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Sometimes he missed the darkness.
He was getting better, should be getting better. He was becoming okay again, whole again, okay, okay, okay. He should be okay. Why was this clarity of mind worse than the void?
At least the pits of his mind were familiar. He knew how they worked, had learned to navigate them ever since at age eight he’d told the photograph of his parents on the mantel he wished he’d never been born. They hadn’t responded, of course. Darkness became a constant, swirling in the back of his mind, receding and increasing as frequently as the tides, but never completely gone. Sometimes the writhing mass of dark became near tangible as it grew so large it weighed him down until he could barely move. Tendrils of ink reached for him, slow, crawling, vicious, with a certain goal of consuming him in their cold heat.
He knew how the darkness worked, the despair was a comfort, almost. He knew how to handle it. He didn’t know what to do with this current state of in between. A fragile rope above a pit of despair, balancing precariously, knowing the slightest breeze would knock him down, into that familiar, beautiful, comforting, safe darkness.
Colour had seemed to fade, everything was grey. Grey, grey, grey, and red. Red on white on black. It wasn’t because he wanted to feel something, no. He had to do it, he had to. It wasn’t a want, it was an urge, a need. Red, red, red, red, black nails raking over white skin. Never breaking the surface of his skin, only his mind. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine. There was no blood, no scars, just red scratched skin. He was okay, it was fine, everything was fine, he wasn’t hiding anything, because there was nothing to hide, to see, to notice, and his mouth was sealed shut.
He wanted to sink in the comforting embrace of the darkness. He thought he preferred the ignorant slumber he was in before he’d realised how bad things were, that this was not normal.
Sometimes he crossed the street without looking, secretly hoping he’d get hit. When he’d realise what he was thinking, he internally recoiled in disgust, yet tempted all the same.
Sometimes a shiver tore through his body and he tightened all his muscles, pulling up his shoulders until they touched his ears, and he could feel the looming presence of Death taking hold of his skeleton. It was like the world around him faded away, just a void of eternal darkness, his flesh melted away, and he was just white, white, white bones in a black, black, black void.
He blinked hard and tugged his red, red, red hoodie sleeves over his arms so he wouldn’t have to look at the pale expanse of skin anymore.
He knew what people said.
“You have to want to get better.”
“You need to do this yourself.”
“You have to choose to go on.”
And he knew, of course he knew, he knew rationally, logically, but he hadn’t been able to trust his brain ever since he was a kid, so he also knew he didn’t know it emotionally. It was irrational. He knew that. They didn’t have to tell him that. He knew.
He did want to keep going, had so many people to live for. Bruce, Alfred, Dick, Kon, Cassie, Bart, Cass, Steph, everyone. He had to go on. He knew that. He knew personally how the cold hand of Death could sweep through a family and leave them bruised and broken, had seen it, had been it. But sometimes it was so tempting to walk back into the familiar arms of the dark and be swallowed whole. Sometimes it was so hard to want to keep going and there was only everlasting pain. Eternal pain, until it numbed down and he was a blank slate again.
People called it resting bitch face. Tim called it “I don’t know how to smile anymore and faking it is never convincing and it hurts so I just keep my face in its natural, neutral state, meaning people see anger where there’s no emotion at all”.
He didn’t know if he preferred the clinging, heavy despair or the nothing of the numbness. He truly didn’t know.
The despair was good, familiar. Tim had learned how to hurt at a young age. He knew how to carry it, carried it so well his back barely bent anymore. It wrapped around him like an embrace, dark and soothing and familiar, like thorned vines forcing their sharp viciousness into him until the sedative began to work and he was lulled to red-rimmed sleep.
Being numb was both a relief and a prison. It had been nice at first to get away from the pain, but now he just felt nothing at all. His emotions were far away. So, so far away. He wished he could reach them. He could feel them, heavy in the back of his mind. They were right there, so close yet so far, always out of reach. He was trapped in a room made of heavy tar, his emotions inaccessible but for the occasional burst of white-hot anger and unshed red tears.
He’d lost the ability to cry a long time ago. His tear ducts had simply dried up one day. He couldn’t remember when the last time was that he’d tasted the sharp soothing of salt on his lips.
He missed it.
Crying was good, it was a way to let out bottled up emotions. He had plenty of those, locked away in the prison of his mind. Sometimes, his eyes burned, and he hoped. It was always in vain, and no tears were spilled. He wished he could. It had happened one time. He couldn’t even recall what had been the cause, but it had felt so good. His head had been screaming at him and he didn’t know why, he hadn’t been overwhelmed that day, had just been at home editing his recent pictures, but still there was that dull throbbing pain at 6 o’clock precisely.
He knew what to do when he was overwhelmed and overstimulated. Get out of the situation, put on your music if you can handle it, stay grounded in your environment. But he was already safe, it had been quiet and calm, and still his brain had short-circuited. He hadn’t known what to do. He was at the point in his life that he was so used to this shit he was merely mildly annoyed at the time he would lose with this. Shutdowns could take anywhere from one hour to the entire day to recover from, so he knew his evening plans of getting these photos done and finishing up his current case were moot. He didn’t want to lay in bed, it was barely evening, he wouldn’t be able to sleep and he’d feel even more useless if he just lay there under the covers doing nothing. He dragged his weighted blanket to his desk chair, wrapped himself in it and held his stuffed bunny tight to his chest, Zelda’s stuffing nearly gone after all these years, hood drawn up. The weight was comforting in an entirely different way than the darkness was. The darkness was always attempting to drag him in, to keep him there forever in that world of numbness and hurt. The weight was a soft yellow, gently caressing his cheek and telling him he would be okay, keeping him grounded in a pleasant haze.
He put on his headphones, selecting his “bad brain" playlist and sank away into the warmth. The heavy bass and blanket drowned out most of the pressure in his head, and he closed his eyes. This was a different darkness, it was warm and more of a brown than a black. No pinching cold, no white heat. Just warmth.
A tap-tap-tap on his doorpost. Tim didn’t have to open his eyes to know who it was, but he did so anyway. He gestured for Bruce to come in with an inclination of his head. Bruce was silent, he knew what this was. He went through the same thing. He understood.
Bruce gestured to Tim, not in any official sign language but Tim understood anyway. It was their own little thing, the wrist roll, the press of two hands. They were able to communicate silently, not that Tim would dare to attempt to talk right now. He wasn’t sure if anything would even come out.
When that had happened the first time, he’d panicked. He didn’t know what this was. He’d opened his mouth, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat, tacky and thick, like honey sticking to the roof of his mouth, the words not wanting to be set free into the air. He was used to it by now, knew what to expect. He didn’t force himself to talk anymore, knew it was no use. It was better like this. This way, he could just wait until the block had melted away, until his airway was free again, and he could utter his words.
Can I touch you? Bruce asked with his hands, and Tim nodded. The blanket was helping, but nothing was as good as Bruce’s arms in moments like these. There was a gentle strength in him, somehow he knew the perfect amount of pressure to use each time. Bruce took Tim in his arms and lifted him, blanket and headphones and all, and laid down on his side on Tim’s bed. Tim clutched Zelda to his chest, for once glad he wasn’t wearing his binder. Bruce was a steady warmth against his back, his arms around Tim’s torso providing the perfect pressure. Tim’s music was drowning out his thoughts and the covers were soft. Things weren’t okay yet, but they would be. Bruce was on his side, had his back, literally. Bruce was here, so everything would be okay.
The darkness was tempting, but Bruce’s call was even stronger. Tim closed his eyes again and let himself drown in tears and gentle arms.