Mad House

By: BETTi

Prologue:

One would think that a criminal is a bad person. Well, I am here to prove that statement wrong. I myself am seen as a criminal with my head in the right, when in reality: the law and I- simply put- just do not see eye-to-eye with each other. Fortunately, that makes me an exquisite lawyer slash, criminal justice slash, physiological criminal therapist for the great Arkham Asylum in Gotham.

When people ask me where I work, they always seem to go into a state of horror and respect, as I mention to them that I work in an asylum. I make sure they see my quick smirk as I ask them where they work; of course this is only if they chose to stay to hear my question. Almost eighty percent of the time they smile and change the subject or merely walk away. Typical.

The most frequently asked questions to me on a normal day include: "How's your day been so far Dr. Courts?", "Shall I let the patient know you are ready for them Dr. Courts?", "Why and how the hell do you not get murdered in there? You do realize you just spent an hour with (insert name here), right?"

All of my answers are pretty much the same: "eh" or the common "yes/no". However my favorite response is this: "are you not aware that I am not the only one that works in this bloody asylum? Now that you be something to pester someone about, isn't that right Dr. Crane?" and, of course, Dr. Crane will of course, either peer out of his demented office door or simply reply from the privacy of his chaired desk: "Yes, now that would be quite strange indeed Dr. Courts."

And thus the day goes round.

Now, that I have given a brief occupation background, why not tell one that is a tad bit more domestic. Starting with my beloved, not-so childhood.

From the moment of my miserable conception I was destined to be a nerd. Not just interest wise, but academically as well. To be even more accurate, I was practically the definition of one. I would come to school every day wearing either flannel with my long, chestnut hair in a beanie and skinny jeans or one of my dad's old band t-shirts from the 80's and cargo shorts. Did I mention converse with everything?

I was smart, I was funny, however unlike most high scholars I had two genius parents who didn't even live together. I was very upset that I wasn't able to see my dad anymore, he would send me little trinkets in the mail, but it wasn't the same as actually seeing him. Whenever I would ask my mother if I could see my dad- or even call him for that matter- the answer would be a distracted 'no'.

This was so frustrating but I guess I didn't care all that much, I hadn't seen my dad since I was in sixth grade. The fact that I was a senior in high school now, I wondered if he was going to show up for my graduation. Yeah, graduation was still five months away but I needed to know so I could tell my teachers and friends. Not to mention, intoxicate myself with the idea that he would even be there in the first place.

My mother and father didn't divorce, they just didn't live together. Since my dad worked in Gotham and we lived in the neighboring city of Rikshea, they both agreed that they would spend less money on gas and food and, well everything, if he just stayed in the big city until he got his time off around holidays and personal vacations. I loved my dad, I still do, and it is just hard for me to think of him the way that everyone over here wants me to think of him: some psychopathic murderer who has no sense of life and death.

It pains me to hear the security officers and core members say about him, and knowing clearly I cannot say anything in reference or defense to his family or himself... our family.

But besides the fact, my family was broken and my mother confound herself to our basement, where she worked up until her death a few weeks before graduation was to be held.

As I was walking home from the bus stop, I noted the distant sound of sirens. I would have been more anxious if we didn't live in the midget city of Rikshea right outside of the massive crime city of Gotham. However, as I kept walking towards my home the sound kept getting louder and more shrilled.

Panicking now, I sped up my tempo just so I could evade the annoying stabbing ringing and get home a bit faster.

Living near a river, if you could call it that, you got used to weird smells. However the whiff I got did not smell natural or like oil, burning rubber, or fire. It had to be some chemical, but which one?

Being very active in the chemistry teams and mechanics clubs, I could flip through the elements quite speedy. Unfortunately this one wasn't on any of my mental sticky notes or libraries of files from prior courses. Something that obviously didn't agree with electricity and oil, but that was all I had.

Disappointed with myself for not eliminating more of the possibilities I slowed my trek from bus to home.

That was a mistake.

I saw the chemical semi-truck on its side on our already pitiful front lawn. Our garage was nothing more than broken glass and my mom's old motorcycle. My mom's "office" was in the basement right below the front door- which was non-existent now that the semi had established its residency.

Frantic I shuffled around back, the cellar doors led straight to mom's "office". She knew that, I knew that, even though I knew better than to interrupt her works in progress. The door was closed.

Damnit, I muttered to the door and to myself. If mom was in there still she was in for it if the chemicals had gotten down to her, not only because she couldn't swim but also she had so many fucking computers and electric wiring everywhere. No wonder dad called her a fucking spider; I had a brief smirk on my face as I fumbled for my keys.

The stench from the chemicals was irritating my eyes and my patience.

Why the hell didn't she get out of there? Panicking quite a lot now I managed to get the doors open, well one of the two that is, Swear words pounding through my brain.