A/N: This is a little piece that I threw together over the weekend......I warn all who read, it is incredibly depressing, even for me.
It can be considered a tangent from "Descent into Darkness"....which I know I have not updated yet. It will happen before the next decade.
Title: The Last Look
Characters: Dr. Joan Leland, Commissioner James Gordon, and mentions of OCs (Maria DeLaine, Iris DeLaine)
Summary: "Do you think...when she left...she knew what her mother was going to do to her?"
Rating: T for depressive content
Nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear.
~ Albert Camus
"You know…she heard her voice first. Before anything else, she heard her voice. She didn't even need to see the face to know who it was…all the way in the lobby, a good twenty—maybe even thirty feet—from my office, and she knew."
A large, broad hand lifted, running across a face, glasses removed from the bridge of the nose. Gordon slumped slightly, as though the last hour had exhausted him far beyond all his years of law enforcement. Brown eyes rose to meet those of the woman sitting across from him. There was a pad of paper in her lap, and there had been a pen in her fingers earlier. But it lay on the floor now, fallen from a hand frozen with shock, and from the look on her face, horror.
"I've seen a lot of expressions in my time. You know the usual ones, I'm sure—anger, frustration, grief, sadness, joy, concern or worry, irritation, stubbornness, and so on. But…" he paused to swallow back a knot of emotion building in his throat, "But in all my years…I've never seen fear…not the way I saw it then."
"Surely you've seen fear in the eyes of convicted criminals, Commissioner…"
"That's a different fear, Doctor." He sighed quietly, "That's a fear that comes from the thought of being deprived of freedom…in some cases, having to live with other criminals for years—maybe even the rest of your life." He shook his head slowly, "But…this wasn't just fear…the mere sound of her voice…brought such a complete and absolute…terror onto that girl's face. I'd never…ever seen anything like it."
He paused for a moment, seemingly composing himself. She should have made a note of it. But she didn't.
"She…she grabbed a hold of my shirt—right here," he grasped the left sleeve of his cotton shirt, "Tugged on it a bit…to this day, I can't figure out if she was trying to pull me closer…of if she was trying to hide herself against me." His tongue swept across his now dry lips, "She begged me…begged me to not let her go back. She offered her services, even." He paused to give a dry, empty laugh—perhaps it was even bitter.
"Can you imagine, Doctor? Having a six year-old girl—on the eve of her seventh birthday…might have even been her birthday then, it was pretty late—grab a hold of you and offer services…she promised to clean the floors—every floor of the place—dust, wipe down the desks, get us coffee every morning…even make us breakfast if we'd let her, go run any errands we needed…offering all that and more—I can't remember the rest—and all she wanted in return was a promise that we wouldn't let her go home with her mother."
He swallowed again—harder this time, "But right then, Maria came in. First time I'd ever seen her in person. I won't deny she was a fair sight…until you got to her eyes. I've seen that look all too often…she came in, rushed for her daughter and wrapped her arms around her nice and tight—too tight. She was all over the 'worried out of my mind about you' façade…but her eyes were cold. They might have been beautiful…but they were sub-Arctic. If there was any feeling she felt about her child, it was only anger…rage that she came to the police."
He paused with another weak laugh, "Did you know…it took the doctors almost twenty-four hours to convince her to come in, to tell us what had been happening to her? And just like that…it was all over. Her mom knew, and she was there to take her home…"
"What…what did you do?" she forced her voice to work, though it was through sheer willpower to not let her voice crack.
"I kept a hold of her for a bit—arm around her shoulders…thin little thing that she was. Told her mother why she was here, briefly informed her of the allegations her daughter was throwing against her. And the woman had the nerve to look offended. She looked down at her daughter—she started shaking in my arms—and asked her 'why on earth she was making up these stories'. And then she grabbed a hold of her arm, apologizing in that sweet tone of hers—enough to make you sick—that her daughter wasted my time—" another laugh, "She didn't even call her by her name…just called her, 'my child'…like she was a piece of baggage."
"And…and then what?"
He sighed heavily, slumping back in his chair again, "Van Dorn came in—you know she was back in family court then. Told me to let 'the nice lady' go with her child…there was nothing we had to hold the charges up in court with. I protested…couldn't help it, you see. Barbara was only a few years older than her…guess my father instincts kicked in. I told Janet about the marks, the scars—the cuts on her chest and legs…but none of it mattered. Van Dorn's a good D.A. and I won't begrudge her what good she's done…but that night…was her first—and in my opinion, her biggest mistake. She bought into Maria's story that all of those marks were either self-inflicted, or the result of her child being 'undisciplined'. When I tried, one last time, to point out the details of the abuse…Maria pulled the wool over the eyes again. Told us that the abuse was nothing more than," his voice lowered, bitterness positively dripping from his words, "The result of an active and insolent child, who has no gratitude for all that her father and I do for her."
The silence was almost suffocating for an unbearable two minutes, and then Gordon continued. His voice no longer held bitterness. Only regret…and perhaps the choke of emotion that preceded tears.
"She looked up at me…and only said one word." He swallowed thickly, "Please." He shook his head, "That was all she said…one last plea. She'd been crying all night…crying when she heard her mother's voice…and she was still crying."
He swallowed yet again, his hand coming up to cover his eyes, "And I let her go. And…when I did….the tears stopped. Just like that, they stopped. There…there was nothing left in her eyes…only the worst mixture of terror…and despair. I don't think there's even a word for that."
"No…no, I don't think there is…Commissioner."
He let his hand fall heavy into his lap, "You know…I watched them leave. And when they reached the door…she turned back to look at me. And there was that look again…and it was the last thing I saw before her mother dragged her away…like leading a lamb to the slaughter house."
Her hands were shaking as she put the notepad back in her bag—along with the pen. "Thank…thank you for your time, Commissioner Gordon."
As her hand reached out for the door handle, he called out one last time, "Dr. Leland?"
She paused, turning back, "Yes…?"
His eyes were rimmed with the unmistakable redness of tears—tears that had not been shed, not yet. "She…she was the first case I worked—with kids. It's been ten years…and I can't get that last look out of my head…I was wondering if…if maybe you could answer this question. Maybe it will stop the images…"
She knew he didn't believe that, but she responded all the same. "What is it?"
He composed himself long enough to look her straight in the eyes, "When she was being pulled out of the station…do you think Iris knew what her mother was going to do to her?"
Joan looked at him for a long, long moment.
But she never answered.
They both knew the answer.