bro does NOT know how to write

Bruce.

Bruce had never known how to properly raise kids.

He spent years improvising.

He convinced Cass to forgive herself.

He accepted and embraced who Jason was.

He still looked to Dick whenever he wasn't sure what the right thing to do was.

Took responsibility for every kid he felt he had failed.

And yet he doesn't know how to fix this.

He takes a few deep breaths and adjusts his grip on the bouquet.

He doesn't really know which flowers you like, but he knows you like yellow.

Right?

Your favorite superhero wore yellow.

Invincible.

Invisible.

Something along those lines.

The boy spent most episodes getting punched, which seemed misleading.

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh.

Maybe when he gets home and you're locked in your room—as you usually are when he misses big events—he'll order from that burger place you liked.

You always seemed more willing to talk when food was involved.

And then he'll apologize properly this time. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the apology you deserved.

The silence hits him first.

Not unusual silence.

Wrong silence.

The kind that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

No television.

No music.

No footsteps.

Nothing.

Bruce steps inside.

"Alfred?"

No answer.

His grip tightens around the bouquet.

A second later he spots him.

Alfred sits slumped on one of the living room sofas. He's not breathing. He's not taking a break. He's not working. His hands shake as he sweats and even that seems to take a lot of effort out of him.

And beside him—

Commissioner Gordon.

Bruce stops.

For a moment he thinks someone has died.

Again.

Dick.

Jason.

Tim.

Damian.

Steph.

Cass.

His stomach drops.

"Alfred."

The older man's head lifts.

Bruce feels his pulse quicken.

Alfred looks exhausted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like someone who has spent hours carrying something far too heavy.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

The bouquet shifts in his hands.

"Is everyone alright?"

Alfred opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Bruce turns toward Gordon.

The commissioner won't meet his eyes.

The cold feeling in Bruce's chest deepens.

"Alfred. Is it Dick?"

Silence.

"Jason?"

Silence.

"Tim?"

Nothing.

"Damian?"

Still nothing.

He names every single person except you.

Because it couldn't be you.

You could handle yourself.

You were normal.

You were just a kid.

You had refused to be Robin or Batgirl or any kind of vigilante because you were scared.

Scared of dying.

Of being tortured.

Of breaking a bone.

So no.

It couldn't be you.

Another pause.

Then, quietly—

"Master Bruce..."

His voice breaks.

The flowers slip from Bruce's fingers.

Yellow petals scatter across the marble floor.

A drop of water rolls from the crushed wrapping.

Bruce stares.

Alfred never breaks.

Not like that.

Not ever.

"Where are they?"

Alfred closes his eyes.

Just for a moment.

As though gathering strength.

When he opens them again, they look older.

"I am so sorry, Master Bruce."

"No."

The answer comes immediately.

Instinctively.

Without thought.

"No."

"Master Bruce—"

"No."

Because Alfred is mistaken.

Because you had called him.

Because you were supposed to be home.

Because you were waiting.

Because Bruce still has things to say.

Because there is still time.

There has to be.

Alfred looks away.

And Gordon finally speaks.

Quietly.

"Bruce..."

Bruce's head snaps toward him.

No.

No, no, no.

Not Gordon.

Not sitting in his living room.

Not looking at him like that.

Because Gordon only came here for one reason.

Bruce feels the world tilt.

Because this doesn't make sense.

You weren't Robin.

You weren't Batgirl.

You weren't anything.

You were supposed to be safe.

That had been the deal.

The entire point.

The reason Bruce had spent years arguing with you whenever Gotham came up.

The reason he never pushed.

Never trained.

Never insisted.

You had chosen a normal life.

And Bruce had let himself believe normal meant safe.

"Where are they?"

His voice rises.

Sharp.

Desperate.

Alfred's face crumples.

Bruce hates that expression.

Hates it.

Because he knows it.

He has seen it reflected in hospital windows.

Police stations.

Funeral homes.

The faces people make before they shatter his world.

"Tell me where they are."

Silence.

Bruce's pulse thunders.

"They're at the hospital."

You could survive being in a hospital.

You fought tooth and nail as much as your body allowed you to.

"They're unconscious."

A coma?

Did you pass out on stage again? You had when you were small. You sobbed for an hour until he came to pick you up.

God, you'd hate that.

"They're hurt."

God.

Let that be it.

Anything.

Anything except—

Gordon lowers his head.

Alfred's eyes fill with tears.

And suddenly Bruce understands.

The room goes silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

The kind of silence that swallows everything.

Bruce can't breathe.

His chest expands.

Nothing happens.

For one horrible second he thinks his heart has stopped.

"No."

The word comes out weaker.

Smaller.

Almost childish.

"No."

"No."

Gordon's jaw tightens.

"Bruce—"

"No."

The word rips itself out of him.

Louder this time.

Sharper.

"Stop."

Nobody moves.

Nobody speaks.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because if there was hope, someone would have said it already.

Someone would have corrected the misunderstanding.

Instead Alfred is crying.

And Gordon is looking at him with the same expression he's worn outside morgues, hospital rooms, and crime scenes for years.

"Bruce."

"Stop talking."

For a moment Gordon says nothing.

Then he straightens his shoulders.

Because he knows Bruce.

Knows what happens if he leaves even the smallest space for denial to grow.

And Bruce is already trying.

Already reaching for explanations.

A coma.

A mistake.

A bad identification.

Anything.

Anything except this.

So Gordon forces himself to continue.

"They were attacked this afternoon."

Bruce shakes his head.

"They were found by emergency services."

"No."

"There wasn't anything the doctors could do."

"Stop."

"The injuries were severe."

"Stop."

"Bruce."

Gordon's voice drops.

"They were struck multiple times with a hammer."

The world stops.

Not metaphorically.

Not poetically.

It genuinely stops.

Bruce can't feel his hands anymore.

Can't hear the clock.

Can't hear Alfred breathing.

Can't hear Gordon's voice.

Only those words.

Multiple times.

A hammer.

Multiple times.

His mind rejects them instantly.

Because those words belong in police reports.

In case files.

In photographs he keeps locked away.

They belong to strangers.

To victims.

To people whose names become statistics after a few weeks.

Not you.

Never you.

You were supposed to be home.

You were supposed to be angry.

God, you were always angry lately.

Always rolling your eyes at him.

Always pretending not to care when he forgot something important.

Always saying "it's fine" in that tone that clearly meant it wasn't.

You were supposed to be upstairs.

Locked in your room.

Ignoring his texts.

Making him work for forgiveness.

You were supposed to take one look at the flowers and tell him they were ugly.

Supposed to laugh at him for not knowing what kind you actually liked.

Supposed to complain that he bought too many.

Supposed to steal his food when the burgers arrived.

Supposed to exist.

And suddenly Bruce realizes there won't be another birthday.

No awkward family dinners.

No arguments.

No chances to apologize.

No future conversation where he finally gets it right.

There won't be a next week.

There won't be a next month.

There won't even be tomorrow.

Because while he was driving home thinking about burgers and flowers and apologies, your life had already ended.

You died.

You died.

The thought enters his head and immediately shatters something inside him.

Because death had always been something Bruce fought.

Something he chased into alleyways and abandoned warehouses.

Something he punched and kicked and bled against.

Death was supposed to be the enemy.

An opponent.

A thing that could be beaten if he was fast enough.

Smart enough.

Strong enough.

But he hadn't even known there was a fight.

He wasn't there.

He didn't save you.

Didn't protect you.

Didn't even know you needed protecting.

For all his training.

For all his plans.

For all the satellites and contingency files and years spent turning himself into something impossible—

he had still failed the one person who wanted nothing to do with any of it.

And the worst part—

the truly unbearable part—

was that the last thing between you wasn't forgiveness.

It wasn't understanding.

It wasn't even a proper goodbye.

Was there even a goodbye?

And in one final act of desperation,

Bruce remembers you had called him.

“No but they just— they called me. How could they be dead? They called me—”

He scrambled for his phone, hard shaking as he looks for the voice,ail you sent him.

God, you were such a smart kid, weren’t you? You were probably telling him where you’ll be hiding until he comes. He’ll pick you up and fix everything and—

The audio starts to play.

there is silence for a while. White noise.

then—

“fuck.”

An immediate gasp from your part. He can hear the door opening as you let out a scream.

a thud.

your scream.

“please— please don’t—”

another thud as you let out loud, gut wrenching animal sounds.

Bruce looked around the room.

For what? Confirmation? For someone to say that maybe this was a sign that your injuries weren’t fatal? That there was a slight chance you were alive?

Alfred flinched at each hit. Stared right at Bruce. Begging him with his eyes to stop it.

Bruce didnt turn off his phone.

There had to be something.

Anything.

And then he looked at the top of his screen.

The voicemail lasted 2 hours.

2 hours you were beat.

2 hours you suffered. Begged. Screamed.

He turned off his phone.

Looked at it for a second.

Five.

Half a minute.

And slammed it against the wall. Once. Twice. Five times.

And stormed out.

Damian

Damian knows something is wrong.

He can feel it in his bones. There’s a tightness on his skin, as if there was something underneath it. He’s pacing on his room, suit now discarded on the corner of his room.

Did he push too far?

Did he truly hurt you that much?

He knows you’re a volatile, sensitive person and yet he still said what he said.

He thought he had grown so much as a person, yet that attitude and behavior of yours could make him regress back into the boy he used to be when he first arrived at the manor. He had worked so much to learn how to be vulnerable. Disciplined. Sensitive. A child.

You were always irritated lately.

Even if he won’t admit it, he had worked so hard to make you feel included. Part of his this family. The same way his father and brothers had. And yet you mocked and ignored him.

Simply because of his age?

Well, as always, he had to be the bigger person.

You were probably asleep by now. He was going to apologize tomorrow. Over breakfast. You seemed more forgiving when food was involved.

It was settled.

He had all the time in the world to fix this. And you had all the time in the world to fix your attitude.

Dick

It was strange, chasing and looking for Bruce late at night. It was usually him or one of his brothers who had to be chased by Bruce.

What the hell had happened?

For Bruce to react like that, it sure had to be something very serious. The man was so focused on being made of stone when it was so obvious he was actually the most sensitive out of all of them.

This was wrong.

He had tonight to fix this. And Bruce seemed focused to fix this tonight too.

whatever “this” was.

Bruce.

At first, being Batman was strange.

Most people thought he was a monster. A spirit. He was an urban legend, chasing down criminals and disappearing right as he took care of them. Most words didn’t stick.

Monster did.

Did he look like this right now?

Punching the man who took your life’s face again and again?

They said you looked unrecognizable.

Maybe the man needed to be unrecognizable too.

Dick

At first, being Robin was strange.

Most people thought he was just a kid. Happy. Excited. And he was, at first. Then had to be. Even after he found out about the reality of his parents’ death.

And then he couldn’t pretend anymore.

He was angry.

And Bruce looked angry.

Punching some guy again and again.

He grabbed Bruce by the shoulders and pulled him off.

“Bruce, what the—

Bruce

— hell?!”

Bruce looked up at his son. Breathing hard. He knew how he looked right now. Wild. Lost. He could see it in Dick’s eyes, the moment he realized his father wasn’t himself right now.

Bruce opened his mouth. Trying to explain. Nothing came out.

Because saying it meant admitting it.

And admitting it made it true.

“[name]’s dead—

Dick

—Dick.”

Bruce had said it so calmly, he thought Bruce didn’t say it at all.

You? Dead?

Bruce’s voice didn’t shake when he said it, which contrasted with the way he was moving before.

Like he wanted to kill the guy.

“..what?”

Bruce just stared up at him.

You were dead.

But how?

You were— you were you. How could your life be in danger— be over when they were supposed to take care of people like you?

Civilians.

Kids.

Dick took a sharp breath. And shook his head.

His eyes filled with unwanted tears.

His hands shook.

And with that, he turned around.

If Bruce wasn’t going to take responsibility, if he wasn’t going to help everybody else process it— he would.

He takes responsibility. (tell me you get it guys)

For you.

All he did lately was for you.

And now, it included this.

As he rushed back home, his brain refused to accept it.

But he had to.

If he couldn’t deal with this, how did he expect anyone else to do so?

Just yesterday, you were in one of your moods. Slamming doors, spamming him to go to your recital.

He had to.

You were munching on your Korean corn dog as they dressed up for patrol.

He had to.

Complaining about no one coming to your recital.

He had to.

Hugging him goodbye and apologizing for being so mean.

He couldn’t.

Hugging you back.

How could he?

He stood in front of the doors of the manor.

Saw Jim, who looked like he wanted to talk to him.

And had to.

Duke

Seeing the whole family sitting together was a weird sight.

Even weirder when you weren’t there.

Were you mad? It was the most reasonable response, being mad.

Hell, he’d be mad too.

If he played piano.

Or had a recital.

And no one came.

He liked you. He really did. You were a normal person he could talk to. You kept him grounded. The only other person who didn’t wear a mask at night. You didn’t even wear a mask at all.

So he understood why you were angry.

At least this time it made sense. You always got mad for anything. Wether someone was breathing too loud chewing too much, staring at you.

You were still a kid.

Duke looked up at Jason. Red-eyed. Hands shaking. Breathing too controlled. In. Out. In. Out. As if he didn’t control every single part of his body, he would break down.

Dick took a deep breath, as if there wasn’t an easy way to say this. There was an attack this afternoon. At the recital hall. It wasn't a Rogue. It was just... a robbery. A mass casualty event. Jim just confirmed the ID. It’s [Name]. They're dead."

What?

The room went silent.

Dick’s words sounded practiced. Like he had said them over and over until they lost their meaning and became sounds and nothing else.

Duke flinched as Jason kicked a table over, and rushes out the room, taking his gun with him.

Watched as Damian followed after.

Then Tim. Followed by Steph and Cass. Cass held Steph upright as Steph’s legs failed her. Breaking down.

Dick left too.

Every time something happened, each one of the, went their own way. They have different ways to process things. Those ways clashed. Made things worse. Caused fights. So. Yeah. Space.

Duke stared straight ahead. and wondered what to do next.

Raised by detectives, he needed proof. He sobbed hard, barely breathing as he rushes up to your room and slams your door open.

The first thing he saw was Damian, curled up into fetal position in your bed.

Then he saw your ghost.

Or rather, your thermal signature all over the place.

Of course, the bed was the most noticeable place. You never really got up unless it involved food, malls, or piano lessons. You spent most of the time scrolling.

The bathroom was next. You spent hours getting ready.

What he didn’t know, was why there was one on the window.

Did you sneak out constantly?

Or just stood there?

God, there was so much he didn’t know about you.

His legs failed him, and before he fell he sat on the bed next to Damian, who didn’t flinch when he put a hand on his shoulder. Which was bad.

“It’s gonna be alright, bud.”

Damian didn’t reply.

And Duke didn’t talk again.

OFFICE OF THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER

CASE NUMBER: 26-11472

AUTOPSY REPORT

NAME: Initially identified as John Doe. Positive identification subsequently established through personal electronic device and familial confirmation.

AGE: 16 years

SEX: Undetermined.

DATE OF AUTOPSY: May One

PATHOLOGIST: [Insert Name]

CIRCUMSTANCES OF DEATH

According to investigative reports, the decedent was present during a mass homicide event involving multiple victims. Witness evidence, scene findings, and electronic recordings indicate the decedent survived the initial shooting incident and remained alive for a prolonged period while sustaining repeated blunt force injuries. A voicemail recording recovered from the decedent’s cellular phone documented vocalizations and environmental sounds over several hours prior to cessation.

EXTERNAL EXAMINATION

The body is that of a well-developed adolescent measuring 159 cm in length and weighing 53 kg.

The decedent is received in a sealed body bag. Clothing is heavily bloodstained and damaged.

The face demonstrates extensive traumatic injury with severe distortion of normal anatomical landmarks. Significant swelling, bruising, and multiple lacerations are present. Initial visual identification is not possible.

Numerous fractured and avulsed teeth are noted. Blood is present within the oral cavity and upper airway.

Multiple patterned blunt force injuries are identified involving the head, face, upper torso, and extremities.

Defensive-type injuries are present on both upper extremities, including fractures of the hands and forearms consistent with attempts to shield the body from repeated impacts.

Extensive contusions of varying size and severity are distributed across the body surface.

No evidence of decomposition is identified.

INTERNAL EXAMINATION

HEAD

Reflection of the scalp reveals extensive hemorrhage throughout the scalp tissues.

Multiple fractures involve the facial skeleton, including fractures of the maxilla, nasal bones, zygomatic arches, and mandible.

The skull demonstrates numerous complex fractures involving frontal, parietal, temporal, and occipital bones.

The brain weighs 1,340 grams.

Extensive subdural hemorrhage, subarachnoid hemorrhage, cerebral edema, and multifocal cerebral contusions are present.

The injuries are consistent with repeated blunt force trauma occurring over an extended period.

NECK

Extensive soft tissue hemorrhage is present.

No evidence of manual strangulation is identified.

CHEST

Multiple bilateral rib fractures are present.

Associated hemorrhage surrounds several fracture sites.

Both lungs demonstrate aspiration of blood.

ABDOMEN

The stomach contains approximately 250 mL of partially digested food material, blood, and numerous tooth fragments.

A total of seven partial or complete teeth are recovered from stomach contents.

No significant penetrating injuries are identified.

EXTREMITIES

Multiple fractures involve both hands, including metacarpal fractures commonly associated with defensive actions.

Fractures of the ulna are present bilaterally.

Extensive soft tissue hemorrhage accompanies all major fracture sites.

TOXICOLOGY

Comprehensive toxicological analysis is negative for alcohol, controlled substances, and common intoxicating agents.

EVIDENCE OF SURVIVAL INTERVAL

Several injuries demonstrate substantial associated hemorrhage and inflammatory response, indicating continued circulation and survival following initial trauma.

Aspiration of blood into the respiratory tract and swallowing of fractured teeth indicate the decedent remained alive and capable of respiratory effort after sustaining severe facial injuries.

Findings support survival for a significant period following the onset of the assault.

CAUSE OF DEATH

Complications of multiple blunt force injuries, including severe craniocerebral trauma.

MANNER OF DEATH

Homicide.

OPINION

You

You don’t know why you’re so hurt.

it’s not like this is not a familiar sight.

Yet the row of 8 empty seats and staring right at you made your chest ache.

it’s not like they were mean. Hell, they cared so much about you.

Bruce always made sure you always had whatever you wished for. You even had to ask him to stop buying you so much stuff because nothing fit in your room or closet anymore.

Dick always made sure to text you and check up on you. Before and after each competition and recital. Always chiming in. Everyone talked about how he’d been an angry kid but you really aren’t able to imagine it.

Jason force feeds you burgers whenever he passes by.

Tim memorized your likes and dislikes like it was a competitive sport. Helped you out when you couldn’t win on those shooter games you liked so much. He had surgical accuracy.

Damian cared… in his own way.

Whenever they could, Steph and Cass made sure to take you out on shopping sprees.

You always talked about Tarantino movies with Duke.

And Alfred was the one who always made sure to attend your events. Well, except this one. Big mission or something.

They did so much for you and yet you felt like they were part of a club you didn’t belong to every night they went out at night.

And you couldn’t even complain because you had refused the invitation to said club.

You were never meant to be a vigilante. You always almost throw up on PE whenever you try to run. You can’t dodge shit. You can’t throw a punch. You know it. Bruce knows it. You’re sure everyone in the family knows by now.

So why?

Why does this hurt so much?

Your teacher gives you a sweet smile as she tells you something you don’t really hear. You’re sure she says something about how far you’ve come and to try your best. That maybe they’re running late.

Yeah.

Your hands shake as you make your way up to the stage where the huge piano awaits.

You sit in front of the piano and start playing with ferocity. Smashing the keys with anger as you always do when you get a song wrong too many times. You know it shouldn’t hurt. You know they love you. You know you’re used to it. You have no right to be angry. They do. They go out every night and see stuff no kid, teenager or adult should ever see. Should ever tell. They go out every night and risk their lives and yet you feel like you’re the angriest out of the bunch. You feel ridiculous. You feel abandoned. Which is bullshit because they do so much. But they have no time to care about your life when they’re saving hundreds or thousands out there.

You’re a selfish person, aren’t you?

You stand up and gently take your hands off the keys, and you get ready to bow.

Until a piercing sound echoes outside the doors of the auditorium.

Then another.

Gunshots.

People rush for the doors. You can only stare in shock from the stage as you watch your friends crumple to the ground, wounded.

You want to help.

You really do.

But you’re no hero.

You’re not brave or bold.

So you spin and rush to backstage, breathing hard and ragged as you hear footsteps behind you. You almost reach the exit until you feel a hand fist the back of your hair.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks with a sick, yellowed smile. His breath is hot and disgusting, reeking of alcohol and… was that fish?

Shit. Shit. Shit. You try to think of any way to escape, and, as if sent by the heavens, you see a hammer just lying on some table.

Maybe the odds were really on your favor this time? Maybe this time, you’ll win? (no lol)

You blindly swing the hammer behind you and— bingo. You hear bone crack and the man letting go of your hair. You wish to turn around and see how much damage you did but you have to run. The footsteps behind you are picking up pace again.

You hide behind some closet and cover your mouth with your hand.

You hesitate on who to call.

The cops? Would they even do shit? Or your father. Would he pick up? Would he think you’re just insisting he comes? Would he think you’re mad at him and throwing a tantrum? Is he busy? Is he alive? Is he dead?

You decide to press on your dad’s number.

Bruce

The emotion Bruce Wayne feels the most is guilt.

Most people think it’s sadness or anger, but it’s definitely guilt.

He feels guilty about his parents’ death. He feels guilty about Dick’s parent's death. Tim’s He feels guilty about Jason’s mom dying, about Jason dying, about not meeting Damian or Cass sooner, about Duke’s family. About your parents dying.

How many children had been orphaned or tortured or dead because of him?

But right now he felt guilty about not attending your piano recital.

He always tells himself there’ll be others but he never goes to those others.

You had broken down last time he didn’t come because he had promised. You threw stuff and kicked and screamed.

You felt guilty afterwards, labeled it as a tantrum which he knows it’s not how you really feel about that situation. But he had no time to talk about that with you.

He really shouldn’t think about this during a hostage situation.

Barbara was saying something about the amount of armed men inside the building, but he wasn’t really paying attention.

His phone rings.

He couldn’t pick up. He wanted to with all his might but if he did, it would blow up his cover.

But… would you call again?

On that moment, he made a promise.

After this, he’ll apologize. After this, he’ll attend to every event. Every recital. He’ll take you out for dinner every night and you’ll tell him about your piano friends, about your next chess competition, about your next musical and how you shouldn’t have gotten ensemble.

After this, he’ll be a real dad to you.

you

He, in fact, doesn’t pick up.

You can’t help but let out a curse. And you immediately cover your mouth. You’re so fucking stupid, there is an armed man looking for a witness and you just gave up your whereabouts.

The closet bursts open and the man you had hit with a hammer is now staring down at you, breathing ragged. His face is unrecognizable. Cheekbone swollen, eye completely red. The same hammer you hit him with is now on his hand, and you realize, letting out a cry, that he’s not going to have the same mercy with you as he had with the others. He’s not going to shoot you. The man grabs your face.

And raises his hand.

Bruce

You, in fact, don’t call again.

That should worry him, but he’s currently chasing down the criminals as Dick and Damian take care of the hostages.

The door bursts open and the men who had taken those kids are pathetically trying to hide. Begging for mercy. Bruce knows Batman’s face is now unrecognizable. Not cold. Not serious. Angry. The men realize, letting out curses, that Batman will not have mercy on them. Batman grabs one of the men’s face.

And raises his hand.

you

You have always enjoyed violence. In theory, at least.

You play horror games, shooters, your favorite series is Invincible and The Boys, you watch slashers every time October comes and your favorite movie is Kill Bill,

And yet you can’t handle it.

You can’t handle the pain. Which is unbearable, you feel your bones crack under the hammer.

You are not brave. You beg for him to stop but that just seems to make him more agressive. You cry. You sob. But, on beat, almost every two seconds the hammer hits your face, your legs, your arms, your ribs.

You wish he would hit you in the head and get this over with, but he seems to want you to die slowly and painfully.

You feel your teeth detaching and you’re sure you swallowed one.

You realize that your wishes now will be your final ones. At sixteen. And no one will be there to hear them or make them come true.

You make them anyways.

You wish you hadn’t called Bruce. You know for a fact he will blame himself and the phone call will make it worse.

You wish you had laughed at Duke’s jokes during movies, not told him to shut up.

You wish you had ordered what Jason told you to instead of that one burger you don’t even like that much.

You wish you had bought Steph that shirt she liked. And Cass that one book she wanted.

You wish you had hung out with Damian more, instead of thinking he’s lame cause he’s younger.

You wish you hadn’t called Dick cringey.

You wish you had eaten Alfred’s cucumber sandwich.

You wish they could go back and treat you better.

You wish—

The hammer hits you once again.

And you cannot wish anymore