Chapter Text
A dull, persistent pain settled in his chest, as if a heavy stone had settled on him and refused to leave. This sensation accompanied him constantly, from dawn to dusk, becoming an unwanted company that forced him to live with it day after day. Every interaction he had with his father seemed to intensify this pain. Although more than two years had passed since he settled in the house of his father figure, the feeling of being a stranger in that place had not disappeared. He felt like an intruder in that mansion, as if the very walls, with his elegant and delicate print, rejected the mere presence of him prowling the hallways.
The lack of connection with his father was evident. His attempts to approach him were met with indifference or, at best, superficial attention that left an even deeper void inside his. The disinterested gestures, each empty word, were like stabs that increased the pain in his chest, reminding him of his loneliness and his longing for a real bond with his father.
Deep down, he sometimes wondered if one day he could truly belong to that house, and beyond, to that troubled but beautiful family. The idea of being part of something so important, of being truly accepted and loved by those who shared his blood, was a constant longing that filled him with anguish and despair. But it wasn't necessary to ask many questions to know the answer.
Never.
He was never going to belong in a house where he had personally seriously hurt its members, where every step he took seemed to remind everyone of their past mistakes. He was never going to belong to a place where he noticed the rejection that several members of that family had towards him, expressing it without any filter at every opportunity that presented itself. Anguish consumed him, like a slow but relentless fire burning inside him. Every look of contempt, every word full of resentment, were like knives that stabbed into his heart, reminding him of his status as a stranger in that place that, in theory, should be his home.
He desperately tried to win the affection of his family, but his efforts seemed useless in the face of the barrier of indifference and rejection that surrounded him. The feeling of not belonging, of being an intruder in his own life, tormented him day and night, turning his existence into a constant struggle against loneliness and emotional pain.
I wasn't going to blame them; Having barely reached his stage in that house at only nine years old, he had caused more damage than he could compensate with his actions. He had hurt the third Robin, Timothy Drake, with just his presence, taking away what he valued most along with his identity. His arrival had not only altered the family dynamic, but had also left deep emotional scars on those around him.
Out of his stupid instinct of desire for superiority, he had attacked Tim, and he was the one who caused the damage. Often, in his darkest moments, his pride would scream at him that what he had done was right, that he had earned his place, that Tim was too weak for his role as Robin. But deep down he knew that the truth was much more painful: the real weakling and intruder was him, being the only Robin that Batman had not chosen or wanted. The shadow of that truth haunted him constantly, reminding him that, although physically he might be in that house, emotionally he was never going to be a part of it.
That pain was felt more when he noticed the absolute affection his father showed towards Drake. It was an affection that seemed reserved exclusively for him, an adoration and pride that was directed toward no one else. Tim was seen as the embodiment of perfection, combining intelligence and maturity in a way that demonstrated his worth and made him worthy of that love and admiration.
For Damián it was ironic and painful. He had basically been created to achieve human perfection, an invention of his own grandfather, Ra's al Ghul, designed to be the perfect heir to Demon Head's power. However, all his training and effort seemed useless compared to the relationship his father had with Tim. He felt that it didn't matter at all, making it clear that he was far from being all that loved by anyone, much less by the pride of his father or his mother.
The shadow of a fractured self-esteem loomed over him, constantly reminding him of his place in that family. Although he didn't know if that made him more angry and resentful towards Drake, or simply sad. He had been proud of his hard training at one time, but now he felt ashamed as he looked back and realized that all of his efforts had been in vain.
Every time he saw Tim receive his father's attention and affection, a mixture of contradictory emotions took over him. On the one hand, he felt deep envy and resentment toward Tim, whose presence seemed to overshadow his own in his father's life. On the other hand, he also experienced a deep sadness as he realized that, despite all of his efforts and achievements, he could never match the special connection that seemed to exist between Tim and his father.
Furthermore, his arrival in the Teen Titans was also not received with enthusiasm simply because of him. His first impression with them meant that as soon as the vote was taken, the majority had voted that they didn't want him on this team, all because of his self-imposed arrogance that he often exhibited at the beginning of his time as a hero. His tenure on the team had been so disastrous that he was still disowned, as evidenced by how easily replaceable he seemed to be. His direct association with Batman seemed to be the only reason he was still there. Deep in his heart he came to believe that they had only admitted him to the team to control his behavior, treating him as if he were a rabid animal. Every day on the team was further proof of his failure and the overwhelming feeling of not belonging that consumed him, feeling that no matter how much he tried to take one more step to prove his worth, he took three steps back.
The pride he once felt in his extreme training and skills had now transformed into shame and hopelessness that no one seemed to care about at all.
But strangely, all that pain seemed to fade deep inside his every time he was with Richard. It was as if his presence was a drug that eased his constant pain, a light of hope in the midst of the darkness that surrounded him. Richard represented a profound relief to his sorrows, a sense of calm that he had not experienced before. It was incredible how a simple hug, even if it was feignedly unwanted by the minor, could completely silence any thought in his head, any cry of pain from his soul. Richard was the only one who seemed to have no dislike for him, despite his difficult beginnings.
Being with Richard was like escaping his own reality, a moment of peace in the middle of the emotional storm that was his life. With it, he could lower the defenses he kept so high in the presence of others, showing a side of himself that he rarely let on. Richard's simple presence was enough to make him feel accepted and loved, something he deeply longed for but rarely found in his family. In the moments they shared together, the world seemed to stop and only the two of them existed, wrapped in an aura of complicity and mutual understanding. Every gesture, every look, every word shared between them was like a melody in the midst of silence, a poetry that only they could understand.
Every time he was with Richard, he just wanted time to stop, wanting to immerse herself in the pleasure of the moment. Richard's closeness was simply perfect; He felt as if every word from the older man, every affectionate nickname that he tenderly assigned to his, was a caress to his broken being. The weekends that Richard allowed his to stay at his apartment in Blüdhaven were his favorite part of his week. Richard managed to ensure that, despite his short temper or his cold, proud attitude, every thorn within him was caressed until nothing was left but the tender part. Damian ended up lying in his arms after watching a stupidly childish movie, which he secretly loved.
Damian had always believed that he should stay away from emotional ties, not allowing anyone into his heart. He had been taught to be the leader who guides humanity, to not show any weakness, especially since he was the heir to the League of Assassins. This thought had been ingrained in him from an early age, and upon arriving at the Wayne home, he had tried to maintain that attitude. But everything changed when he met his father, Bruce Wayne, also known as Batman. Despite all his efforts to stay way from the feelings, he couldn't help but feel deep love and admiration for him. He desperately craved his approval and respect, fervently wanting to be recognized and accepted by the man he admired more than anyone in the world.
The second time Damian realized he loved someone was after the period when his father was believed to have passed away. In that moment of deep anguish and despair, Damian found himself surrendered in Richard's arms, seeking refuge and comfort in him. He buried his face in the crook of Richard's neck, wishing that his world would disappear and that Richard would protect him from all harm. Richard's hug was a display of strength and warmth that Damian had never experienced before. Every caress on his back, on his head, was like a blanket of comfort that wrapped around him, making him feel safe and protected. At that moment, Damian couldn't help but feel a deep longing for Richard, always wanting to be close to him, feeling that only in his arms could he find the peace that he so needed.
Damian could almost feel his mother's voice screaming at him in his head, accusing him of being stupidly weak. He told him that he had already done everything that he had been specifically ordered not to do, that he deserved a brutal punishment, the kind that would leave him prostrate in the dirt of the earth with half of his bones fractured and several organs failing, organs that, according to his , they could easily be replaced without any importance.
He thought he had been smart to ignore those cries of warning, that he was being smart to allow himself to soften a little. Despite the warnings inside him, he decided to open his heart and show himself vulnerable, convinced that seeking the love and affection of that family, who clearly did not want him, was a necessary step to demonstrate his desire to be part of he. In his mind, he imagined that he would be welcomed with open arms, loved and desired as he had been by Richard. However, the reality was much more painful than he expected. When he attempted to approach them, every gesture of affection was met with indifference or even disdain. He felt like a stranger in his own home, as if he didn't belong in that place that should be his refuge. Despite his disappointment, he continued to hold on to the hope of one day being accepted, of finding a place where he truly belonged.
He felt like a real fool the moment he saw the clear expression of pure fury on Richard's face as he entered the cave. It was as if an unexpectedly silent bullet had been fired directly into his chest, leaving him breathless. Terror took hold of him like a lion taking down its prey, feeling the claws of fear, the likes of which he had never experienced before, dig into his soul. Although his face, accustomed to not showing emotions, seemed imperturbable, inside he had begun to sweat. He clearly remembered the feeling of terror he experienced when, at the tender age of just four, he was forced to plunge against his will into the icy spring of the Lazarus Pit. That moment paled in comparison to the intensity of the fear he felt now, in the face of Richard's anger.
For an instant, he felt as if everything he had built with him, all the closeness and connection they had shared, was crumbling before his eyes. He regretted having believed that he could find in Richard the love and acceptance that he so longed for, only to be greeted with a look of contempt and disappointment.
"What have you done, Damian?" His father's thunderous voice echoed in the cave, like a sharp sword cutting through the air. Anxiety grew in his being in a way that he thought was uncontrollable. His father, who was normally calm and reluctant to get angry or pay attention to him, was now wearing the Batman costume without a mask. He seemed almost upset, his hair disheveled, hinting that he had been through something disturbing. His eyes were furrowed with pure anger, further highlighted by the furious scowl on his brows. Damian felt as if each word was a direct blow to his heart, his father's disappointment and anger were palpable in the air. Despite his attempts to maintain his composure, he could feel the fear and guilt twisting inside him, wondering what he had done to deserve that disapproving look from the only father figure he had ever known.
He felt the air in the cave grow thick, as if every molecule was charged with tension and regret. A lump formed at the beginning of his throat, a ball of anguish that seemed to grow with each passing second, preventing him from uttering any words. Shock and terror intertwined within his like roots, spreading across every inch of his skin and enveloping his heart in a cold embrace.
“What do you mean, father?” His voice was almost breathless, the words echoing through the cave with a mix of disbelief and fear. He was halfway up the stairs, his knees trembling, blocked by a defensive instinct that kept him immobile. His father's gaze, full of anger and disappointment, seemed to pierce him like a sharp sword, making his heart pound against his chest, as if he wanted to escape this overwhelming situation.
"Don't act inadvertently. You sabotaged my grappling hook!" Absolute fury resounded in the sudden voice of Drake, who was present in the room. Damian hadn't noticed Tim's presence, much less Jason, who was even more unusual to see inside the cave. Drake advanced towards Damian with a firm step, his eyes shining with a mixture of anger and betrayal. He almost felt the need to back away from the sudden approach with only a few steps between them, but he remained firmly in his place. Todd's silent presence at Drake's side added an element of bewilderment to the scene.
“I don't know what you're talking about, Drake, I haven't even gone out on patrol tonight,” he responded harshly, trying to hold his ground against the accusation. His voice sounded like it always did, but inside he felt anxiety wash over him like an earthquake, making the tips of his fingers tingle in an attempt to contain the trembling of his limbs. That night he had not gone out on patrol; His father had ordered him to stay home, ignoring the searing pain in his soul that suggested his father would prefer to patrol with any of his chosen children instead of him. The feeling of being an intruder in his own family had become almost unbearable. Every time his father left him aside to carry out his activities with others, he felt as if a dagger was stabbed in his heart, reminding him of his place in his family hierarchy.
"You've done it before, I have no doubt that you're the one who sabotaged my bait again, taking advantage of the fact that you weren't going out tonight." I could see the pale skin of Timothy's cheeks turn a soft reddish color with each word he shouted. Yes, it was incredible how Al Ghul's pure hatred for him seemed to stand out in every word.
He threatened to open his mouth to defend himself. He wanted to scream, like Drake was doing, he wanted to scream to him and everyone in the cave that he hadn't done anything wrong now, or in a long time. He had just spent the night making unimportant drawings on his canvas, portraying Titus while he listened to a song he didn't even know. He wanted to emphasize how useless his night had been, how he had been alone because once again he had been benched, like so many other times. It almost seemed like a relief to Bruce every time he went out on patrol without him, as if Damian was simply an obstacle in his way. The weight of loneliness and the feeling of being discarded took over him, filling him with sadness and resignation.
But like a whip, one of many he had received from his mother and grandfather, Richard's hard, high voice seemed to silence him as soon as he tried to speak, like a hard, cold whip of leather against his back, so strong. that he bled invisibly.
“Damian, you better stop lying and put an end to your attempts to murder Tim once and for all, I thought you had already stopped,” he said, his voice firm, but full of disappointment. He felt how those cold eyes, the color of the sea, drowned him, leaving him with empty lungs. The fury in them was so sharp and so directed at him that they felt like the cuts he had received, cutting deeply into every muscle of his body. They were so different from those eyes that once looked at him as if he were a beautiful jewel, that look seemed to have shattered every memory of his time with Richard, leaving him completely empty.
"He's never going to stop, he just stays silent because he's planning how to destroy me," Damian pointed out. Tim didn't just look angry; He was terrified, he exuded panic. "I don't know why you're still here if you hate me so much. Just leave. You came later, you became the owner of everything when in reality you're just a resentful spoiled person." Every word from Tim was like a dagger stuck in his chest, reminding him how fragile his place in this family was, if he ever had one, how unaccepted and worthless he felt.
Unconsciously, Damian clenched his fists tightly, feeling the stinging pain of his nails cutting into his palms into small, deep moons. He needed the physical pain to distract himself and prevent any pathetic tremors from escaping his body. His mouth was dry when he tried to speak, and although he kept any emotion out of his eyes, he desperately searched for someone in that room to look at, only to be greeted by angry and hostile glances that returned him to his own. . loneliness of him. The feeling of being a stranger in his own life overwhelmed him, making him feel like more than just an entity occupying space.
"I..." but the brutality of his father's voice interrupting his words made him look back at him.
“Just go to your room Damian” could have been taken as a mockery, there is no space in that house where his presence could be welcomed, much less, it belonged to a room in it.
“Father, I don't see it fair…” it was even more stupid to come to want to say something in his defense, to want to express himself, regretting it instantly.
"Just go! Go to hell already!" Tim's protest echoed through the cave like Drake's final broken barrier, unleashing even more anguish in him. Tears flowed from his eyes without any scruple. He could see how Tim's entire body trembled like a leaf in the air, how he had managed to hurt someone as special as Timothy, someone so perfect, being hurt once again by an Al Ghul.
He stood paralyzed, as if everything suddenly passed through a thick nebula that hid every sound. His eyes widened in horror as he watched Drake fall for a few brief seconds before Jason moved in one swift motion towards him, catching him. He watched as Grayson ran to hug his sweet, perfect little brother, the only little brother he had. He could only hear the piercing screams through that cloud that covered him, each one of them resonating in his mind like a painful echo. Time seemed to stop in that moment, every detail of the scene was indelibly etched in his mind. The sound of screams seemed to fill the room, drowning out anything else. He saw Drake in Jason's arms, his limp and fragile body in contrast to Jason's strength and determination. Grayson came running, his face full of anguish and despair as he saw his younger brother in danger.
"Go, go! Fuck you! Get out! Get out!" The increasingly heartbreaking screams came from Red Robin with labored breathing of pure panic, repeating itself like a mantra, like a prayer from God to ward off evil. Damian was evil.
He could only react when Grayson's thunderous voice screamed at him, at his soul.
“Go away Damian!”
As if he received a direct order, similar to the ones he used to receive in Nanda Parbat, telling him his mission without the possibility of rebuttal, his legs seemed to suddenly unlock. He turned with quick steps, turning his back on the scene unfolding before him, aware that he was the only one responsible for the pain he had caused a perfect family. Every step he took echoed in his mind like an echo of his own guilt. He felt as if he were walking into a dark, bottomless abyss, his conscience heavy with the consequences of his actions.
Every step I took inside that house, in those silent hallways that seemed to come to life, was like a constant reminder that I wasn't supposed to be there, that I didn't belong, of all the damage I had caused. The air in his lungs seemed to become scarce as his muscles trembled, struggling to stay upright and resist the urge to flee to the solitude of the room that was supposed to be his. The whispers of the past echoed in his mind, each shadow seemed to whisper his name in a reproachful tone. He felt like he was walking through a minefield of painful memories, every corner hiding a moment in which he had failed, in which he had caused pain to those he loved.
And before he knew it, he was barely able to close the door with pathetically shaking hands, slightly stained with his blood. Like a puppet without strings, his body collapsed abruptly on the rough carpet that covered the floor of the room. He barely felt the pain of the dull hit against the ground on his body; He just felt his chest tighten painfully, his ribs pressing so hard against his lungs that He felt like they were crumbling along with his heart, which was pounding in his ears. He felt his hands tremble against the carpet, felt the cold of the room on them like little needles stuck in his skin. Each breath was an effort, as if the air itself resisted entering her lungs. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to contain the torrent of emotions that threatened to overflow.
You could feel the weight of everything falling on him, crushing him, making him feel like a monster, like there was no redemption possible for him.
He felt the inevitable tears fall down his cheeks in an uncontrollable torrent, so profuse that in the past he would have received so many spankings that his back would have been soaked in his own blood. The noises escaped in small moans from his throat, they came out without him realizing it. He wanted to just put his fist in his mouth and shut up, but it seemed like he couldn't even move his hands. The cold, in a matter of seconds, spread through his body like a macabre and dark cloak, aggravating his well-deserved ordeal. He felt hit by the cold, even though the sweater he was wearing and the t-shirt underneath him were not enough to cover him. It was such a painful feeling; he hated the cold. He loved the heat so much that being in Gotham at that time was like being in a freezing hell.
Every fiber of his being longed for the comforting warmth that only his mother's embrace could have provided. But he was no longer there, and he would never be there again because he didn't want him, he didn't need him, he was so weak and useless. He felt alone and helpless, as if the entire universe was conspiring against his or there was simply no place for him.
The air still refused to enter his body, a sweet punishment like suffocation, it felt disastrous, it was a disgusting mess.
He was there, in the cold of his loneliness, wrapped in the darkness that loomed over him in a way that was terrifying to his eyes. He was afraid, a heartbreaking fear of those shadows that seemed to move in the dark corners of the room. He wanted to be alert, but with each gulp in an attempt to get air he only brought out more muffled moans, not realizing how saliva had begun to drip down the side of his mouth due to the position in which he had collapsed and would not be able to move. .
He felt trapped in an endless cycle of pain and despair, unable to find a way out. The shadows that danced around him seemed to mock him, reminding him of his worst fears and fueling his paranoia. His thoughts were a chaotic storm of self-recrimination and irrational fear. He felt on the verge of madness, struggling to stay sane in the midst of overwhelming darkness. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but fear and anguish paralyzed him. He was alone, completely alone, with his own demons for company only in that cold, dark room.
And there was the great heir of the Demon's Head, the next leader who should lead the League of Assassins, continuing the honorable surname Al Ghul.
Drowning in his own misery, tears and saliva mixed on his face, a palpable display of his pain and despair. The tremors shook his body painfully, the cold infiltrating his pores, covering him with its icy mantle. He was completely alone, accompanied only by the same darkness he felt he deserved. He felt scared, like a little child, feeling an irrational fear of what he couldn't see but could hear, although he knew it was a figment of his imagination.
Every sound, every whisper seemed to take shape in the darkness, fueling his worst nightmares and making him feel like he was on the brink of madness. The air became thick in his lungs, as if he were breathing water instead of air, and each attempt to breathe turned into a muffled gasp.
His eyes closed, plunging into an even darker, but strangely calm space. His body seemed to be in free fall towards an unknown destination, but he didn't feel anything, he simply stopped feeling. The sensation of falling was like a dream, where time and space became blurred and reality blurred into a whirlwind of emotions. He let himself be carried away by the sensation of weightlessness, floating in the darkness as if he were the only inhabitant of an empty universe.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a soft surface, so soft that it seemed to hug him tenderly. The warmth that emanated from that softness wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, making him feel safe and protected. He couldn't keep his eyes open for long, seduced by the feeling of peace and tranquility that surrounded him. He could feel the soft texture of the blankets covering him, like a shield against the biting cold that seemed to attack him regularly. Every fiber of his being longed to remain in that place, away from the outside world and his own inner demons. He held on to that feeling of warmth and comfort, trying to keep his close to him as he struggled to clear his mind of dark, distressing thoughts.
His senses seemed to awaken with each passing second. There was a soft light filtering in from somewhere in the room, but it was so dim that it barely managed to cast a shadow over him, as if it were the softest, most peaceful dawn. It was like a sweet bath upon waking up from the sun, a warm caress on his skin that made him feel comforted and at peace with himself.
He managed to hear the soft singing of the birds on the outskirts of the room that had woken him up, as if it were a good morning melody addressed only to him. The sound was soft and harmonious, like a symphony of nature that reminded him that there was beauty and hope in the world, despite everything that had happened. The sounds seemed to carry with them a message of joy and rebirth, as if the birds wanted to share their happiness for the new day that was dawning.
He could feel the soft, comforting texture of the pillow against the side of his face, a pleasure so different from what he had experienced most of his life, sleeping on various types of floors without even a blanket, much less a pillow. Unconsciously, he sank deeper into the pillow with a huff that escaped his chest. He no longer felt any pain, only peace. He relaxed, releasing the tension and stress that had weighed him down for so long. He allowed himself to sink into the feeling of comfort and security that the pillow offered, as if it were a refuge from the outside world.
That aroma reached his nose, that perfume that had become etched so deeply in his psyche that it seemed to be simply part of his being. It was as if that aroma came to life and took over a part of him in a unique way. A soft but at the same time strong and masculine perfume bathed him, coming from where his body was completely defenseless and relaxed. He could recognize him anywhere. The aroma was so familiar and comforting that it transported him to past moments, he remembered how that perfume had accompanied him in moments of happiness and sadness, how it had become an integral part of his life.
Grayson's perfume was a constant reminder of the moments of intimacy and protection they shared. He had burned a hot knife into his memory after so long, evoking memories of hugs where the world seemed to fade into darkness, leaving him completely protected in the older man's arms. He clearly remembered burying his face in the crook of Grayson's neck, trying to avoid anything else that might cause him discomfort. Grayson's scent was always present whenever he headed to Blüdhaven to spend a short time at his apartment. He remembered the countless times they had shared the bed, completely immersing themselves in the comfort of sleep. Waking up the next day with the older man's arm around his waist was a comforting feeling of protection, although now that feeling seemed so far away and strange.
He couldn't resist the temptation to close his heavy eyelids again, wanting to prolong the pleasure of that comforting aroma and the comfort that enveloped him. He longed to remain in that world of peace and serenity, far from the realities that awaited him outside. He let himself be carried away by the feeling of warmth that his blankets offered him, sinking deeper and deeper into that feeling of security and protection.
He wanted to stay there forever, away from the problems and worries that surrounded him. The soft song of the birds seemed like a melody especially dedicated to him, a reminder that there was still beauty in the world despite everything. Each trill was like a caress for his soul, comforting him.
It was too naive of him to believe that peace had come to him once and for all. He knew perfectly well that peace detested him like a vile scum, that he would never get to experience that blessed sensation that seemed to falsely surround him at that moment. His illusion was brutally interrupted when a large, hard hand seemed to attack his back without preamble, brutally grabbing the collar of his sweater.
Before he could react, he felt himself being torn from the blankets, from the comforting scent, from the comfort that had enveloped him. A painful jerk on his body made him fall to the ground like a piece of rubble, unable to do anything to avoid it. With his eyes wide open he could not hide the fear he felt towards the individual who had taken away everything he loved so much. From his pathetic position on the ground, he could see it clearly. The figure loomed over him, imposing and menacing, with a gaze that seemed to cut through him like a sharp knife. Fear paralyzed him, preventing him from moving or doing anything to protect himself.
He could feel the cold take over his skin again in a few miserable seconds, but that mattered little when he recognized his attacker, who was heading towards him with hard and furious steps, like an animal hunting its prey.
In a matter of seconds, he saw how the older man's hand rose without hesitation directly towards his face. He could have defended himself, he could have covered himself, but he was frozen with panic and fear. He barely managed to squeeze a gasp out of his throat: "Richard!" He didn't know what he was asking for, why he was calling him, but he noticed that didn't help at all.
The hand came down with relentless force, violently striking his cheek. The pain was sharp and sudden, like lightning piercing the sky during a storm. He felt how the blow resonated throughout his being, leaving a physical and emotional mark that would last long beyond that moment. Tears came to his eyes immediately, mixing with the fear and confusion that overwhelmed him.
Suddenly, his eyes widened, reflecting deep, paralyzing fear. He felt confused, as if he had been dragged into an unknown and terrifying world. Although the physical pain in his cheek had disappeared, the ghostly sensation of the blow lingered on his face, a cruel reminder of the display of pure hatred he had just experienced. The panorama around him had completely changed. His eyes, now swollen and filled with annoying exudates, felt like shards of glass on his face. The light coming through the window only intensified his discomfort, making him close his eyes tightly to protect himself from it. His head began to pound vigorously, as if a hammer was hitting his repeatedly.
Belatedly he realized that he was still on the ground, barely having moved from the position in which he had fallen. Every movement was a painful reminder of the brutality of the assault he had suffered. Every muscle seemed to burn with pain and the simple act of breathing was an exhausting task. He felt completely helpless and vulnerable, not knowing what to do or where to go.
He felt the skin on his face pull as he moved it, marked by trails of dried tears that had slid down his cheeks. Upon touching his, he also noticed traces of his own dried saliva spread across a part of his face, an embarrassing reminder of his state. He felt even worse when he realized that he had practically slept on the floor all night, as if he had passed out without realizing it. It was an absolute and embarrassing disaster. Every part of his body hurt, from the throbbing pain in his head to the throbbing pain in his back and chest. He felt absolutely pathetic, as if he had failed in the worst way possible. That feeling intensified when he noticed that he had fallen into a trap that he himself had learned to avoid in the past.
He clearly remembered the rigorous training he had received years ago, teaching him how to control panic and remain calm in crisis situations. However, at that moment, all that knowledge seemed to have vanished, leaving him helpless and vulnerable to his own fears. He had simply fallen, and he had fallen hard, without being able to avoid it. It was an overwhelming feeling of failure and despair that enveloped him completely.
With extreme difficulty, he managed to get up on his hands and knees before being able to stand completely. It seemed like a simple task, but the wobble of his knees, which seemed ready to give way at any moment, and the tension in each of his muscles complicated every movement. When he finally managed to get up, he felt every part of his body he protested against the effort. Every muscle of him was tense and sore, as if he had been subjected to relentless punishment for hours. The simple act of standing was a test.
As he tried to wipe the dried drool off his face, he noticed how cold his skin was. His normally golden brown complexion now seemed pale and dry, with a coldness that seemed to penetrate to his bones. Every nerve of his seemed to be trembling, as if he was experiencing extreme cold, although the atmosphere in the room was warm. He felt like a corpse, cold and lifeless, abandoned to his fate in the middle of an endless nightmare.
With each slow step he took toward the bathroom in the room, his mind seemed to sink into the deep tide of harsh dissociation, like a defense mechanism against the relentless pain of the reality he was living. No one had come to see him, and although he didn't know why he had expected otherwise, the fact of facing the truth filled him with terror. What had once started as a beautiful dream had turned into the worst nightmare he had ever experienced. Terror curled into a knot in his stomach at the thought that maybe, somehow, this was more real than he'd like to admit. Every step was an internal struggle between facing what had happened and clinging to the hope that everything was just a figment of his imagination.
When he reached the bathroom, he stopped in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection with a mixture of disbelief and despair. His face was marked by fatigue and anguish, with deep circles under his eyes and an expression that reflected the torment he was experiencing.
In the reflection of the mirror, a torn Damian Al Ghul was seen, with water in his eyes and dried tears marking his face. The dried saliva on part of his cheek was an embarrassing reminder of his state. There was a slight redness and irritation on the thin, delicate skin of his eyelids, a result of the tension and stress of the previous night. He felt a deep desire to break that image, to destroy the mirror that seemed to mock his misery by reflecting it so clearly. But he didn't have the strength to do it. His body, fatigued and overwhelmed by despair, seemed to grow heavier, as if he were being carried by the weight of his own emotions.
I urgently needed a bath. He walked to the bathroom shower and turned on the hot water. He slowly stripped off his clothes, leaving himself completely exposed to the solitude of the cold bathroom. Every step he took towards the shower he felt a shiver down his spine as he felt the contact of the soles of his feet against the cold tiles of the floor.
Without worrying about regulating the water temperature too much, he stood under the shower, which had already begun to release steam due to its temperature. The hot water hit his skin, easing some of the tension in his muscles and giving him a brief respite from the anguish that had consumed him. He closed his eyes and let himself be carried away by the comforting sensation of the warm water that enveloped him, trying to find some peace in the midst of the emotional storm that tormented him.
The hot water hit his skin with an intensity that was almost painful, but it was a necessary pain, a momentary relief in the midst of his anguish. He felt how heat seeped into every pore of his, how his pale, his dry skin absorbed the comforting warmth of the water. He closed her eyes, letting the sensation envelope him, at least for a brief moment, in a small oasis of tranquility in the middle of nowhere. He leaned his forehead against the shower wall, feeling the water fall over him, as if it could wash away all the anguish and pain that consumed him. His body began to relax, his tense muscles slowly yielding to the comforting warmth of the water. Even the pain in his head, which he was throbbing hard, seemed to subside to a steady but less intense throb.
He meticulously cleaned every part of his body, feeling the hot water wash away the tears and emotional dirt that had accumulated on his skin. The soap on his hands seemed to burn, and as he rubbed carefully, he could feel the small wounds on his palms caused by his own nails during his moment of desperation. Each touch of his reminded him of the intensity of his guilt.
His head began to feel like it was wrapped in cotton, a heavy, numb feeling that contrasted with the constant pain in his chest, an emotional wound that seemed to have no end. Every memory of the previous day, the flashes of what happened, was like a direct blow to his soul, making him feel even more overwhelmed by the situation. As the water fell on him, without even realizing it, the tears mixed with the drops of the shower, a physical manifestation of his internal anguish and suffering. Although he tried to hold his ground, the reality of what had happened seemed to overwhelm him more and more, making him feel as if he were about to completely fall apart again.
He came out of the shower after at least half an hour, considerably longer than usual. Normally, his baths lasted no more than ten minutes, but this time he seemed to have gotten lost in his thoughts of ella long enough to prolong it much longer than necessary. Once dry, with the warmth of the water still permeating his skin, he thought about putting on that oversized t-shirt that was on the chair. But he felt his muscles tense just before he took his . It was n't his. He didn't belong to his.
With an unconscious sigh, Damian turned to grab one of his t-shirts and some sleep shorts. It was daytime, but he felt as if he hadn't slept in at least forty-two hours. The shirt he had been about to put on was his favorite, the one he used to wear every time he went to Blüdhaven. Although he had a hard time admitting it, he was his favorite for one simple reason: he was Richard's.
Richard had told him to keep it once he slowed it to him, saying that it was his now. But somehow, Damian knew better. He knew that he had no right to anything that reminded him of Richard, of those moments of peace and security they once shared. Every fiber of the shirt seemed to scream at him that it didn't belong to him, that it would never truly be his.
He put on one of his usual t-shirts and some shorts, feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders. He walked to the window and opened the curtains, letting in the sunlight. The blinding brightness made him close his eyes for a moment, but then he slowly opened them, letting the light flood the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the warmth of the sun caressing his cold, tired skin.
He didn't have a cell phone, his father had taken it away from him when he sent him to the bank, along with the computer. It was impossible for him to know the time, he could only assume that it was early, that this was the time he regularly woke up for breakfast of the pancakes that Pennyworth usually made. However, he didn't feel he had any right to even leave the room and sit at the table. He was afraid.
He was afraid that when he came out they would be there, afraid that even Alfred hadn't made his pancakes like he usually made them. Somehow, he became even more aware that he no longer belonged there, and that he never would, as if he had simply collapsed to the ground and had to get up and calm down. The feeling of not belonging, of being a stranger in his own home, washed over him, making each breath heavy and filled with anxiety. His mother's voice screamed furiously in his head, reminding him of his weakness. He felt overwhelmed by the pain of not being loved, a feeling that clashed with the leader and ruler image of him destined to lead humanity. However, at that moment, he felt like nothing more than a scum in that world, unable to find his place or belong anywhere.
He decided to lie back down in the softness of his bed, seeking solace in the cold sheets that seemed impossible to warm, even with the heat of his own body. The contrast between the cold of the sheets and the heat of his body only intensified his feeling of isolation and desolation. The sunlight coming through the window wasn't enough to warm the emptiness he felt inside him.
He covered himself almost completely with the blankets, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, as if each layer of fabric was an attempt to push away the reality that tormented him. Her throat closed painfully, as if a knot of anguish had settled in his, preventing his from breathing normally. He squeezed his eyes shut, seeking refuge in the darkness behind his eyelids, wanting to escape a reality that seemed to be filled with suffering, a suffering that he felt he completely deserved.