Your soulmate was clumsy. Too clumsy. When you were younger, you constantly felt yourself starving and getting hit. It was annoying. When you got older, the starving stopped — but the hits seemed to increase. Especially at night. You constantly came to school tired as hell, always waking up and feeling like the air got knocked out of your lungs or you just hit your head against a wall.

It lasted three years, until you were fifteen. Then it got worse. You missed your three years of getting jostled around at night, because it was around the clock after that. It was sickening. Your head throbbed day and night, your limbs hurt all the time. You wondered what kind of life your soulmate was living.

Until they weren't. You felt it. April 27th, while you were in math. You'd gotten used to the headaches at that point, the aches and pains and pangs that traveled through your blood. But that — you'd never forget it. A scream erupted from your throat and you were on the ground, crying and sobbing like never before. It felt like an eternity before it was over.

You felt nothing after that. Completely numb — you even tested it, placing your hand on the stove for a few seconds before your mother peeled it off. That ordeal lasted only for a year. You didn't know how, but you were standing in your kitchen and suddenly felt like you were drowning. That was fun.

The pain came back. To say you were confused was an understatement. The injuries were way too in character for your soulmate, but they died. You knew it. You had been totally numb for damn near a year.

It got worse when you were seventeen. Better when you were eighteen.

You were nineteen now, tied in the corner of a warehouse, watching Red Hood fuck up the guys who took you hostage. A hit landed in his side. You and Jason winced. He glanced at you— and got punched again. Your jaw hurt.

"Shit— sorry," Jason yelled to you. Screw no killing. He unholstered his guns, a few careless shots ringing out.

He slid down by you, removed your gag, and asked, "You good?"