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Timothy Jackson Drake is a vigilante. He can do so much. He knows that he can do so much. So why does he feel like he can’t do anything? He can’t get up, can’t get dressed, absolutely cannot brush his teeth. That makes no sense. He should be able to do all of that. Why can’t he do any of it? God, he’s Red Robin, but he just can’t seem to find the color in life. Everything is just so… dulled. Muted.
But it’s not anyone’s fault. No, if the blame belongs to anyone, it’s him. He has absolutely no excuse. He is not injured. He just can’t get himself to move. When he does, lead weighs down his limbs. He has not been poisoned. He just can’t bring himself to eat. When he does, ash coats his mouth. He has not been drugged, and yet he’s moving at half speed, for no reason . One top of that, no matter how tired he is, Tim still can’t sleep. When he does, his eye close, but no rest is achieved.
Eventually things got blurry as well as dulled. But who cares? He could function, right? No. Tim wished that the thinking part of his brain just shut off like the rest of it. But no, his thoughts tore through his mind at double their normal speed, shredding everything in their path, churning out little comments and questions that burrowed their way into his mind, slowly corroding the simple small things that brought him joy, gave him life. The only bit of color that he had left.
You’ve overstayed your welcome, and you know that.
Selfish.
Your only good thing is your brain, and look at this! Now that’s broken too.
Weak.
Such a disappointment that your parents preferred to pretend you didn’t exist.
Useless.
You bring blood, violence, and death everywhere you go.
Curse.
No one cares. You know it’s better that way.
Placeholder. Replacement. Interloper.
Sometimes Tim wished that his brain wasn’t so smart, so relentless, so good at being “logical” (his logic always considered feelings. It just never took his own into account). But no, Tim’s mind was just so brilliant at being “logical,” that when he tried to shoot down his own thoughts, he shut the stubbornly hopeful part of himself down almost immediately. But try he did. He tried so hard to fight for himself, to insist to himself that everything was worth it.
Bruce needs me.
Like an old man needs a cane, not like a father needs a son.
I have a place here.
Sure, as tech support. And even then, Oracle is so much better–
I am good at what I do.
But not as good as them.
I have purpose.
And what is it, exactly?
I help people!
Do you? All I see is pain, death, and suffering.
I want to be here.
You selfish leech.
I want to be alive.
Do you?
I need to be alive.
Do you?
They need me to be alive.
Do they?
Do they really?