Synopsis: You're tired of attempting to meet unreachable standards, of failing in vain, and of living this bleak existence. You've had enough.What's the point if you're not living your life to the fullest? It can't get worse, right?
Warnings: Neglected, bullying,self destructive behaviour,vaping,smoking,low self esteem,self harm, alcohol, manipulation,catcalling,minor characters death,break down,panic attack, depressing thought,addiction.
A/N: This chapter has been long to write so I hope you will like it! I'm quite new to writing so forgive me if my writing is not the best ! Critique are appreciated if they come from good intentions and are kind. Any mean or hateful critique will be deleted and perhaps blocked.
You had one wish—to be seen. To have your family notice you, acknowledge you, and maybe, just once, say something kind. A compliment or even a nod of approval,all you wanted was that validation.
But right now, it felt impossible.
No matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, nothing seemed to be enough.
Your gaze drifted down to the tray of food resting on your lap, your fingers lightly brushing its edges as if debating whether to touch it at all. You shifted uneasily on the toilet seat, tugging your skirt to escape the clammy chill of the porcelain pressing against your legs.
You always did your best,you tried to be serviceable,you tried to be polite—funny.
But in the end it only pushed you further into the fringes. And so, here you were: eating your lunch in a bathroom stall like some invisible outcast.
Was is it really worth it ?
At least Gotham Prep kept its bathrooms clean. You took a hesitant bite of your sandwich, trying hard to block out the context of where you sat. It didn’t help much. The bread was soggy and spongy in your mouth. You could swear the lunch lady gave you the worst meals ever since that incident…
Your jaw tightened at the memory. She had hated you ever since that day. All it took was one little accident,okay, maybe a not-so-little accident involving her uniform and an entire carton of orange juice spilled straight down her chest. After she decided she’d loathe you forever. It hadn’t even been your fault! Some girl tripped you in front of everyone in the cafeteria on your first week, sending your tray flying. The entire student body had witnessed it: her shrieking fury, your panicked stammering as you apologized six different ways, and ended up bursting into tears.
The mocking laughter of the freshmen, the venomous digs from sophomores trying to be funny for their friends, and worse, the seniors with their condescending stares.
"How can she be related to Mr. Wayne?"
"No wonder the press doesn’t care about her."
"Such a disgrace... all his other kids are so accomplished. And they’re not even his by blood!"
"But the real one? What a joke."
You clenched your jaw tightly as that last comment replayed in your head, over and over like a song stuck on repeat. At the end you bolted out of the cafeteria , ending up in the bathroom stall as you had decided to stay hidden. It was like this stall had become your personal little void.
That familiar knot twisted in your gut again as the memories dragged you under. With a heavy sigh, you placed the tray on the cold floor, abandoning any hope of finishing lunch.
That same word kept running through your mind like its own taunt.
Embarrassing your family name like that,what a disgrace .The Wayne family were supposed to be prodigies, geniuses—perfect even. But you fucked up all that on the first week of school by tripping.
While you wallowed in self-pity, the sound of multiple footsteps and muffled giggles caught your attention. A group of girls had entered the restroom.
"Oh my god—shh! She's gonna hear us!" one voice whispered sharply, barely masking her amusement. Laughter followed, stifled but unmistakable.
You straightened from your slouched position, the rumble of thoughts grinding to a halt as unease crept in.
The footsteps grew louder. Worse, they were making their way toward your stall.
A sinking feeling settled in your gut. "Her" was almost certainly you, and that voice—that particular tone—it had to be Alaira.
Your nerves spiked. You bit your nails anxiously, taking it too far as the pressure of your teeth broke the skin. The metallic taste of your own blood registered faintly as your mind spiraled into a string of frantic thoughts.
Shit. Shit. What could they possibly want now? Maybe... maybe they weren’t talking about you after all? It had to be someone else. Right? Right—?
Your mental scrambling was abruptly cut short. A sudden, stinging chill jolted you as cold, soapy water cascaded over your head and shoulders, an empty bucket landing with a thud on your skull. The shock forced a sharp cry out of you as shrill laughter erupted from the group just outside the stall.
"The whole school knows you're hiding here, you slut!" came a sneering voice before the sound of them fleeing shattered the stunned silence left in their wake.
Numb with disbelief, you stood frozen for moments that felt interminable. Then it hit you—what the actual hell?
Detergent stung your eyes as you struggled to wipe your face clean with soaked sleeves that only spread the mess further. You stumbled forward shakily, hands flailing to find the sink through blurry vision until—finally—you felt cool porcelain under your fingers.
Washing your face quickly, you winced as water rolled over the tender spot on the back of your head, where you'd taken the brunt of the bucket’s impact. You jerked your eyes up to the mirror and froze at your reflection.
Your white shirt clung awkwardly to your torso, its wet fabric rendering it translucent to reveal your bra underneath. Your tie had been reduced to a sad, sodden ribbon, and your blazer hung around you, dripping with detergent and reeking of chemicals. Worst of all, your skirt was plastered tightly to your thighs in an undignified display that pushed your embarrassment into fury.
What is wrong with them? What did the hell did you this time?!
Your frustration boiled over, and you slammed a fist into the edge of the sink with a hollow clang that echoed through the restroom. Tears—hot and unrelenting—spilled over your cheeks as you tried to pull yourself together, fumbling with the buttons of your blazer before giving up entirely, wiping your tears away .
How are you supposed to show up to class looking like this? Even worse—how could you possibly face the gauntlet of judging stares outside? Your lips trembled as you bit down on them nervously, only realizing much later that you'd drawn fresh blood. This wasn’t even the first time such a thing had happened, but this time... this time they’d gone too far.
How on Earth were you supposed to walk out there? Drying off in this hellhole of a bathroom wasn’t even an option,it wasn’t equipped for that, and frankly, the idea of spending another minute in here made your skin crawl worse than the damp fabric clinging to it already did.
Your emotions surged all at once—shame, fury, defiance—and before you knew it, you’d stormed out of the stall. Blood rushing in your ears drowned out even the jeering words still echoing in your mind. Adrenalin ignited your determination to confront those girls right here and now—except...
All motion suddenly slowed as you became painfully aware of eyes snapping toward you one by one. Oh no...
Had class started?? You hadn’t heard a bell—what on earth were they all doing here? Weren't they supposed to be at the cafeteria?
The world seemed to tilt when a loud whistle cut through the gathering murmurs of the hallway crowd. A senior leaned against his locker with an infuriating smirk plastered across his face. "Looking good there, Wayne!" he hollered over everyone else, his gaze dripping with mockery.
You instinctively looked down and fiddled with your hair, realizing too late that your blazer was unbuttoned. Your hands moved to fix it, but they refused to cooperate. Humiliation burned through you, and as you struggled to fasten the buttons, the laughter around you swelled. You could feel their stares—some gleeful, some disgusted—eating away at what little composure you had left.
And in that second, mortification swallowed every scrap of remaining courage you had.
You should have stayed in the bathroom. You should go back now and wait for this nightmare to end. But skipping class wasn’t an option,you were barely keeping up as it was. No way you could make things worse by missing today.
Forgetting about the group of girls, you sped toward your classroom, clutching your soaked backpack like it was a lifeline. Your blazer was finally buttoned up, but the dampness of your clothes and the chemical smell of detergent clung to you relentlessly. Your flushed skin stung with shame as you hurried down the hall, fighting back tears.
When you burst into the classroom, all you wanted was to fade into the shadows or disappear into a hole in the ground. You slid into your chair hastily, drenched clothes leaving damp stains on the seat as classmates continued to file in.
You opened your backpack, hoping beyond hope that your books were unharmed. But as the sodden covers greeted you, hope turned to despair. Pages stuck together, ink blurred and smeared beyond recognition. Everything was ruined.
"This is officially the worst day of my life." you muttered under your breath.
A sharp voice cut through.
"Miss Wayne, go change immediately. This attire is inappropriate," snapped Mrs. Gerina, her no-nonsense tone leaving no room for argument.
Your head shot up as if electrocuted. Standing at the front of the room, Mrs. Gerina surveyed you with raised eyebrows, her high ponytail and polished outfit somehow amplifying her disapproval. Her stiletto heels stabbed the floor as she strode closer.
"Stand up," she instructed briskly, crossing her arms. More students trickled in behind her, their curiosity adding to your growing panic.
You rose from your seat slowly, mouth dry and mind racing for an excuse.
"I… I don’t have any extra clothes," you barely managed to choke out.
"Speak louder, Miss Wayne," she demanded, her icy tone cutting like a blade.
Swallowing hard and avoiding her gaze, you repeated it—louder this time. "I don’t have any extra clothes… ma’am."
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned you from head to toe with visible distaste. The whispers around the room grew louder. Every hushed word stung like a slap to the face.
"That’s not an excuse," she bit out finally, her tone sharp and impenetrable. "I can’t have you sitting here like this—the smell is overpowering, your clothes are inappropriate for class, and you’re soaking the furniture."
The words left no room for debate; they landed like weights on your chest. All you could do was glance around the room in desperation—surely someone would show an ounce of support ? But all you met were smirks and wide-eyed stares as though this were free entertainment provided just for them.
Your breath hitched violently. This couldn’t be happening right now. Blood pounded in your ears as Mrs. Gerina stood there expectantly, tapping her sharp heel against the tile while she waited for you to move.
Suddenly, a sneer from the back row broke through your haze. "Drama queen much? Just leave already," some guy jeered.
The sting of his words cut through whatever resolve you had left. Without waiting for another insult or glancing back at Mrs. Gerina’s disapproving glare—you grabbed your dripping bag and bolted from the classroom.
Your soaked shoes squeaked loudly on the polished floor as hot tears finally spilled over onto your cheeks. You rushed down the hall once more, barely able to see through your tear-blurred vision. In frustration, you wiped at your face while struggling to keep a steady breath.
What was wrong with you? Why did everything have to turn into such a mess?
The boy's mocking voice rang in your head again. Maybe he was right. Maybe you were overreacting. You could’ve just slipped out quietly instead of making a scene and drawing all this unwanted attention. Why did you always overcomplicate things?
Mrs. Gerina’s stern look flashed in your memory, and a fresh wave of regret washed over you. What if this ends up in her teacher's notes—or worse, the report card? She couldn’t possibly have a reason to do that… could she? No, no... but then again—!
Your train of thought screeched to a halt, and a surge of anger churned in your chest as the real culprit came to mind. This was all because of Ailera and her stupid little posse. If she hadn’t thought it would be hilarious to dump detergent-filled water on you, none of this would’ve happened. That girl, with her perfect friends and her fake smile, loved playing queen bee—pretending the world revolved around her.
Your nails dug into your forearm as frustration boiled over. Who did Ailera think she was? Superior? Better than you? What a joke. The only reason people adored her so much was because she’d been around longer, like some kind of fixture in their lives. If only you’d never spoken to her in the first place, none of this would’ve spiraled into the mess it had become.
Rounding the corner with a fury-fueled stride, you collided into something or rather someone. The impact made you stagger backward, almost sending you sprawling onto the floor, but whoever it was grabbed your wrist just in time.
The first thing you noticed was her height—she had to be at least 5.7 feet tall, made taller by the pointed heels she wore with ease. Her long black hair flowed smooth and sleek, offsetting her pale complexion and deep brown eyes framed by heavy eyelids that gave her an air of effortless indifference. Silver gleamed on her left ear where multiple piercings adorned it. She didn’t say anything at first, merely looking down at you like she was deciding something.
Her appearance took you aback—a sharp contrast to your own messy state but you quickly decided against holding her gaze for too long. Feeling self-conscious under her scrutiny.
" S-sorry." You stumbled over your words, mentally cursing yourself
She didn’t reply immediately, her eyes instead lingering on something—your arm? You blinked in confusion before realizing what she saw: angry red marks from where you'd scratched yourself raw just moments ago.
Horrified, you instinctively yanked your arm behind you, hiding it from view. But the damage had been done; there was no taking it back now.
Without a word, she maneuvered around you and dropped her bag to the floor. Your body tensed as paranoia bubbled up,was this some kind of twisted setup? Was she going to snap a picture or record you looking even more pathetic? You shuffled backward uncertainly.
"Wait," she said suddenly, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. The unexpected touch sent a jolt through you.
Unsure of what to do or say, you froze on the spot as she rummaged through her bag with deliberate slowness before finally pulling out… a Band-aid ?
She held it out towards you without a word, her expression unreadable.
"Oh." You hesitated before reaching for it tentatively. "... Thanks," you murmured with a small bow of gratitude, unsure of how else to react.
The girl stood there for only a moment, her gaze meeting yours, unreadable and detached. Then, without a word or even the faintest flicker of emotions, she turned on her heel and walked away as though nothing had happened.
You stayed rooted in place, water and suds trailing down your form, pooling around your feet. The shock of it left you frozen; the absurdity of the situation felt heavy, almost suffocating.
Who was she? Did you even know her? Not that it mattered,most people in your grade didn’t bother acknowledging you anyway. They had briefly at first. Back when the news first broke that Bruce Wayne had a daughter no one knew about. For a short while, you were the talk of the school, the shiny new spectacle everyone wanted to examine.
But the fascination was fleeting. Once they got close enough, the charm seemed to wear off. They saw someone quiet, someone serious, and dismissed you. Some thought you were arrogant, strutting through the halls with your last name whispered behind closed hands. A goody-goody nerd who thought herself too good for them,or so they decided.
And how could you compete with them—your so-called "siblings"? Each one seemed to fit into a space in Bruce’s orbit perfectly. Each one outshone you in every possible way.
Dick Grayson? He was everything you couldn’t be: charismatic, adaptable, smart but also effortlessly charming. He had that balance down to an art. People loved him because he could solve a problem and still make them laugh at the same time. You, meanwhile, struggled to exchange more than two sentences with whoever sat next to you in class.
Then there was Jason Todd. He’d been brilliant, even before everything that happened to him… and after he came back? Oh, after that—he owned every room he stepped into, commanding attention with an easy confidence you couldn’t muster in your wildest daydreams. If you'd endured what he had, there was no way you could stand tall like he did.
Tim Drake? Don’t even get started. He was basically a machine,a genius who could ace every test without breaking a sweat. But unlike you, Tim somehow made his intelligence something people admired rather than resented. He wasn’t some boring try-hard to them; he was Timothy Drake, and everyone wanted to be Timothy Drake.
Cassandra Cain; talented beyond any measure you could ever hope to achieve. They’d often whisper at galas that she felt like Bruce's real daughter. Seeing them together reinforced the idea,it was effortless between them in a way that left you feeling like an outsider looking in. Elegant, graceful, perfect—that was Cassandra. And standing next to her made it clear you were anything but.
Duke Thomas,another addition to Bruce’s growing list of protégés who eclipsed your existence without even trying. Public appearances with him drew praise and smiles from the press. Bruce seemed so proud of him, willing to show him off to the world. But you? When had he brought you along to anything?
And then... Damian Wayne.
The whole world watched him from the moment his existence came to light, dissecting every detail of his life like scavengers eager for scraps of gossip. And Damian gave them nothing but perfection. Every move and every word was calculated yet genuine enough to make people fawn over him. It was as if he couldn’t fail even when he didn’t try. The bond he shared with Bruce was unmistakable: unspoken glances brimming with understanding, moments that needed no words to be profound.
You? You could barely get Bruce to look at you like anything other than a duty he’d taken on, and maybe an inconvenience.
So why were you bothering? Why were you still trying? They were all better than you; they always would be.
The girl’s laugh echoed in your mind again as fresh riverlets of soapy water dripped from your soaked hair —down to your neck and onto your uniform, each tiny splatter ringing out in the silence surrounding you.
You clutched at the bandage on your wrist beneath your sleeve, fingers winding around it tight enough for your knuckles to sting.
Why don’t you just give up already?
You collapsed onto your bed, a frustrated groan slipping past your lips.
The day had been a disaster.
You hadn’t had much of a choice but to skip the rest of your classes after the ordeal. No teacher wanted to deal with a student who looked—well, like you did. Wrapped in wet misery and soap-slick fabric, you just weren’t worth the trouble. That was the unspoken message anyway, loud and clear in every weary shake of a head or dismissive glance thrown your way
The walk back to the manor had been a nightmare. Gotham streets weren’t exactly known for their hospitality and being forced to trudge through the city drenched didn’t help. Your ruined clothes clung to you uncomfortably, and along the way, you endured every kind of stare imaginable—pity, judgment, revulsion, and worst of all the leering, predatory gazes you couldn't seem to avoid.
By the time you arrived back at the manor, drenched to the bone and shivering, the eerie silence hit you like a cold slap. No one was there. Not even Alfred.
It didn’t happen all the time, but when it did, it left you feeling hollow. Whenever you asked Alfred, or anyone else where they’d all gone without you, you'd get vague answers—dismissive mutterings about errands or impromptu trips that never included you. They’d promise to make it up to you, but somehow, days turned into weeks, and still no one came.
With a deep sigh, you lazily raised your hand to inspect the bandage wrapped snugly around your arm.Even though your day was shitty, this little interaction brought warmth to you. How long has it been since someone acknowledged you?
Your thoughts wandered back to 6th grade,you’d won an academic contest, beaming with excitement as you ran through the manor, diploma in hand.
You couldn’t wait to show your father—to bask in his approval. But when you did, he barely looked at it. “That’s great,” he muttered absentmindedly before giving you a brief pat on the head and disappearing into his office, drowning in whatever was supposedly more important.
You know it's silly; he's a busy man after all, but you really wished that he would have shared your enthusiasm—that he would have hugged you, been interested,that he would have looked at you for more than 2 seconds.
Back then, embarrassment burned hot in your chest, mortified by how foolishly excited you'd been. You clenched that little diploma in frustration before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it away. If you wanted his approval, you’d have to do something bigger, something that actually mattered.
But no matter what you tried, nothing ever seemed to change. You just became…a nuisance. With each attempt to reach out, you'd hit a wall. Dick might spare you one of his signature radiant smiles, effortlessly charming as always, but his attention soon drifted elsewhere. Tim would offer a polite nod,a well-rehearsed one—before excusing himself with some flimsy reason. Cassandra’s response was equally fleeting: a quick, courteous chat before she'd disappear back into her own world.
Eventually, you stopped trying with them altogether. You didn’t dare approach Jason, Duke or Damian; the thought alone filled you with dread.If you have to bother them then it has to be with something special! Even Alfred started feeling out of reach, half the time too wrapped up managing everyone else’s endless schedules, or maybe he just assumed you'd... manage on your own.
But maybe if your family is so busy, you could tried with Barbara or Stephanie? They're always around!
But they also seemed to avoid you like the plague.
It wasn't long before you gave up completely on seeking anyone’s attention and threw yourself into your studies instead. If you couldn’t matter to them by sheer force of will, maybe your perfect grades and tireless efforts would finally make them notice you !
You raised a trembling hand to your face and gave yourself a slap on the cheek,a futile attempt to snap out of it. Why now? Why let these thoughts rise to the surface tonight? You always tried to shove them down where they belonged, boxed away and conveniently forgotten.
But after all, you're tired. Tired of trying to be perfect for people who don't notice you.
'They didn't even notice when I came home with bruises..."
Instead of shutting your thoughts down like always, you actually decided to think about it longer. Why were you trying? Why do you keep yourself in denial?
But denial had lost its comforting allure. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.
They don't care about you.
They don't care about you.
They don't care about you.
A jagged breath tore through your chest as the weight of that realization settled in. Slowly, shakily, you swung your legs off the bed and stood on unsteady feet as if just beginning to grasp how heavy everything had become.
What had any of them actually done for you? What had he done for you? Why bother taking you in if this is what it meant—this suffocating void of indifference? These were questions that suddenly screamed for answers.
You marched toward the bathroom, breath uneven, shaken by a realization that struck deep. Why now? Why today? You hadn't even spoken to them,or was that the reason? Maybe it was the absence, the silence lingering too long. Maybe this was just one day too many.
Your breaths became ragged as they caught in your tightening throat. You made your way to the bathroom in a daze, gripping the cold sink for balance while fumbling with the tap. Water burst from the faucet as you plunged your face under its icy flow, hoping it makes you snap out of it.
The cold hit your skin like a jolt, but your heart continued to race, wild and bewildering. You couldn't grasp why.
You slammed the sink shut. You slowly looked up at your wet face in the mirror. Had you always been this stressed? Damn, you had huge dark circles under your eyes—it looked like you hadn't slept in days. You'd stopped caring about your appearance a long time ago, wanting to focus on your studies, but now all anyone could see was that you were a zombie—as if life had drained from your body.
Maybe that's the reason you were bullied ? You were to ugly they couldn't bare too look at your face.
Your days were empty from skipping meals; sometimes Alfred forgot to bring you food in the evenings since you didn't eat with the rest of your family. Your eyes were hollow, the result of sleepless nights.
Suddenly, everything seemed clear. Had you really spent those past few years neglecting yourself like this? Trying to become something you could never be?
You looked at your face, your hands—everything suddenly felt so wrong.
@lilyalone @milesmilesmiles825825 @rowrowlovestimdrake @moonandstarlover06 @princesscosmo
