There was blood pooling in her mouth from where she had bitten clean through her tongue during the last shock wave. The doctors all milled around about her head, humming quietly to themselves and scribbling nonsense on notepads as her sweat pooled beneath her on the metal slab table. The scratch of pens against paper buzzed in her ear like the cicadas she had once read about back when she was allowed to read. Scritch - scratch - scritch - scratch. Every sound was amplified, turning their delicate diagnostics into crashing gibberish in her ears that was nearly drowned out by scritch - scratch - scritch - scratch. There was a light shining just over her face, blinding her. She couldn't see who loomed over her after a moment; could only see that they blocked out the light of the lamp like blotting out the light of the sun.

"Why are you here?"

She couldn't talk, her tongue was severed.

"Are you a witch?"

She blinked back unconsciousness, her purple hair matted down and slick with sweat. She couldn't answer.

"Shock her again, this time at 200."

The man that blocked out the sun moved away and another figure appeared. Slimmer, shorter; a woman. The white sleeves of her lab coat were pushed up to her elbows as she brought two large metal rods down to either side of her patient's temple. Her yellow hair caught the lamp light, falling over her shoulder as she told her colleagues to clear the table and nodded for the charge to be flipped on. The ECT machine hummed to life and the girl on the table convulsed as 200 watts of electricity went ripping through her body.

Her teeth ground together until she thought they may break. Her limbs, strapped down to the table, thrashed violently. Her head shook back and forth in a futile attempt to dislodge the rods that sent current after current of all consuming pain through her. It felt like she was being torn to pieces and then said pieces were also being torn to pieces and so on and on for all of eternity. However, deep down she knew better. She had this treatment three times a week; she could run the whole operation herself. They couldn't run the charge for more than six seconds if they wanted to keep her alive.

"Enough." The pain stopped and she came back to herself and a high keening noise sounded from the back of her throat. Tears had forced themselves out of her eyes and were skittering down into her hair. The blonde doctor moved away and the man came back to blot out the sun once more. "Are you a witch?"

She shook her head 'no', whole body trembling like a leaf on a tree. Or a piece of trash in the street.

"Why are you here?"

Her mouth fell open with trembling lips, the copper tang of blood still lingering, but her tongue somehow managing to actually form words. It was stitched back together almost like it had never been otherwise.

"Because I have delusions about using magic," she uttered, shifting uncomfortably as she realized she had wet herself on the table. Again. "I think I can move things with my mind and...read people's thoughts."

"Can you?"

"No."

So broken, so unsure, yet still in that moment she swore she felt a smug satisfaction spring up at her own admittance of fraud. The doctor hummed his pleasure, finally moving the lamp away so the girl on the table could blink away the tears and spots in her eyes. The room was starting to empty, the asylum specialists all having other places to be and psychos to see. They unstrapped her wrists and feet as the main psychiatrist on her case helped her sit up, offering a paper cup of water.

"That's right," he cooed, voice like dripping oil as he smoothed a hand over her damp back. "That is all in your mind. Remember you came to us because you wanted help to free yourself of these delusions."

And what help they had provided. When she'd first arrived at the gates of Arkham Asylum, alone and at the edge of her rope, she'd had no idea what the doctors there would put her through. She had been so afraid of the constant rustling within her own mind, and worn down from the barrage of emotions flooding her at any moment she wasn't alone that the looming edifice of Gotham City's premier asylum had seemed like her only option. Three months in the bedlam and she was beginning to wonder if insane people were brought here for help, or if this was where insane people were created.

Still, the humming in her head had seemed...quieter since her treatments had begun. She smiled wanly at the man who had killed the sun. The orderlies were waiting to guide her like a zombie back to her room. There was no more scritch - scratch - scritch - scratch.

"Thank you, Dr. Crane," she murmured, slipping off the table, her wet pants chafing her thighs.

"You're welcome, Raven."