'Dick Grayson.'

'Richard "Dick" Grayson.'

'Richard Grayson.'

'Richard John Grayson.'

The words are wrong. Wrong on the paper. Scratch them out. Try them again. The names flow over the paper, the black ink scarring the prestine white paper with their falsehood.

'Richard John Grayson Wayne.'

No. Not wrong, but it doesn't feel normal. Doesn't feel like it should. Feels wrong. I'm feeling confused. I'm feeling needy. I'm feeling desperate for some sense of normal.

'Robin.'

Desperate, desperate, desperate.

For something, for anything. I just need it now.

'Nightwing.'

But those feel even more foriegn. Everything's changed. I hate it. Hate it. The world is spinning, and I can't get balance. The pen jabs through the paper, the black ink hiding the words. Frustration doesn't ebb, too frail hands, too slender fingers move over the paper. I watch as they throw the pen across the room. Soft nails, long, well shaped. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Tiny hands crumpling a paper, wanting to rip it and scream, but don't want to scream. I'd scream with someone else's voice. Then I'd want to pull out my hair-- not mine someone else's hair. It doesn't end. The frustration doesn't stop. Something simple. A name, leads to a finger, a hand, a voice, a hair, a reflection.

Shattered.

A stranger staring back at me.

Looking at me. Demanding of me.

Wondering who I am.

Detesting me.

Hating me as I hate her.

I'm grappling for purchase. For a foundation. I'm trying to be me, when I'm just not anymore. I don't know what way is up, everythign is changed, everyone is different but the same. I'm tiny. I'm weak. I'm frail. The respect. That I need. That I've earned. Usurped by protectiveness. Hiding me from the worst things in life. Hiding me from my horror. Hiding me... from myself.

Calm.

No way to function. Can't curse the world. Won't slit the frail wrists that aren't mine. Can't hug the woman that should be mine. Can only challenge the man that is my protector, my rock, who forces me to deal. Not to indulge in moments like these. Not to feel.

Calm.

Can't let him down.

Tiny feet move across the floor to pick up the slender pen. Feet not mine. Feet that are. Calm. Stay calm. Sitting in a chair, always the same, except for me. Calm. Push it out of mind.

Hands, my hands, draw out a sheet of paper.

Teeth, my teeth, gnaw at the end of the pen.

Calm. Breath. Calm.

Eyes, my eyes, close and I take a deep breath.

The ink flickers across, forming delicate words. Right and wrong at the same time.

'Robbie.'

Me.

fin

~story index~