him. And part of him wanted to let it continue to do just that. How desperately he was ready to let go of it all.
It was a reminder, always a reminder of how they had helped each other. Saved each other. “I am the one who held you,” But to Bruce it was also a reminder of that night. A reminder of how he searched the rubble, cradling his son’s body for so long. “I am the one who cried,” A reminder of how cold the body grew as seconds became minutes became hours as his voice grew hoarse.
It was a reminder of how many times he had failed the other. Failed to change. “I am the one who watched while you died,” A reminder of how he was only seconds too late. “I am the one who loved you,” A reminder of how he broke the boy’s trust, taking away the one thing the boy had worked so hard to earn.
It was a reminder of how long ago it was. How long ago he had died. “I tried pretending that I don’t give a damn,” A reminder of how he pretended to be okay in the face of others. “But you’ve always known who I am,” A reminder that he could never hide the truth from his son.
“Jay,” Bruce stared at the empty chair across from him. It didn’t matter how many rooms he went through. How many times he searched the manor. It remained the same. Always the same. “Jason.”
And for no more than a moment, Bruce so desperately wanted to believe it was as though Jason had answered. “Hi, Dad.”