Chapter Text
By the time he was twelve, Jason Peter Todd knew deep down that he was meant to be alone.
When he’d first ended up on the streets — a desperate ploy to avoid getting trafficked through the foster system — he’d tried to form connections with the other street kids; he’d attempted to worm his way in with some older teens who'd seemed like they knew what they were doing; he’d befriended the working girls and the nicer shop owners. He’d definitely been more independent than most kids even before it wasn’t a choice, looking after his mom more than she’d looked after him until there wasn’t a mom to look after, but there had been a part of him that didn’t really believe that he could do it by himself. That Jason had needed connections and people to rely on when he didn’t know what to do.
That was before Jason had his backpack stolen from the boy he’d thought was his friend, and it was before he watched teens fall in with gangs and into drugs, and it was before he saw other kids disappear to never be seen again, and it was before he’d decided that he would rather starve than have another man touch him.
That was before.
Now, Jason had no one, and it was exactly how it was supposed to be.
Jason could mostly get by on his own, and he’d gotten pretty good as a pickpocket and a tire thief. He could keep track of the shops that threw out packaged food right at the expiry date. He could avoid the warehouses where the other kids hung out and avoid the well-meaning stares of adults who probably just wanted to help. With no one around him, there was no one to disappoint him or hurt him in any way that mattered, and that feeling of control was way more important than any kind of support system could ever be. There was no one to betray him or let him down or leave him behind which he knew by now was all that people were really good for — he’d learned that lesson a long time ago.
In comparison to a lot of kids in his situation, his life could definitely be worse.
Knowing that he was meant to be alone, however, did not mean that there weren’t nights where he really wished that he had someone (anyone) to rely on.
As Jason clung desperately to the carbon stained brick wall clutching at the stab wound on his abdomen, he reflected that tonight was one of those nights. With the knife still protruding from his right side, each step jostled the blade and sent stabbing (Ha — stabbing!) pains up his spine, but he was pretty sure that taking it out would make the pulsing blood come out quicker, except he had no idea how to make the bleeding stop.
Jason had no way to make the blood stop, and the more he stumbled, the more woozy and light-headed he felt. Each step was more painful, and he was really clinging to the wall for all of his life. He knew he had to keep upright because he really didn’t think he could get up again once he was down on the ground.
Really, he just wanted to get back to his current squat with a kind of desperation that was starting to bring tears to his eyes. Not because there was anything there for him, but he just knew that he needed to get there. It wasn’t a home, but it was a place to rest maybe. Once he got to his current squat, the sheltered corner behind the dumpster of Giovanni’s Pizza, then he could stop and figure out what to do.
Then he could sit down, and maybe take a nap, and maybe when he woke up, things might be better.
What was so especially stupid was that the mugger had even tried to rob Jason in the first place.
Jason hadn’t had any real money on him (besides the $2.75 in change from his ready-made sandwich from the convenience store) and the only real contents of his backpack were the threadbare second outfit he kept, his blanket, and a few basic toiletries. There was nothing even to steal, and yet, on his way back home, head tucked deep into his red oversized hoodie, a thin man with hollowed cheeks and breath that reeked of cigarettes had shoved him back first against the wall and demanded he empty his pockets. When he had clawed at the loose change in his jeans, the man had stabbed him in anger, demanding not to hold out on him. Jason’s cry of pain had forced his head up, and it was only then that the man had seen his face, seen his age, mumbled, “Shit you’re just a kid – aw fuck,” and left him to bleed out on the sidewalk in apology.
The whole thing wasn’t fair. The mugger hadn’t even taken his $2.75. And now Jason was probably going to die. Which was just stupid.
It was stupid and not fair.
It was really hard to stand up now, and the empty streets seemed to solidify that he was meant to be alone, meant to live and die alone, and it just wasn’t fucking fair.
A tear finally slipped out. Then a hiccup, which made his side hurt more, and then the tears fell in earnest, and he slid down to the sidewalk, leaning against the wall.
None of it was fair! He hadn’t even been doing anything, hadn’t been bothering anyone, hadn’t spoken to anyone even, outside of the convenience store man, all day, and now he would die of blood loss in the cold all alone at night, and no one would even care.
Fuck!
Jason wasn’t supposed to care about that stuff anymore! He wasn’t some stupid baby. He was supposed to be fine. So what if there was no one to hold him while he bled out? Who the fuck cared? Apparently Jason, because he couldn’t choke back the tears anymore even though he was really trying.
Attempting to shield himself from the cold and the sadness and the world, Jason curled in on himself on the sidewalk and let himself silently sob, confident that no one would ever know and no one would ever care. When they found his stupid dead body in the morning, the tears would be long gone, so they were just for him. Maybe he was allowed to feel alone. Maybe he could be sad just this once.
Anyone who would have cared was dead or gone, images of his mom coming to him as he shook harder. Jason thought of the friends he’d had before his life fell apart who'd probably forgotten him, of teachers who maybe cared once upon a time, of his father’s face the last time he was arrested, and he felt confident that none of them would ever know how he died.
Jason never let himself feel the hurt because it was pointless and stupid, but maybe just this once since there wouldn’t be anymore “just this once”’s, he would let the feelings in.
Tears were trailing down his cheek, and another hiccup escaped, then a sniffle. He wiped the snot on his sleeve and looked up.
Up above him, across the street, glowing in the night was a window lit by candlelight. Jason looked in the window at the rose gold glow of the candle and was transfixed. Lit was a family of three, not unlike Jason’s might have been in another world. A latino woman with her brown hair pulled back and a thin white man, both smiling at a carefree girl between them. She looked around Jason’s age. She was pretty and talking animatedly with her hands. Maybe talking about her day at school or her friends or a show on TV. Probably just normal stuff. Her parents, their gazes shimmering in the warm light, had such love on their faces that it made something in Jason break just a bit.
What if he was at that table? What if Jason was that little girl in the warm house lit by candlelight? Would they want to hear about his day? Ask him how he was doing?
Maybe Jason would be going to school, be stressed about homework. He would work really hard and try to get good grades. He’d never talk back or speak out. And he would never complain, and those parents would probably be really proud of him. They’d tell him that it didn’t matter what he grew up to be or who he loved or how to live — so long as he was safe and happy. They wouldn’t have much money, and sometimes the electricity bill would get shut off, so they’d have to turn the TV off and sit by candlelight. But they would be happy. Jason would be happy, and he would be loved.
Jason could be loved if he was that girl in the window.
Instead — and the tears were blurring his vision of the family now — Jason would bleed to death on the cold filthy sidewalk, and no one would ever care. How long would it take to find him? Would they even know what to put on his grave? Would anyone even bury him?
He just hoped that he wouldn’t be dead and alone for too long. Surely, they’d find him in the morning right?
It hurt to shift at all, but Jason shuffled a bit to get his backpack off. He unzipped the front pocket to pull out his prized possession — a copy of Pride and Prejudice that he’d kept from his old house. It was his mom’s favourite, and he’d managed to keep it safe for all this time. It was a little tattered, but all the pages were still there. Then, he took out the free pen that he’d gotten from the nice lady at the library (maybe she would notice that he was gone?).
With shaky hands, Jason opened the front cover to see the pencilled-in words: “Property of Catherine Todd”. Beside it, in his very best printing for someone who couldn’t see straight anymore, Jason wrote:
My name is Jason Peter Todd. I was born on August 16th, and I am twelve years old. My parents are Catherine and Willis Todd. They are both dead, so that makes me an orphan. Please could someone bury my body when I die? Thank you.
Jason nodded to himself. It was polite, and it got the message across. He put the backpack on the ground next to him and laid down, clutching the book to his chest. He closed his eyes.
That was the best he could do.
And Jason Peter Todd went to sleep for what he knew would be the last time.