(Trust me and read a little further)
āHAPPY FATHERS DAY!ā Damian cheered, his siblings chanting it as well, voices sing-song. Dick was smiling ear to ear, hugging everyone, as thanks for the surprise, he was showered with gifts.
Taking a sip of his coffee, drinking in the sight one last time before dipping into the shadows, leaving once more. After all, why would he ruin their moment? He was never a dad, he was more of a- therapistā¦ Yeahā¦ No reason for him to be sadā¦
Besides he had other things to tend to.
Bruce felt his throat dry as time went on. Tears spilling from his eyes like they were only meant for that purpose. Bruce was crying his heart out for his dad, wishing that he was here, wishing he knew how to be a good dad, just like him. He begged to know how he could've been a good dad, a better one. One who knew what to do, when to do it, what to say, one who never made mistakes. All he wanted was to be with his dad, to have his dad, to be a better dad too.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
He cried out to the world. Why, he still questioned, had they taken a good man? Why not someone who was flawed in every way, flawed as a human, a son, a father, he was no dad. All he was and is, is a failure, a stain on this earth.
Blood fell from his face like tears, he wasn't sure where it was coming from, all he knew was that he was deserving of it, all he knew was that this was a proper punishment for a man like him. The facts lined up in front of him like a line in his hazy mind.
Bruce derived the suffering of his kids, the suffering of his parents, the suffering of everyone who had the dishonor to be around him, he deserved that and so much worse.
He deserved a painful, slow death. His thoughts and eyes alike were clouded as the blood continued to drip. How long had he been here? His muscles felt weak, blood and dirt coated his hands like a second skin, a shallow hole dug where his hands were, nails digging into the dirt even as his muscles shook from exertion, he whimpered as the tears flowed in a quiet stream. He couldn't help but feel repulsed with his own humanity. The way he bled, cried, and trembled. He screamed for the world to hear, swaying on his knees. He fell forward, strength, no matter how plentiful or how many times it had been tested- had finally given out on him, sending him face first into the stone of his parents grave. Blood leaked from a small wound on his forehead and some other place, maybe his nose? Or perhaps his mouth? His throat did feel raw- maybe it was both? The thought swirled even as consciousness seemed to try to evade him.
Bruce held on, if only to not be found here, pathetic and weak. He curled in on himself, whimpering and crying silently.
Why am I so horrible? A tiny voice asked him, small, feeble and on the verge of tears, throat seemingly clogged. He listed every reason.
Emotionally inept, not prepared, not enough, not a good dad, not a good teammate, not a good coworker, not smart enough, not strong enough, not charitable enough, simply just not perfect.
Distantly, Bruce heard the sounds of voices, quickly approaching in a rain that he hadn't known had started. The voices sounded familiar, the voices sounded teary, what had he done wrong now? Were they about to comment on their lack of satisfaction with his pain? He had some comments too if that was it.
Oddly enough, that wasn't it. They were hoisting him up to sit, it hurt, but that was okay, it was good even. His head hurt as they all spoke, something about āsorry-ā and āprank-ā he couldn't understand. Why would they ever need to apologize to him of all people? This must be a mistake or maybe a dream? What a selfish dream it was, the faces came in and out of focus, allowing him the realization that these were āhisā kids. Oh, could he get any more selfish!? Thinking of his kids apologizing to him, especially when there was no reason to, how self-absorbed could he be!
This wasn't right. This would never happen.
