WARNING: POTENTIAL SUICIDAL TRIGGER!

Jason is one of my favorite characters of DC Universe, and I find myself relating to him the most. I incorporated the way I think and feel into the fic and although mine isn't as strong and big as his, it's still there. I thought it would be interesting to explore Jason's mind dealing with pain, so I just wrote this. Thank you for reading!

He was tired.

He was just really fucking tired.

That bitterness that lingered in his chest, that sunk deep down into his bones, it made him fucking tired.

It was his insecurities sinking deep into his skin, it was his flesh burning away, it was his anger pushing the happiness out of him, it was all the pain that grew and grew everyday.

He tried to close his eyes and wish it away, pretend it wasn't there, oh, God knows that he tried and tries, but it was there, it was there, it was fucking Hell, and it was burning him, starting from the inside.

It was that fucking clown, that fucking crowbar, oh dear Lord, that set him off. That laughter, that horrible fucking laughter, he did not want to believe that it scared him but he still remembers it oh so clearly and it's stuck there, all inside his head, and it fucking terrifies him and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to stop it, and he wants it to stop so badly and he wants to cry so bad sometimes but he can't, it's so fucking weak.

He does not understand why he was brought back to live another life.

He does not understand why he was forced to go through the horror.

Did Heaven or Hell or whoever the fuck was controlling this shit not understand that he couldn't anymore, that he was so tired? That his death washed all the pain away? It was a fucking relief, a motherfucking relief when his heart stopped, when his blood stopped pumping.

It was not scary.

And he was not tired.

But of course, of fucking course, this fucking Robin magic-shit-thing worked and he really wished it didn't and why is he alive? Why is he fucking breathing? He was a dumb, impulsive, annoying little piece of fucking shit and why is he here? Why is he in a safehouse he created when he did not want to be safe from pain? Why, why, why, why, why, why?

He wanted to close his eyes so fucking badly and never open them again and he did not want to think of the world and he did not want to exist much longer and it hurt really fucking bad, it just really hurt really fucking bad when you're fighting a fucking war inside your heart that sunk down to your chest and your stomach and he was so tired and mad and he was such an angry little boy and he was also such a sad little boy and he wanted someone to hold him, to cradle him but that's just fucking weak and he could take care of himself and he needed to keep his guard up he just had to because he was strong and he had to keep moving on even though he just wanted to cry but he would never let himself and he's his own problem, he's the fucking cause of the battle.

He wanted it to go away, for it to all just go the fuck away. All this disappointment, all this anger, all this sadness, and he doesn't know how and that's what fucking kills him the most, that's what cuts deep, the fact that he can't let it go because he's overly attached and he can't get attached to people because that means expectations and commitment and getting fucking hurt and hurting others himself. He did not want to carry on his pain to others, did not want others to worry, and it may feel nice, just a tiny bit nice, but others worrying about him, it would be holding him back, and he had to go on and carry this baggage because no one deserves this but him but it's so fucking overwhelming and it's a habit to hold back his tears.

He was just a walking nuclear reactor, and every little thing set him off, he was a bomb, a human bomb, and he killed so many and it was so hard but he had to make it look like it wasn't, that it wasn't hard to let yourself have all the power, to have someone's chance of life and death at your hands. It was a guilty pleasure to have power, but it never fulfilled him, and he was a living nightmare, a living horror to the world because he's a murderer and he's literally just a total fucking asshole. A giant fucking asshole. He was dumb and he was stupid and he was an idiot and he did everything wrong, he knew it, but he needed to show arrogance, needed to show pride, but it was an act because he really couldn't take all the loss, all the misery and depression and now it was worse, and he was just another fucking hormonal teenage boy.

And sleep wasn't his friend, either. There were always those fucking nightmares, those fucking dreams, they scared him. They just plain scared him. That laughing, of course, was there, that crowbar, all the blood and the scratches and the bruises and the betrayal of his one mother, the one he protected as he died, the one who died for her, and who knows if she's alive now? He doesn't care anymore, he doesn't, he doesn't need anyone, no one at all. He's got himself, and he can shake himself from those pits of suffering in his head, with all the tears and the fears. He wanted to feel celestial, he wanted to be celestial, but he knew he wasn't and he shakes so bad from his dreams and his heart pounds so hard from those dreams and he cries so hard from those dreams and he scolds himself so much from those dreams and he was dumb and weak and weak and dumb and he was vulnerable and it was not at all okay to have a weak spot because he did not want to be human and he did not want to hurt, not one bit at all.

And then those two.

Those fucking snarky, idiotic, wonderful, lovely, adorable - no, no - rude, annoying red-headed dogs.

How could he let them into his life? He fucking told himself, so many fucking times, that he was not fucking growing on them. He was NOT growing on them.

But, of course, he doesn't get what he wants and he's always bothered with a smart space kitty and an idiot of a burnout archer and they follow him around and they care for him and they care about each other and they always hug him and they always kiss him and they always make him feel welcome and they always make him feel happy and they always stood by him and they always understood him and they were like family and - fuck, fuck fuck fuck, they grew on him, his family, they grew on him, didn't they? He allowed it, they saw him crumble, they saw him fall apart too many times, he realized, and they knew his weaknesses and they knew he was scared and sad and vulnerable and just fucking lonely and they knew and what if they forget about him, or what if they expose all of his secrets and leave him in the dust, or what if, what if, what if?

What if?

Why?

Why, why, why?

And that's when he started whimpering.

He started whimpering and mewling like a five year old that was afraid of every single little thing, a five year old that didn't know what else to do.

He squeezed his sad blue eyes shut, trying to somehow block the tears and brang his arms up to cover his ears and he layed down on the bed that he was sitting on, the cold, lonely bed that held him up and he scrunched himself into a ball and he felt the cold tears roll down his face, his pale and flushed and scarred face, and he was a little boy again, scared of who he lived with and scared of what would happen next and he began to sob, he began to cry because he didn't know how else to take it out anymore and he couldn't channel it into anger and that would hurt others who didn't deserve it and since when was he so soft? His chin was quivering, the tears streaming out of his closed eyes, the same eyes that saw that bomb tick, and he knew he was done for, and he died, he died, he died, he died, and no one, not even Bruce, bothered to take revenge and no one cared for him and no one ever cared because they hated him and they just felt bad for them and they regret ever having to do anything with him and he should've never became Robin and maybe he should've never came into that old lady's apartment and get his stuff and find out that his real mother was alive somewhere in the world and he was so sad, not mad anymore but just sad and he didn't know how to go on and he needed help, he needed a mentor, he needed guidance but how, how how does he seek something he does not need and what should he do?

He tries so hard to keep his childish weeps quiet because he didn't need his annoying tag-alongs coming in, he didn't want his family to worry about him, he didn't want to be bothered, he didn't want them to be bothered.

And when he finally dares to open his eyes, he finds his solution sitting on the nightstand.

He was suddenly thrilled.

His solution, it was there all along, right by him the whole time.

Just count to three, and he will not be tired.

He would never be tired again.

He would be free.

Freedom was what he craved, what he wanted, what he needed.

This was his ticket there.

He wouldn't be brought back a second time, would he?

No.

They understood the pain of living a second life, no?

Did they?

No, it wasn't time to think. He needed to go to Paradise, he needed to go and be happy, he needed to stop being tired.

He grabs his gateway to Heaven and hides it in his jacket and he pulls his boots on and he rubs his eyes one last time and he leaves the room he was drowning in just a minute ago and he sees the princess with a curly head on a strong shoulder and an arm was around her orange body and they were hypnotized by what television sold them. He walked over to them somewhat assertively, hoping they would miss his puffy red eyes and muttered "I'm going out," before kissing them both full on the mouth for the last time before leaving into pouring rain.

And he ran and he ran and he ran and he was ready to be let go, ready to be set free and he pushed back the slide of the pistol and he gave a little smile of thankfulness and he ever so slowly picked his arm up and he was going where he belonged, where he wanted to be, who wouldn't be happy?! And the barrel of the gun took it's place on his temple and he does not believe this to be impulsive or rash but him just simply giving into his desires and he was ready to come home and he was ready for all that pain to go away because he was a burden to the universe and especially a burden to himself and he dared to put his finger on the trigger as he began to slowly count in his head and he was savoring his last moments before death and he would be free, he would finally be free and he ticked off another number, his hand tightening around the gun but then he heard his name and he heard running and footsteps and no no no no no they didn't need to see this they didn't need to be here they didn't need to care and what in the world were they doing here? And they were holding hands and they looked so scared and worried and a pang of guilt was there and that's what he wanted to be free of and they ruined it and then he was angry and he was disappointed because they ruined his chances! Ruined his shot at what he truly wanted.

He turned around to face them and Kori was clutching Roy's hand and they looked so sad and so worried and so scared and they cared, he saw, they cared, and he froze.

They cared.

They cared.

They were here, and they cared.

"Jason..." Roy managed to whisper, frozen himself.

The broken bird just broke down at his name.

He dropped the gun and fell to the ground and they ran over to him and they hugged him and they kissed them and he cared and he cried in the rain and he didn't know what else to do and he didn't know what to think and everything was so jumbled up and were they mad? Oh, god, he prayed they weren't mad and he was shaking and they held him and they helped him and they cared, they cared, they cared and it all went by so quickly and he suddenly felt just a bit more worthy of something.

And they continued to hold him and they were there with him, carrying him home and sleeping with him through the night.

It was too fast, it was so fast and he was so confused and happiness and sadness were fighting inside of him but all that he was sure of was that he was still so tired.

He would always be confused.

He would always be tired.