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Disinfectant on his nightstand, a cutter below his pillow. No one ever asks why.
A half empty packet of cornflakes, cupboards empty. Twelve empty cups on his desk, no dishes. No one asks.
He calls himself out of school, forges his own doctors notes. Gets emails on his grade progression.
His shoes are too small, he orders new ones. There are spots of blood on his pillowcase. They stay there. His home has no smell.
Old newspapers litter the front door. He has no butler. The fence in the back got destroyed in the last hurricane, no one repairs it.
Tim counts his ribs, 1-12 on the left side. There are cuts on his right.
Him and the girl in the back exchange knowing glances. Her collarbones peek out under her thin shirt. His own are hidden carefully behind a hoodie. His arms are in bandages. He has scars where no ten year old should have them. Teachers have stopped looking concerned and started looking disgusted. He hates them.
He loves Robin. Robin dies. Tim has been fucked far longer than he has been Robin.
No one cares, no one asks and if his scars are joined by bruises well the emo got a new way to harm. Tim’s not emo, not really. Then he’d be cool. As is, he’s just depressed. Being Robin helps, not being Tim helps. Bruce says nothing to the mottled scars on his arms and thighs and ribs and trains him harder. He barely had to cut anymore because everything hurts anyway. He deserves it. He wallows in it.
He’s like Batman, except his grief is directed towards the living.
He returns home to a house that doesn’t smell and half eaten cornflakes from two months ago. He stopped eating them with milk because that smelled. He hasn’t eaten fruit in two weeks. He knows, he has a calendar. He doesn’t want scurvy. He orders himself bananas and a few oranges and chokes them down. His skin is pale and his scars look even darker. He hides in oversized hoodies that make him look bigger the he is.
His parents tut disapprovingly when they come to visit, but they don’t do it often enough for it to be worth it to change. He wishes for their approval yet does nothing to get it.
Tim’s razor blade has rusted. He throws it away. He pulls out a new one. Nothing changes.
His latest English teacher has complimented his work in the email he receives. They don’t know it’s to him, they think it’s his parents’. His parents never ask after school work. He skipped two grades, that’s not enough. Never enough.
He wonders what they would say to the scars on his skin. If they would be disgusted by them. He knows Nightwing is. Sees it in his eyes when Tim dared to train without a long sleeve. He doesn’t do that anymore. They never check his weight which is good because Tim doesn’t want to know.
He’s been talking to this girl at school, she’s very obviously unwell. Her name is Vega. He gets her. She overdoses a month later. He’s so upset he calls himself out of school for a week and doesn’t go on patrol. He carves a star into his thigh in honor of her. It scars into a slightly uneven shape but it reminds him of her anyway.
B’s eyes are so dark when he returns and he’s sure Batman’s about to tell him to get lost again. Batman says nothing.
Sometimes Tim wonders if this is more punishment for him or for Batman. It’s unhealthy anyway. It’s the best part of his life.
His razor blade rusts and he doesn’t take out a new one. His new friends are fascinated by his scars. They don’t have a doctor so they get used to each others bodies quickly. Kon traces the scars on his ribs and hovers over a particularly deep one. Tim doesn’t offer an explanation. He’d gotten a B on a test and his mother had lectured him, he doesn’t say. Kon never asks.
His mother died, he picks up the blade. His dad dies, Steph dies, Kon dies, Bart dies, Bruce dies.
He picks up the blade. He cuts. Cuts past blood right up to fat and deeper until all the pain he can feel is physical. The star has washed out. He recarves it and adds a lightning bolt. It’s difficult to edge but he manages. He won’t forget his friends.
He smuggles a lot out of the country, but closest to his chest is always his razor blade, a good friend.
When he wakes up next to the pit he’s so so scared that his scars are gone. All the reminders washed away. But the scar tissue still ripples across his chest when he moves and so he knows he wasn’t reborn. There’s a giant gash across his stomach far more gruesome looking than most of his scars. Another reminder. Ras clearly takes pleasure in his suffering.
Tim puts the blade away, saves Tam, saves Gotham, saves WE, saves Bruce and promptly keels over. He put the food away as well. He can’t stomach it anymore. His body looks garish in a way he knows is unappealing to others. Even Damian is quiet the first time Tim has to remove his shirt. He stares at him like a zoo animal.
Jason curses and chokes and stares just as much but he’s kinder about it. Tim appreciates it. He has the blade below his pillow, a missing spleen and disinfectant spray on his nightstand. No one asks about it because they know. Tim puts the blade away again. Tries to breathe. Eats a tangerine against scurvy.
Smiles.