jason todd | the red hood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bamboozlement) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thesphererp2019-10-03 03:58 pm
bamboozlement) wrote in thesphererp2019-10-03 03:58 pm
five | memory (i've never known your love)
cw death and mentions of drug use, depression, domestic violence
It’s late when you get home, but it usually is - not that your mother complains, because most of the time, she’s so far out of it, she doesn’t know what day it is, much less the hour. You’re used to being greeted by indifferent silence, so that doesn’t strike you as odd when you return from a long day of hustling, taking tires off unattended cars and selling them for the funds that keep the two of you afloat - you and your mother. Catherine. You’re still just a kid, but you're the man of the house ever since your father got locked up for good, so it falls to you to take care of her.
You can do a better job than Willis did; you know you can be better than your father. You’d never scream awful things at her like your father did when he was around. You’d never hit her, either - never. You know can make her happy. You can make her love you, if you’re good enough, if you do all the right things. Maybe then she won’t check out for days at a time, doped up and dead to the world.
So you work, however you can - stealing, mostly, thank Willis for that - and you keep your mother’s dealers from coming around, armed with nothing more elegant than a baseball bat and the rage that burns deep in your heart, a fire that never quite goes out. You want to protect her from harm. Surely you can do that much. She’s your mother, and you love her. You imagine she loves you, too, in her own sad way, but you don’t ever ask her, because you couldn’t stand to be proved wrong.
You come home tonight and she’s not where she usually can be found - not in her room, not passed out on the couch or the bathroom floor. An icy panic seizes your heart - what if she left? What if you were such a disappointment of a son that she left you behind without a single word? Mom? you yell, and your voice echoes against the walls, but she doesn’t answer.
You race outside, toward the back alley, thinking that maybe you just missed her, maybe if she left, you can catch up and beg her to stay. You’ll do better to make her happy. You’ll do better to make her love you. You’ll be better, you promise, but your silent vows are useless, and you know it the second you see the shape of a woman slumped on the ground, back to the wall, red hair a curtain obscuring her face. Mom? you ask as you approach and kneel on the ground next to her, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move. Mom! you say again, a little louder, a little more urgently - maybe she’s just passed out again and she’ll come around if she hears your voice.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe, and when you reach out to take her hand, rouse her from that all-too-familiar stupor, her skin is cold, her fingers stiff, and you know, you know that one of your worst nightmares has finally come true.
Your mother is dead, because you failed to save her from herself.
Your mother is dead, and as tears spill down your cheeks, you know that you are truly and completely alone.
audio; un: j.doe
[well, here's a voice that hasn't been heard in a while. and this time, jason doesn't sound angry - he just sounds tired. deflated, perhaps. how many more of these awful memories is this place going to extract from his mind and place on display for everyone to see?]
Anyone got any tips about where a guy can get a good frontal lobotomy around here?
It’s late when you get home, but it usually is - not that your mother complains, because most of the time, she’s so far out of it, she doesn’t know what day it is, much less the hour. You’re used to being greeted by indifferent silence, so that doesn’t strike you as odd when you return from a long day of hustling, taking tires off unattended cars and selling them for the funds that keep the two of you afloat - you and your mother. Catherine. You’re still just a kid, but you're the man of the house ever since your father got locked up for good, so it falls to you to take care of her.
You can do a better job than Willis did; you know you can be better than your father. You’d never scream awful things at her like your father did when he was around. You’d never hit her, either - never. You know can make her happy. You can make her love you, if you’re good enough, if you do all the right things. Maybe then she won’t check out for days at a time, doped up and dead to the world.
So you work, however you can - stealing, mostly, thank Willis for that - and you keep your mother’s dealers from coming around, armed with nothing more elegant than a baseball bat and the rage that burns deep in your heart, a fire that never quite goes out. You want to protect her from harm. Surely you can do that much. She’s your mother, and you love her. You imagine she loves you, too, in her own sad way, but you don’t ever ask her, because you couldn’t stand to be proved wrong.
You come home tonight and she’s not where she usually can be found - not in her room, not passed out on the couch or the bathroom floor. An icy panic seizes your heart - what if she left? What if you were such a disappointment of a son that she left you behind without a single word? Mom? you yell, and your voice echoes against the walls, but she doesn’t answer.
You race outside, toward the back alley, thinking that maybe you just missed her, maybe if she left, you can catch up and beg her to stay. You’ll do better to make her happy. You’ll do better to make her love you. You’ll be better, you promise, but your silent vows are useless, and you know it the second you see the shape of a woman slumped on the ground, back to the wall, red hair a curtain obscuring her face. Mom? you ask as you approach and kneel on the ground next to her, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move. Mom! you say again, a little louder, a little more urgently - maybe she’s just passed out again and she’ll come around if she hears your voice.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe, and when you reach out to take her hand, rouse her from that all-too-familiar stupor, her skin is cold, her fingers stiff, and you know, you know that one of your worst nightmares has finally come true.
Your mother is dead, because you failed to save her from herself.
Your mother is dead, and as tears spill down your cheeks, you know that you are truly and completely alone.
audio; un: j.doe
[well, here's a voice that hasn't been heard in a while. and this time, jason doesn't sound angry - he just sounds tired. deflated, perhaps. how many more of these awful memories is this place going to extract from his mind and place on display for everyone to see?]
Anyone got any tips about where a guy can get a good frontal lobotomy around here?