Edward Nygma had been at Arkham Asylum for about a year and three months now. He had been voluntarily captured by Batman after he realized there was no real reason for him to be out and about on the streets of Gotham. After Harvey Dent killed himself... His best friend... and Joker was taken to Arkham and had been gone for months... Penguin had retired... Catwoman was more or less a hero then-a-days... there was no one to team up with, no partnerships to make... no other villains to compete with... He had given up and given in to his feelings of uselessness. He was told so often by Batman and others that he was crazy that he began to realize he really was wrong in the head. That many people couldn't have possibly come to the same conclusion if it weren't true. He knew he was wrong in the head, yet he refused to believe logic. He couldn't face the truth... That he wasn't perfect. He wasn't what he wanted himself to be. He tried to not leave riddles and clues before his crimes, but he found that he couldn't do it. He made subliminal messages he didn't even know he was placing. He was obsessed. So, as a final act of desperation, he planned a very obvious crime, which Batman foiled. Normally, he would have escaped, but this time, he didn't even want to. He surrendered to Batman without a struggle. Batman took him to Arkham, where he was put into Solitary without even a chance at maximum, let alone minimum. He had nothing to do to pass the days, so he played solitaire. Without cards. In his mind. He also played chess. He randomized the cards in his head, trying to achieve true randomness. He moved for his invisible opponent in his games of mental chess. He played cards and chess with himself in solitary for over a year. A year and three months, give or take a couple weeks. He could hear the screaming of some other poor inmate who had been here since before he was. He could barely hear the sounds of the poor screaming man. They grew fainter over time, and eventually they stopped. He heard guards go into the other man's cell and take him out. Apparently, the man had died. Riddler's cell was not only physical, but mental as well. Since coming to Arkham, his food ration was so tiny, he had lost at least forty pounds, making him about a weak 120lbs. He faced the aspect of his insanity daily. The death of his best friend, Harvey, daily. The fact that he wasn't perfect, daily. He knew all this worrying about the same things day in and day out was the true definition of insanity, and that it probably wasn't helping any. Since coming here, he was in 23 hour a day isolation, enough time for a supervised shower and a walk around a room slightly larger than his cell. He hadn't seen a psychologist since coming here. Like they cared about "curing" their "patients". He hadn't seen the sun, either. He had only heard the shrieks and screams of his neighbor... Who was now dead. Now there was only silence. But not in his mind. In his mind, he was screaming. Panicking. Hating himself, hating everyone, wanting to die, wanting to escape, wanting to live, wanting to die, wanting to be perfect, wanting to be cured, wanting to be free, wanting to stay. So much contradiction. It was driving him more insane day after day after day after long, lonely day. He wondered if he would ever see anyone other than a guard before he faded away. Not died, just simply faded from the earth, from people's memories, from Gotham's memory. He would be remembered by many, he had made sure of that, but not for long. He stopped playing solitaire with himself. There was no point in silly games. He stopped coming up with new riddles. There was no point in such silly things. He stopped hoping. Wondering. Wishing. There was no point in such silly things. When Riddler was taken to Arkham, they took away all of the things he had with him when he was brought in, including Harvey's final letter. The bastards took everything from him, including his best friend. Riddler thought of this as he sat in his cell, knowing that Gotham wouldn't remember him when he faded, not playing solitaire (for there was no point in silly games), and feeling pathetic. It didn't make him sad anymore, it made him furious. And there was no one to lash out on but himself. He scratched at the cold, bricked walls of the solitary room until his fingers bled. He clawed at the walls until a chunk of rock big enough to do damage came off. He knew he wasn't perfect, so what could he possibly do to damage himself that hadn't already been done? He sliced his skin open with this rock he found and drew question marks, by feel, on his skin, on the walls, on the floor, on his clothes. Question mark: is he sane? Question mark: is he perfect? Question mark: is he already forgotten? Any available surface became a sketch board for this much worse off Riddler.