Gone Too Soon



Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any of Simple Plan's music.

Author's Note: This story was inspired by the pain I've experienced since losing my favorite cousin. He died in January 2017, just shy of his 30th birthday, of alcohol poisoning. The sadness was delayed. I didn't cry until the wake. The day after he was buried, I was in my room, listening to music, and I just started crying. Listening to various sad songs on my ipod helped get the pain out of me.

Author's Note 2: Soooooo...songfics aren't allowed? Yeah, I got a message warning me to take this down because of copyright infringe- you know what? I don't care. Just listen to the song WHILE you read the story, k?

I'm so bored. So unmotivated. So empty. I guess I'll try to draw something. Don't have anything in mind, but it's something to do.

I sit down at my desk and open my sketchpad. I put in my headphones and turn on the radio. Maybe some new music will inspire something.

At first I don't even pay attention to the songs that pass through my ear buds. I lightly swipe my charcoal pencil around the thick paper, just to see what I feel like. Then I find myself drawing eyes. Then eyebrows. Forehead. Hair. Nose. Lips…

…it's beginning to look like Tim. OK, I guess I'm drawing Tim now. Seems appropriate, seeing as how he just died.

It almost seemed like this death was coming, didn't it? He wasn't doing anything significant. Just hanging out with Todd and doing whatever missions they could. I'm leading the Teen Titans now, so it's not like he has that.

I don't know if I've ever seen Tim smile, so I draw his mouth neutral. His eyebrows, I've noticed, I've already drawn arched in anger. He was always angry when I was around him.

I add some shading under and around his eyes. I always remember him sort-of looking up from under his bangs. I make his hair a little longer and shaggier.

This is only a portrait of his face. I will not be drawing his body. But his shoulders will fit on the page. I begin to draw them straight and upright. But the more I think about Tim, the more I remember his shoulders being slumped in sadness.

So I correct the picture, and begin drawing curved shaded lines pointing downward.

I remember when I first met him. He mocked me when I wouldn't shake his hand. I think he quoted some movie or TV show or something stupid. I didn't appreciate that, so I threatened him.

Well, in my defense, I'd been having a bad night.

He tried to tell me what to do, tell me I couldn't kill. So I beat him up.

As I begin to shade in his collarbone, I remember a time when I saw him with his costume partly unzipped, exposing his neck and collarbone. He was walking through the kitchen in the penthouse. He swiped a piece of my breakfast before walking off to shower, but not before telling Pennyworth to "count to ten," to cool his temper at my attitude.

My eyes well up with tears and the corners of my mouth sag. It comes on so suddenly. My heart breaks all at once, and I'm crying, just like that.

"Damian?" I hear my father ask as he opens the door. "Titus wants to see you."

Empathetic as dogs are, Titus must have sensed my distress. He walks into my room, with a soft whine, and rests his chin on my thigh.

"Hi," I say weakly.

"What's wrong?" asks Father. I almost want to smack him. What does he THINK is wrong?

"Drake," I mutter.

"What?" he asks.

"DRAKE," I say louder.


I sob loudly, holding my forehead in my hands, letting my shoulders jerk up and down as my body is wracked with sadness. Not bothering to wipe my face, my tears just cascade from my eyes and land on the sketchpad, where they soak into the thick paper and wrinkle it up.

"I know. I'm so sorry," Father says.

"We never even got to say goodbye!" I cry. I'm frustrated and embarrassed that I care; I was never fond of Tim, but now that we've lost him it feels like my chest has been cut open.

"I know," Father places his hand on my shoulder, as if that's supposed to help.

"And he was all alone!" I cry. "No one was with him when he died!"

"Yeah," he agrees.

"And he probably didn't even know how many people would miss him!"

"He knew," Father tells me. "Trust me. He knew. And he knows now, wherever he is."

"But what are we supposed to do?" I cry. "We don't have him around anymore. We don't get to watch him grow up, or marry Stephanie, or have his own kids or anything."

"We live on. It's all we can do," Father assures me. But I take no comfort in his words. Honestly, I'm not really looking for comfort. I think I just want to cry. I just want to vent out all this pain.

I cry harder now, unashamed of my feelings. I loved Tim. He was my brother, even if we never got along. And now we'll never get a chance to. He's gone. He's gone and he's never coming back.

"It's not fair," I mumble as Father wraps his arms around me. He has stopped talking. He knows that I don't need to hear any frivolous sentiments or adages. He knows I just need to cry in order to feel better.

I hope Tim is happy and at peace, wherever he is. If souls are real, if there is an afterlife, I hope he's happy.

He had so much more to offer the world. He could have been so many things. He could have made so many people happy.

Please review, thanks.