Chapter Text
Jason was 8 when he found the bottles of pills strewn over the floor.
Cold fingers gripping a worn shopping bag that contained the food he'd successfully bought at the Chinese store around the corner. Jason was lucky today- he was given money for food, by one of the nice neighbours that would occasionally make lasagna for them. It was only a fraction of what could actually be a hearty meal, but it was enough for warm soup. He was so excited to cook dinner with his mum, to stand on a chair stirring the pot while beside him, she would hum and lay spread out on the couch asking about his day. Jason would ignore how her eyes were glazed over, blown out, and how she kept forgetting that she'd already asked that question 6 times now. They would sit at the table, sipping aggressively at their steaming bowls of soup, willing for their aching cold bones and their starving stomaches to ease. They were going to pretend to be a normal family, Jason thought.
However, when he entered the house, it was quieter than normal, colder than normal. It felt almost abandoned, like the houses he'd seen around Arkham. Jason was a stoic kid, but at this moment his hands were shaking and it made him drop his bag, swearing loudly as his contents spilt over the carpeted floor. His gaze trailed over, meeting the puddle of vomit, the pale unmoving face that lay there.
"Mum?" Jason crouched over the body, his little heart pounding in his chest, his hands hovering over. CPR. He was young, he didn't know what to do, he wasn't strong enough to bring her back to life. Jason sat for house trying to push a heartbeat into her chest, panting and pressing his palms over cracked ribs. He knew she wasn't coming back. She didn't look right. Eyes staring unseeing into his, her lips and fingers blue, and her limbs were stiff. She was a porcelain doll, almost, laying so still and pale, cheeks shining with tears. Her body was too cold, she had been there for too long.
"Mama!" Jason shook, scrambled for the ingredients to the soup, putting them in front of her eyes. "Mama, please, wake up. I have soup! It's going to be warm. You're going to be okay again." He was angry. He made soup, stirring the pot. But there was no mother beside him. There was no one to share it with. He drank it and it made his stomache feel warm, but it did not make him feel better. He spooned broth onto Mamas lips, tried to make her swallow, told her the areoplane was coming and she had to eat her vegetables.
Jason knew this wouldn't last, but he didn't have tears in his eyes. He was scared, but he was angry. How dare his mum leave him, leave him here alone to fend for a house that wasn't his, with a father that wanted to sell him. Eventually, he packed his stuff. Police were going to come, and he'd be in big trouble if he was found with all of dad's guns still here.
Later, he would lie under a bin, squished flat against the concrete, watching as the police took his mum out of the house, covered in blankets that protected her lifeless face from sight. Only then, did Jason cry. He won't let this break him, he'll let this build him up.
Jason had himself, after all, he'd be fine.