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“I’ll never be good enough for you- [Bruce] you don’t even see me. What am I to you?! I’m your greatest failure when I never even asked for it- I never asked to die, to be reborn. I did what you told me to do- to be my best- to try and never give up and I didn’t- I- nevermind- I did at three seconds. The door was locked.
“You love your memory of me. I can’t see him in me anymore. He died as your son, yet you buried him as a soldier! For a mission, for your mission. Your stupid mission to contain all crime, but guess what Bruce, fucking guess: You’ve created it all. You created the Joker. You let the Joker kill your son- no hold on- your soldier.
“What am I to you? Seriously, because Dick is the fucking Saint apparently. Tim’s your devoted sacrifice, Damian is your son. At this point I see how much Cass is the Madonna and Steph is the Whore. All Biblical terms- because think about it. Really think about how you treated Tim and Steph after my death. How you lured her away on a mission, faking her death. It separated Tim- meaning it was easier to control him right? And what about Cass, Cass who always apologizes, comes to you, begs you to love her. And all she has to do is follow your lead: No killing. She’s broken it how many times? And no hate, relapsing is awful- believe me- but all she has to do is feel guilty. Steph doesn’t regret her decisions. Tim lies to you. They accept what you give them because you walked them along the path. You control their fate, all determined by their worth and purpose.
“I know what eats at your brain. What keeps you up at night. What keeps that mask on. How much longer will you dedicate to your mission? How much of our family will you destroy to keep him alive?
“I’m so tired. I’m so lonely. I’m weak for sharing and caring and giving you everything you need. Did you know that I still remember. How you were my father, you skipped patrol for me. You put your mission aside and one night I was more important. Do you miss it? Being a father, putting your head over mine, wrapping your arms around me. I never felt more safe than in your arms. I wasn’t taller than you. I thought no one could be as tall as you. I died and yet I still feel like a pathetic kid. I hate him so much because- because no matter what I do I’ll never be him again.
“I died in a casket meant for a fifteen year old. I broke through the wood first. Then the ground. It was over. It was all over. But my mind- I don’t actually remember anything else after that. Walking around Gotham, finding Talia, and plunging into the Pit.
“I remember a smoldering heat. My body was so cold, so frozen. Talia said I curled up once I went underwater. That I became as small as possible. It must have been pretty funny to watch a six foot something man drown in a fetal position. I hate that about the Lazarus Pit. I hated the rage I felt. I couldn’t control myself. I was no longer myself. I couldn’t tell you who I was.
“I really hate you Bruce. I hate you in all the ways I used to love you. You- you were my father. My Father. Do you know- truly know, not your dumbass logical thinking, use your fucking emotions- how it all meant to me? Did you ever think of me, as your son?”
Jason asked himself these questions. They ruminated during long nights and lonely days. He anticipated his reflection in the mirror. A normal person doesn’t. Depersonalization. He saw green eyes instead of blue. The frame cut off the top of his head. His shoulders barely fit the width of the mirror. He went from a US 9 to a US 13. Shirts barely fit him. Trousers suffocated his thighs. At least his butt looked good.
So he has a nice butt, broad shoulders, legs for days, and no personality. Mood swings. White streaks contrasting against his black hair.
He remembered though, he remembered his mother running her fingers through his hair. It was still dark, but when the light hit it just right, he saw sunkissed strands of red.
Jason wondered what Heaven felt like. He never asked Bruce about his funeral. Tim shared a lot of his pictures and commentary, but Jason hated Tim’s responses. Because Tim only got to meet the messed up Batman. The Batman after Jason’s death, after Batman immortalized him as a Good Soldier.
That little boy is still in Jason. Those pieces he lost in Ethiopia. All his journals and annotated book margins, every last memory of the Jason he once was and never can be. All they wanted to know was how his father found him.
Was Jason’s body still warm? Did Bruce cradle Jason’s body? Was he tender?
Why is it that in death, Jason couldn’t feel it. Jason wanted to feel it. He wanted to feel everything Bruce gave to him, every ounce of love that was undeniably Bruce.
But Jason never knew. Because how could he? Could he? Did he know the tender ways in which Bruce carried his body? Could he feel Bruce’s kindness, love, and all things a parent holds for their child?
No. The man donning his father’s face is simply a mask. He let Batman win. His father lost himself that day too. A little boy didn’t die; his world did. The kindness his son saw in everything. The goodness that even during rough times, Jason somehow smiled. Jason couldn’t smile anymore. He sobbed on the bathroom floor.