Eyes still closed, I stumbled out of bed and slammed my hand down on the alarm clock, which promptly stopped its insufferable beeping. I pulled a crisp, white button down shirt off of its hanger and buttoned it up until only the first four or five buttons remained undone. I rubbed my eyes vigorously, removing any sleepies that were there, and looked into the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. My deep auburn hair framed my face in a wild and untamed fashion, not unlike the mane of a lion. I tried brushing through it as best I could, and with the help of some hair product and a lot of patience, I managed to tame the long tresses into a sleek, wavy style. I pulled on my black suit jacket and flared trousers, brushed my teeth, and put on some very light make-up. Today was my first day of interning at Arkham Asylum under the noted psychologist, Dr. Johnathan Crane. To say I was excited was a gross understatement; I was looking forward to helping Dr. Crane in his research and getting some hands-on experience working with the criminally insane, a career path that had always held an interest for me since I was very young.
I slung my black messenger bag over my shoulder, grabbed an apple, my keys, and left my apartment. I walked briskly to my car, and started out on the relatively short drive to Arkham.
Once I arrived, I checked in with the receptionist, a rather trashy thirtysomething with blue eye make-up and a shirt several sizes too small, who lead me down a hallway to Dr. Crane's office. It was fairly quiet on the floor, and I figured patients were either kept in soundproof cells or were on a different floor.
The receptionist knocked rather obnoxiously on the door, and a voice from within said "Come in," in a clipped, annoyed tone. The door opened to reveal a generic psychologist's office: a large mahogany desk, two leather chairs on my side, bookcases filled with volumes of psychological essays, and posters of noted psychologists. Dr. Crane sat on a high-backed leather chair, several files open in front of him. He was leaning back slightly while fiddling with a digital recorder in his lap.
I could not deny that his man was extremely attractive. His eyes were ice-blue, piercing and beautiful, set above high cheekbones on a soft, feminine face. His brown hair was brushed back, but long enough that it curled slightly at the ends and fell over his forehead, giving it a slightly tousled look. His full lips were a slightly darker shade of pink than the rest of his face, and they stood out because of his paleness. He gestured for me to have a seat across from him, and I sat down, nervously twisting the strap of my bag around my hands. At this closer proximity, I could see very small lines under his eyes, giving him a tired, worn expression. He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and we began the preliminary interviewing.
"It says that you are currently in the graduate program for psychology at Gotham University, but completed your undergraduate work..." he trailed off, looking at me expectantly.
"Oh, I uh, that is I went to college at Stanford before moving to Gotham," I spluttered, cursing myself for being so flustered just because I found him attractive. I'm a professional woman, for God's sake, I chided myself, I need to get myself together.
"Ah, Stanford. Well that certainly does reflect the intelligence I look for in prospective interns. Here at Arkham, we put much emphasis on the application of existing concepts in psychology to develop more cutting-edge way of dealing with some of the, ah, unique problems some of our patients here exhibit," he replied.
His voice was cold and detached in such a way that it seemed he was thinking about something else, and not paying attention to the conversation at hand. I wasn't insulted by this, after all he was the head psychologist at an insane asylum, and that must put tremendous stress on an individual.
"I see, and what does the position of intern entail? I was given a brief overview of it by your... receptionist, but I would like to gain a clearer picture of the job from the person who is overseeing it. I understand that you are researching fear, and its effects on the human mind," I said, hoping that my knowledge of his current research would make up for my crippling awkwardness overall.
He was looking past me, and it seemed he was listening to something, and I strained my ears but heard nothing. I waited politely for a few moments, and then inquired softly, "Dr. Crane? Did you hear what I just said?"
My voice seemed to being him out of whatever just occurred. He shook himself slightly and looked at my apologetically. "I'm sorry, Ms...-"
"Duval. Juliette Duval," I filled in.
"Ms. Duval. I apologize. I'm usually not this distracted, it's just my research, managing this facility, and... other factors have my mind elsewhere. It's utterly unprofessional of me. Please, what was it you were asking me?"
He looked strained, and nervous, as if he almost said something he didn't mean to reveal.I was happy for my background in psychology; Dr. Crane's impassive exterior would fool almost any other person, but to a more well-trained eye, it was apparent this man had something bothering him.
"It's completely fine, Dr. Crane, the stresses of managing such a large and reputable facility takes its toll on the mind," I said pointedly.
I hoped he didn't think I was being too forward. In my head, a checklist was running itself against my observations, trying to diagnose and identify the problems of my fellow psychologist. I mentally slowed the list, reprimanding myself. This man was my superior; the only reason I was finding issues was because I was looking for them. That isn't to say there was something off about him; I was simply looking for a way to distract myself from the intense feelings of attraction this man was stirring up inside me.
"Since you seem to have no other inquiries," he began after a few moments of silence, "I'll brief you very quickly on what I'm researching, since I am sure you're already somewhat familiar with my work. I am currently researching fear and the psychology behind it. I strive to understand what fear is in its basest sense, and why it can drive even the most sane people over the cliff of insanity."
"That sounds fascinating," I replied somewhat unsteadily. His voice had changed almost imperceptibly; it had been deeper, more intense, almost searching. His eyes made me feel as though I was one of his patients. They were darker, piercing, and intimidating. I held his stare for as long as I could. He looked as though he wanted to ask me something, but instead held back. He politely dismissed me, assigning me to mundane, clerical tasks until he could introduce me to his research specifically.
That night, I turned in my bed, the sheets trapping my legs. This man was utterly confusing, but there was also something very interesting about him. After I had gotten home, I did some more research on Dr. Crane, to find out exactly who this man was. I found that he used to teach at a university, but resigned after he was found experimenting on students with regard to his fear research. This was unexpected. Dr. Crane seemed to be a cool and collected, albeit distracted man. There was just something peculiar about him, something I couldn't quite place. It was just off, like when I dealt with some of my first mentally disturbed patients who were beyond just depression or bipolar disorder.
There was something very dark, very deeply attractive about him. I don't just mean his looks; I sensed a darkness in his mind, one that I found frightening and very alluring at the same time.
My dreams were broken, hazy half-memories of his face. I woke up with a sweet, demanding throbbing in between my legs, but brushed it off, as I needed to be at the asylum on time.