To say you were a mess was an understatement. Fresh out of rehab and still falling back into the same old habits. Going out at night with people you hardly even knew, getting drunk, doing reckless things and then waking up the next morning not remembering a thing. Bruce had tried his best to get you back into rehab, especially after you'd faked your way out of the last one.

You often sucked it up by yourself, took yourself home and spent the rest of the night either drinking or wrecking a wall—and more often than not, wrecking yourself too—, but tonight clearly went too far. Drunk, high and in a haze, you must've had some sort of mental split or breakdown, because you'd called Dick accidentally, asking for him. You never did that. At least not anymore.

Knowing something was wrong, he went over to your apartment, finding you passed out on the floor, covered in blood and bruises from god knows what. Your place was a mess, too. Bottles and blood stains everywhere, and an unfathomable amount of holes had been punched into the walls. He spent the next few hours with you, considering calling someone else to help. You were so shaken up, talking incoherently about random people and things he couldn't even decipher.

Now, you were sat on the floor, head low and hands shaking slightly as they rested in your lap.