I am having some writer's block with my other story, Lonely Hearts, so I decided I'd try my hand at a little one shot. Please R/R, I'm feeling like a bit of a failure at the moment. :3
The bitter sting of the dry wind on my skin is almost welcome.
Another ordinary day in Arkham, I am taking my daily "outing." I always pick the same route.
East, circling the courtyard, glimpsing the frozen branches where delicate blossoms would bloom, come spring. The walk is the highlight of my day.
After it's over, it's nearly time for lunch. My other, admittedly darker side can be controlled by medication, and therefore I must partake in my bland meal with my fellow patients.
It is hell.
I close my eyes and let myself be swayed by the wind, my too-small frame trembling with cold. I feel a tap on my shoulder. "Jonathan, it's time for lunch."
A sigh escapes my lips, and I turn to make the short trek to the lunchroom, a sparsely-lit cavern puncuated by sounds of "safe" sporks clanging on plates, sometimes being stabbed at other inmates. Why am I here, in this godforsaken place?
I should've lobbied for some regulation changes when I had the chance. Arkham Asylum is a run-down train wreck, the dirtiest crack whore of all asylums. It is partially my fault.
After lunch comes the so-called "Recreational Period." More like "Fun With Psychopaths." Even the maximum security inmates are forced to attend, though we have our own special Rec Room.
Did I mention him yet? You know who I mean. The clown.
Today he was finally allowed out of solitary confinement, and placed in a regular cell. Right next to mine. As you can imagine, I was practically skipping with joy.
He was at lunch today, too. Is it out of spite that he came to sit next to me? Or sheer insanity? I often wonder about him...
We sit on a dilapidated sofa in the special Rec Room, staring at an ancient television playing re-runs of "Friends." My stomach lurches as he gives in to his nervous tick, licking his lips and grinning at me.
"So, 'Crow, what do you, uh, do for fun around here?", he asks, with that obnoxious smile on his face. I clear my throat. "Sleep.", I reply eloquently.
He doubles over in peals of laughter. His nasal voice is starting to get on my nerves. I stand up and walk away, feeling a pair of dark, dark eyes burning into me as I do so.
At least I don't have to deal with the clown all the time.
Back in my cell, I count the number of cracks in the plexiglass wall that lets me look out into the long row of identical prisons. 27. They are small, but if I exherted enough force, I could smash it. Who put those cracks there, I wonder?
A frightened inmate, desperately hitting the glass, fingers shaky, dripping blood?
A strong one being forced into the tiny cell, trying in vain to beat their way out?
Whoever it was, they're not here now. I, however, am.
Nighttime is worst for me. My feet are freezing as I stand up from my bed, another night of insomnia depriving me of the sleep I so desperately need. I glare through the plexiglass at the inmate across from me, also awake. I never noticed before, but it's Isley. Pamela Isley, AKA Poison Ivy.
She is shivering in her orange jumpsuit, shapely arms wrapping around her torso, trying to keep warm. I turn around so I don't have to look at her.
These people disgust me. They are murderers, liars, cheats, and some are just idiots. Sometimes I feel I am the only sane one.
I lay back down on the bed (if it could even be called a bed) and think about deep subjects. Sometimes that helps with the sleepless nights.
Why am I here? Why are we here? How did we get here? Are we alone in the universe? Are the dead really gone?
I ponder each one until my head aches and I finally drift off into sleep. I am haunted by dreams of shadowy figures, tall black bats looming over me and choking me.
They think I have no fear.
One dream gives way to another. I am running through the halls of the asylum, staring at the patients in their cells. He laughs at me, and I hate it.
I hate it.
I run faster and faster, until I am gasping for breath. That's when I feel him, twisting within me.
Scarecrow.
The medication must've not been enough. He struggled his way to the front of my consciousness, and festered there like a diseased wound.
"Jonny-boy! I've missed you. It's been awfully lonely in here without you to think about."
"Leave me alone, Scarecrow. Now is not the time for this."
"Time for what? I'm always here, Jonny. I'll never leave you again."
I awoke with a shudder, my hands clutching at the threadbare blanket before throwing it off. Was it a dream?
"Of course it wasn't a dream."
Today's outing is the same as always, snow drifting to the ground. We walk together, him and I, like two old friends.
We have another silent companion. He is always behind us, reminding us of how short a time we have here.
He goes by many a name, but we only need one.
His hands are the coldest winter.
His eyes are the blackest night, frozen and glittering.
Beautiful, but cold.
One day we will walk with him, but we will never return to the lunchroom, or the cell, or even Arkham.
But that is a story for another day.
For now, we walk hand in hand, and he waits for us, for the day we will depart as friends, together.
To another place, and another Winter.