Chapter Text
A box. Seven by two and six feet under.
It's not his oldest memory. Or at least, he doesn't think it is. He can't seem to get a decent grasp on any of the others, but he is distantly aware of them. Watching him from the ether. Laying in wait. He can feel their presence like another person hovering just over his shoulder, but no matter how quickly he turns, that's where they remain. Just over his shoulder, out of view.
The box is different.
An invisible weight on his shoulders, but he appreciates the solidity of it. Of a firm memory.
Whenever he feels himself slipping he just has to think of a box, seven by two and six feet under. It's something strong, something he doesn't have to doubt. As solid as the earth he had to dig his way out from under. Solid like the slab of granite that marked the spot where he was buried.
He was buried.
That much he knows for certain, because the process of digging himself out is half of what makes the box so solid. Blood under his fingernails from trying to scratch away at the wood. Cinder in his lungs when he gasped for air and inhaled only more dirt. That flood of relief when he took in the first breath of nighttime air.
And he can't explain it. Waking up in a graveyard.
As far as he knows, people only end up in boxes in graveyards when they die. Somewhere in the fog, he thinks maybe there was a moment where he thought he was dying. It feels like iron and flame. But he takes in a breath and he can feel his chest inflate, and he wiggles his toes and he can feel the dirt press against his bare feet. And he is relatively certain he is not dead.
The slab is the only reason he knows he has a name. It read simply:
'Jason Todd. Ally & Friend.'
Four simple words, but they don't feel simple. They feel like water. Beyond that, they don't mean anything to him. But they mark the place where he awoke, which means that they must mark him.
"Jason Todd," he'll repeat to himself, just to see how it sounds. Another weight he can carry with him, even if the words never quite feel right on his tongue. "Ally and Friend."
Ally and friend to who is one of the memories he can't get hold of, but it's not slippery like the ether. It's just that when he thinks too hard about it, it aches. A pain that's solid but not like the dirt.
On the days where he's less than relatively certain that he is not dead, he often catches himself seeking it out. Like poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts, and then poking it again an instant later because it does. It's still yet to help him remember, but it's grounding, even when the box fails.