Jonathan Crane sat alone at his desk in Arkham, thin fingers threaded together and pressed against his mouth as his cold steely eyes bore a hole into the workspace.
The chill of the old building had mounted to a crux. Everyone but the few night guards, most of them highly questionable when it came to bribery and righteous morals, had left for the evening.
With them they took both the heat and the light, the sun having set hours ago and casting his office into a permanent blue wash.
Jonathan supposed he had nobody but himself to blame for that. If he really wanted the lights back on, he could do so with the flick of a switch.
But with the flick of that switch would come people who would notice his office light on.
And with people who would notice his light on would come people inquiring why he was still there at such a late hour.
And with people sticking their noses into things they had no business sticking their noses into came someone who was bound to notice the way Crane's hands, no matter how tightly laced, were trembling ever so slightly.
And he didn't want that. No. Not after everything he'd done. After everything he'd just accomplished.
His accomplishment was "The Reason". The reason he was at Arkham so late into the night, with a workday still ahead of him and the weekend days away. The reason he was sitting in the dark, intently focused on one area of his desk. The reason his hands were trembling slightly.
His accomplishment was chemicals.
A precise mixture of chemicals to be exact.
A mixture he had been perfecting for a very long time.
And he had, after deeming from other reactions from his... "patients", perfected this batch.
Being a scientist who believed in completely understanding the things he was doing= not just watching others react to his actions, he had to try it.
So, earlier that day- before everyone went home but after anyone stopped caring what he was up to or where he was going- he had dismissed himself to the basement of the asylum. A long room that was soundproof and, even more than that, was unknown to most of the staff at Arkham.
It was the perfect place to test his creation first hand.
The syringe was full of an amber liquid that sloshed gently back and forth under his grip, refracting the light in different shades of its original color.
He first checked the time; 7:04
Ears on high alert for intruders, he paused an uncountable amount of times from his actions of removing his suit jacket, sitting and finding a "comfortable" position on the frozen cement floor, rolling up his sleeve, and applying the tourniquet.
In fact, just after applying the tourniquet, a floorboard had randomly creaked, causing the unusually thin man to sit like a statue for nearly ten minutes- ears hearing every little sound and straining to detect the presence of another human. There had been nothing.
Finally; he was ready.
A deep breath.
The sharp pinch of a needle breaking the skin.
The finality of the plunger sinking down to the bottom of the barrel.
Another deep breath.
Another.
Another.
another.
anoth
an
If he had been coherent enough to remark upon anything, it probably would have been something about how quickly the drug had worked.
He would have known that he was having the same reaction time as all of his past subjects but that, in experiencing it first hand, it felt faster.
He probably would have pondered on this if he was able to. But he wasn't.
Instead, ripping away his coherency and steady breathing, the liquid racing through his veins tore him away from the basement.
And sent him crashing into his childhood.
Grandmother.
Cane.
Chapel.
Birds.
Grandmother.
Cane.
Chapel.
Birds.
Grandmother. Cane. Chapel. Birds.
Grandmothercanechapelbirdsgrandmothercanechapelbirdsgrandmothercanechepelbirdsbirdsbirds!birds!birds!
"You stupid boy!"
Smack!
"Grandmother! Please!"
"Put on your suit!"
"Please!"
Crack! (The cane came down faster than he could get out of the way.)
"Ah!"
"Get in there, boy! You can come out when you have atoned for your sins."
The double doors creaked shut.
Bang!
Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! CAw! CAw! CAW! CAW CAW! CAW! CAW! CAW!
The birds swarmed angrily.
Pecking.
Slashing.
Biting.
Always screaming.
Clouds of black.
Moving shadows.
Pain.
And then there was nothing.
Silence.
Jonathan Crane opened his eyes again to the cold, blank walls of the basement.
The ceiling was to his right and it took him far to long to realize that he was sprawled out on his side, hair matted to his head and glasses skewed across his face.
Deep Breath.
His breath trembled as it passed through him.
Deep breath.
It passed through clear.
One more.
And another.
Another.
Another.
The lean man slowly sat up and drew himself together, attempting to grasp what he had just been forced to relive.
A few feet away, buried in the pockets of his jacket, the watch read; 8:57.
Jonathan Crane sat alone at his desk in Arkham, thin fingers threaded together and pressed against his mouth as his cold steely eyes bore a hole into the workspace.
A small smile was stretching its way across his face, little by little flexing the rarely used muscles and letting the man physically express his pride and happiness.
It worked.
And it was everything he had hoped for.
Everything and than some.
But...
Why, than, was he distressed?
Because of his experience?
His grandmother was gone. He had made sure of that.
Gone- never to be found again- in that chapel she loved so much. Killed. By those birds she had trained with pride.
The toxin having run its course, Crane was surprised by the memory that surfaced in the dark Arkham office. It came at him mercilessly, flooding his senses and plunging him into darkness, attacking him in a way that he supposed water would have if he jumped into a frozen black lake and sank to the bottom.
"Have you learned your lesson, boy? Have you atoned?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Silence.
A single nod of approval.
"Get to bed."
The young boy, dangerously underweight, darted from the gaze of his great-grandmother.
The young boy, covered in scars both old and new, ran up to his room and shut the door after him.
The young boy, with mussed red hair, tore his worn and tattered suit off as quickly as he dared- throwing it out if sight into the closet.
The young boy, frightened and pained, clamored into bed just as his adrenaline was wearing off, body still trembling from fear.
He pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, listening carefully for his grandmother's angry approach (the woman deciding that he needed to be punished again- not because he had done anything wrong but just because she wanted to make sure that he learned his lesson). It never came.
Slowly, as not to make too much noise, the child leaned over the edge of the bed and felt around underneath. It was clean and clear for the most part; the only obstructions being a thick, musty old bible and... yes... he found it.
He pulled the object up to the surface and laid it next to him on the pillow.
An outworn, decrepit rabbit.
The fur, which at one point was probably soft and plush, was now rough and matted.
The lopped ears were tattered beyond repair. One had been torn clean off and sloppily sewn back on. The other was hanging on by only a single thread. (He wanted to fix it- he really did, but he was too scared to ask his grandmother for the materials necessary.)
The seams were loose in several places, stuffing oozing out and making the stuffed animal flat in some places. Four different patches marred its tanish-brown fur, each a different color and each in worse shape than the last- two of them no longer even holding the stuffing back any longer.
He whispered his secrets to this rabbit. He read to this rabbit when he wanted to read out loud, it was a very good listener after all; it wouldn't scold him for his tone or speed of reading, it wouldn't chastise his story choice, it wouldn't beat him for pronouncing a word wrong. He would sleep with the rabbit when he was scared, letting it comfort him silently.
The child, terrified and hurt, clung to the rabbit as if it could ward off the dangers and threats that haunted him every day: he hugged the stuffed animal and gave to it all the love he could never receive himself: he cuddled it to bring him the feeling of safety.
Slowly but surely, the boy fell asleep, lost to the world that didn't care about him.
Jonathan sighed inwardly.
He would need to document this; lasting effects of the toxin include continual flashbacks and random moments of panic.
The stuffed-animal-rabbit in question was over a thousand miles away. Locked forever in his old bedroom inside of a decaying old house that would eventually collapse and be forgotten.
He had left it there on purpose.
He wanted nothing from his past life.
Nothing to remind him of her.
That, unfortunately, included the rabbit. A thing that had witnessed the aftermath of every pain he'd gone through and had even experienced it with him once (hence the severed ear).
Besides, he was too old for stuffed animals.
The room grew darker over time, a blackish-blue color enveloping everything in it's path. It took awhile, as Jonathan was distracted, for him to notice that it was too dark for even shadows to show themselves.
Dr. Crane moved from the position he'd sat in for nearly two hours and brushed his spindly fingers through his hair while taking a deep breath, adjusting his glasses as he stood up.
A sudden whiteness filled his office and was quickly followed up by a clap of thunder, bring his attention to the fact that it was raining.
And I didn't pack an umbrella today. He huffed as he looked out the water-blurred windows.
Shuffling around his desk, he stacked papers and notes and files into his briefcase and clicked it shut.
It had been a long day.
It was time to get some rest.