Let's trudge through the muck…
First of all I do not own anything affiliated with Batman Begins, I'm not profiting from this. My car insurance company can vouch for me. I do own Kyra, Demitri, Cathy, and Lesley. Please do not use any of my characters without my permission. So, tell me what you think, if you like it, great, it you hate it, tell me what could be improved. I implore constructive criticism. I don't expect any flames, I've read many reviews posted by readers and all of you seem to be very encouraging. This is much appreciated.
Secondly, I feel I should warn you; this is a somewhat slow story of the gradual breakdown of one Arkham patient. If you're expecting great action, there's not too much here, abuse yes, but no real action. I might possibly write a sequel. If you are offended by language, suggestive situations, abuse, attempted rape or anything of that nature, I encourage you to find a different story to read. If you're somewhat twisted like me, then by all means, climb on board.
This story is of AU, so if things don't correlate with the movie, I'm aware of that. This is fan fiction, remember? Please enjoy!
This is my first fan fiction story to actually be posted. Please don't obliterate me.
Prologue
'So, you think you have insight?'
Penetrative blue eyes behind feminine frames drill into me as I sit at the opposite side of the table. I am grateful for the distance. He sits in front of me, in his expensive suit protected underneath a flawless white smock. Slender but strong hands folded neatly in front of him on the table, his expression expecting. The energy in the room is overwhelming as he observes me. He's arrogant, and rightly so, I collect that he is an intelligent man as his reputation has so poignantly deemed him. 'I expect I'll get an unwelcome taste of that intellect.'
Dr. Jonathan Crane is beautiful no doubt, a pleasant sight in this drab and dreary place of screams and incoherent verbal ejaculations. The air is thick with oppression and misery, weighting the walls, compressing the ceilings. But my doctor, he is beautiful, with his carved cheekbones and plush rose lips. It doesn't settle with me though, the devil himself is noted for his dark, unmistakable beauty, a luring device many are caught upon. Despite my doctor's apparent beauty, there's something twisted about him. The way those hauntingly predatory eyes scan mercilessly over me, send electric shivers up my spine. He's calculating, cold, and he's searching for something. But that's partly why I'm here isn't it? I'm under his care until he finds what it is he needs. This gives me a certain degree of power and subconsciously, I believe he knows this. But still I linger on one simple thought:
'I owe him nothing.'