Lordlink13: Because I love my readers (and the many cookies I received for bribery), I'll tell ya that I've already decided before I was even halfway through Joker's Shadow that I'd write a sequel. It was only a matter of getting there…and a whole lot of crumpled up paper to get good enough ideas to work with. The Joker wasn't helping, bouncing around the room and particularly screaming at the top of his lungs of how he wanted Shadow back. I love him for it, though. And let me tell you, just like Joker's Shadow, Shadow's City had a difficult beginning – meaning difficult to write. I didn't know who to start with and what to do with them. Mr. J's telling me to stop talking and to get on with the story, which I shall, because I know you care more about the story rather than me. *winks* I mean, some of you were tempted to kill me for leaving the previous story as an evil cliffie. *grins* Mr. J didn't like it either. Torturing him is so much fun.
The night guard had checked every room, turning the lights down for dimness though the cells themselves were dark. This was Arkham Asylum; the patients were never allowed to be in complete darkness for concern of how they would handle it and what they might do to themselves.
I leaned over the sink, my hands gripping the edges tightly. I glared into my reflection in the mirror – even I was surprised they let me use one while being in a cell – hating what I was seeing.
The dim lights from the hallway weren't that great, but I've looked at the mirror so many times to know what I was seeing quite clearly.
A woman, in her mid-twenties maybe, stared back at me. She had a decent face, no freckles, nice skin with a high forehead. Red straight hair tumbled around her head, curving behind her small ears. Her eyes were a gentle blue, and despite the black circles under them, she looked awake and intelligent. She looked normal, but as I scowled at her, she returned the scowl, her bushy eyebrows frowning.
What I hated was the fact that I had to look at my reflection and not know who I was.
I don't know what happened; all of my memories have been erased. My first memory was waking up in the intensive care wing of the hospital where I was surrounded by doctors and nurses. They had told me that the police had found me. Someone had bashed my head in with a metal bat and had left me to die.
Maybe it was a sense of déjà vu, but I think I've heard that before. Not the bashing my head in, no, I mean the last part, of someone leaving me to die.
It didn't matter what they told me. The more questions they answered, the more questions they proposed. According to them, the professionals, it's a miracle that I was still alive.
Not to mention that I had managed to heal completely over a month…well, almost. My head had been in bandages while I sat in court, awaiting whether I'd go to one place or the other. The pain in my head wouldn't allow me to remember anything that happened during the trial, but I do remember asking my attorney if I could have a rubber band to play with.
I released the sink and raised my hands, watching them as they gradually began to tremble. The doctors said it was some nerves that got messed up with the head wound, but over the past few weeks, they shook less and less, as long as I gave them something to do, whether it was eating, drawing, or twiddling my thumbs.
Looking up at my reflection again, I thought the same thing that I always thought when I look in the mirror, after the self-hatred: Who am I? What's my name? What's my age?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to search the depths of my mind. My hearing caught a high-pitched ringing noise, one I knew that no one else heard. It always came whenever I tried to dredge my memories, like it was guarding those memories that I have been told that they weren't just out of my reach; they had been wiped, without a trace.
I clenched the edges of the sink as a wave of emotion overcame me. I stiffened as tears slipped from under my eyelids. This always happened, whenever I tried. I wanted to know who I was; my sacrifice was losing control, losing to my overwhelming emotions, emotions I didn't understand.
It started to hurt, and I gave up, relaxing my grip on the sink. I opened my eyes and then wiped them with the sleeve of my jumpsuit. As I looked up at my mirror again, I caught sight of someone standing near my door.
I glanced over my shoulder, and sure enough, a guard was standing there, watching me. "Sorry," I said quietly.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice husky. I didn't recognize his voice and wondered if Arkham had gotten a night guard-in-training. Squinting at him, I tried to make out his face, but his face was shadowed with the dim light behind him. He waited for a few moments before repeating his question, sounding slightly irritated. "Are you o-kay?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, stepping away from the sink and moving toward my cot. I kept my gaze on him, suddenly unsure if he was a guard or not. The night guard usually moved on by now, but this one, he simply stood there, watching my every move.
I sat down on the cot and propped myself against the wall, wishing he would just leave. He stood there for a few more moments before turning slowly and moving on.
I exhaled, realizing that I had been holding my breath, but my relief didn't last long. The night guard would no doubt write about this in his report, and it would get to my doctor. I would be questioned about my nightly activities, even though this didn't occur often. This was the last thing I ever wanted to be questioned about by an callous doctor.
I settled back against the wall and closed my eyes, pressing my head against the cool cement surface. My head began to throb with the aftermath of my emotional stress. It tormented me that I couldn't find any memories, much more than whenever I try to reach them, it only causes me pain. Because of having my head bashed in with a bat, I've had headaches enough, and they were quite painful, so painful that I would get sick and be unable to eat anything.
Oh, yes, my life was ex-citing!
Five minutes later, the night guard returned, checking inside to see if she was still awake. She had shifted her position and was now lying down on her side, her legs curled up slightly toward her body. He watched her as she slept – and he knew she was asleep because of her deep breathing.
In the shadow of the dim light, a scarred mouth turned up into a satisfied smile. He touched the bars of her door with a hand, his free one clenching the ring of keys at his side. Even as he moved the keys toward the lock, she murmured something in her sleep, slowly turning over onto her other side.
He brought his face close to the bars, straining to hear what she was saying, but he could just barely make out one word: Jack.
The smile faded slowly from his scarred lips. He half-turned and hung his head for a few moments before looking in on her again. She had settled down, and was frowning, like she wasn't happy about what she was dreaming.
He didn't want to leave her, but he knew that he had limited time. If the night guard checked his room, he'd sound the alarm, and being put in lock-up wasn't what he had in mind when he only wanted to visit her, to see if she was handling her situation all right. Even if he had to risk, he would, but she'd only been here a few weeks.
It wasn't like he knew if seeing him would spark any memory in her. The Arkham staff purposely kept them apart, like they feared that if they were seen together, they might be in danger, or worse; the two of them would break out and cause trouble throughout Gotham City.
The thought made him grin, his scars peeling his lips away from his teeth, but it only lasted for a short while.
Heaving a deep sigh, he moved away from her cell, disappearing down the hallway. He'd try something tomorrow. Besides, some of the guards could use a little more…profit.
"Good morning," Dr. Keaton said as he entered the interview room, "How are you feeling today?"
I watched him as he sat down across from me. He set a manila folder down with his notepad and took a few moments to look through the contents of the folder – which no doubt was all the information they had on me. He was oblivious, clearly reluctant to be here. He didn't seem to even notice that I hadn't responded to his question.
Finally, he adjusted his round glasses and leaned forward, his clasped hands resting on the papers in my folder, like he was trying to hide them from me. He looked up and quirked an eyebrow, silently repeating his question.
The simple gesture spoke volumes about his character, his callousness, but I had to respond. "Worse."
"Feeling more depressed?" he asked, in a so callous tone. "Even with the medication?"
I was so tempted to say, "Nah, Doc, I'm feeling more depressed with the medication", but I held my tongue, knowing that he'd take it seriously…and the wrong way. Instead, I gave him a quick nod.
"Maybe I should give you a higher prescription."
"I don't want to die on an overdose," I said, quickly, "Not after what I've been through."
Hearing this, he gave the impression that he was interested, but I wasn't fooled. "Do you remember?"
"Only what they've told me," I replied, adding – before he could ask who 'they' are – quickly, "Meaning the doctors at the Hospital of Gotham."
Dr. Keaton made a quick note of this, scribbling away on his notepad with ease. While I waited for him, I leaned back and looked about the plain room with white cement walls and dark one-way windows. If only they would add a little color so that I didn't feel like I was in jail…
"Why would you be more depressed?" my callous doctor asked.
"You would be too, if you couldn't remember who you were." My tone was sharp, but seeing his flinch, I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. "Sorry, Dr. Keaton…is there anything that you're allowed to give me, like my files, that I could look at, see if I remember anything?"
He closed my manila folder and placed his elbows on it, his clasped hands before him. "I'm afraid not," he replied with ease, like he thought he was the one in control. "You haven't remembered anything during your stay here?"
I sighed. "All I know is my name is Jane McKinley, and I'm…about twenty-four. And I'm here for more than just my memory loss," I added, shaking my handcuffs that were chained to the metal table, which in turn were bolted down. "I don't know what I've done, but it must have been something terrible to land me in a place that seems too much like a prison."
Dr. Keaton was silent as I rubbed my knuckles, with my eyes down on the table. He noted my actions, or my response, or even my comment about the place, and then leaned forward over the table. "Do you know where you are, Ms. McKinley, for starters?"
"An asylum," I replied after a moment's thought. "I can tell by the screams that I can hear every night."
He gave no negative reaction – or positive, for that matter. "Do they bother you?" he asked. "These screams? Are they the reason you can't sleep?"
"No, they are background music…uncalled for, but they're not the reason. I just can't sleep. I'm exhausted, but…my mind keeps racing, like I'm trying to click the pieces into place so that I know who I am." Then, I narrowed my eyes, realizing that my psychiatrist hadn't told me where I was, not even hinted. I disliked him even more for that. "Where am I exactly?" I asked.
Without hesitation, Dr. Keaton replied coolly, "Arkham Asylum of the Criminally Insane."
"I'm criminally insane?" The concept was interesting, but amusing. My mouth twitched. "That doesn't really explain the handcuffs, the chains, and the bars along the walls. I can understand if I had an irresistible impulse to hurt someone." I raised my eyebrows slightly, noting how nervous my psychiatrist had suddenly become. "Everything okay, Doc?"
"Yes, everything's fine," he replied, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat as he opened my folder and flipped a page. I glanced at the one-way windows, squinting to see if I might see what Dr. Keaton had seen…or heard. He could be wearing a mic in his ear and had been informed of something that might make him nervous around me.
I wondered if it was about my encounter with the night guard from last night, but why would me having a breakdown during the night make Dr. Keaton nervous?
I turned my attention back to him and could tell by the way his eyes darted from side to side over the page that he was absorbed into what he was reading.
I decided to ask while he was distracted. "Dr. Keaton, am I allowed to ask what you think my condition is?" I asked, "Besides the amnesia."
He jumped slightly, startled out of his intense reading. "Um, yes, you can." He looked down at my papers again before suddenly lifting his head. "I mean, no, that's classified information."
"How is it classified from me?" I asked, losing control. "I don't a single thing about myself, and you're keeping information that could spark something. Classified from me. I see how it is." I rolled my head on my shoulders, cracking my neck. "That's okay, don't tell me. I have a creative imagination that I put to use quite often when it concerns things that my jerk of a doctor who doesn't care about me, his patient, and doesn't tell me anything!" He flinched as I continued. "At least it keeps me from losing it."
He blinked and leaned forward slightly, this time really trying to be interested, as he explained, "I'm sorry, Ms. McKinley, but it was a suggestion on Dr. Arkham's behalf that we withhold information from you so that you will remember things on your own. We…I am here to help you deal with the emotions of having to try figuring things out on your own. You can't say that I don't care about your welfare."
"My welfare isn't the same thing as me," I snapped.
He leaned back, trying to put as much distance between us as he could without being obvious – though he was quite obvious to me. "Then let me help you," he said, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "I've told you at our first session, that in order for me to help you-."
"I needed to open up to you, I know," I finished, rolling my eyes. "I don't need help, Dr. Keaton. Even if I'm in an asylum for the criminally insane, that doesn't mean that I'm insane. This has nothing to do with my mental health; this is about me being dangerous enough to be put in handcuffs" – I jiggled them in front of his face – "And about my loss of memory, or I should've said, lack of."
"This could now be about your mental health, Ms. McKinley," Dr. Keaton said.
I narrowed my eyes and dropped some of my hostility. "What makes you say that?"
He cleared his throat and explained, "You just said that it was your imagination that kept you from losing it. What exactly did you mean?"
"Whoa, you were paying attention," I said, widening my eyes in mock surprise. A frown appeared on his face, disapproving of my mockery. "I could mean many things. Who wouldn't go insane listening to screams every night, or being locked in their room all day, for six days a week, with only their doctor for company, for only an hour?" I dropped my gaze to my hands, realizing that they were shaking from the aftermath of my anger outburst. I started rubbing my knuckles again as I said, "But that's what you decided was best for me, isn't it, Dr. Keaton?"
He didn't reply, but I could hear his pen scribbling down notes onto his pad. I lifted my head and asked, "Wanna know how I spend my days?"
"Sure," he said, without looking up from what he was writing. The callousness was back, making me frown with displeasure, but he continued. "You've been here for over a month and must have fallen into a regular schedule."
"Not really," I responded. "Sure, I know the times for the meals. The rattle of the food carts is the ringing of the school bell. And whenever the guard comes to get me, I know I'm going to see and talk to you. Lights out tells me when to go to sleep, and lights on are for waking up. My waking hours consist of eating, drawing, thinking, and exercising, though I'm very limited in exercises in such a small room."
"That's the typical size, Ms. McKinley. We treat our patients fairly."
"More like prisoners of war," I murmured under my breath, rebelliously.
"What was that?"
I shrugged. "I've formed a habit of talking to myself quietly too. Ya know, so I don't forget how to talk." I was losing my patience in being with my doctor, the man who didn't care about anything I had to say. He made no effort to help, and I hated it.
Dr. Keaton sensed my irritation. He put down his pen and looked at me, taking off his glasses. "Your mood swings are being affected by your lack of sleep, Ms. McKinley. Perhaps we call this session to an end, and if you wish, we can continue either later today or tomorrow, after you have rested a bit."
"Whatever you say, Doctor." I was done with being polite, and he could tell.
"Scott will return you to your cell, and one of the inmates will give you some sleeping pills," Dr. Keaton continued as the guard entered the room, "To help you."
I ignored him as Scott freed my handcuffs from the table, clipping them to a ring on his belt with a chain. To my surprise, the guard produced a leather collar that he buckled around my neck.
"What's that for?" I demanded. The collar had two chains, one that connected to Scott's belt and the other that he attached to the never-ending bar that resided on both sides of all the hallways in the asylum.
"Extra precaution," the guard replied as he pulled me out into the hallway. We headed back toward my cell.
I really wanted a different doctor, maybe someone who would be sympathetic toward me and my condition, someone who would actually tell me some things, or just hint at them so I can try to figure it out with them helping.
I had heard of one patient who had a record of being difficult for many doctors. No one wanted to work with him, and everyone believed that there was no possible way to cure him. I've overheard the guards when they switched posts. The patient was a very popular topic, mainly because he did all sorts of things to get attention, and he didn't seem to do it regularly either.
Doctors, guards, or patients of Arkham Asylum couldn't guess what he would do next or when. Even he claims he doesn't know.
I wondered what I had to do – maybe do something like that one troublesome patient – to get rid of Dr. Keaton so I can get a better doctor, who would help rather than control, like Keaton.
An intern stopped my guard, so I came to a halt behind him. I didn't like the collar on my neck; it was irritating. It was tight enough to touch me, but not enough to choke me. I glared at the chain that attached it to my guard's belt. If I was suicidal, that would be the way I'd try to kill myself, strangle myself with that chain.
Suddenly, there was an abrupt cry from down the hall, and then a burst of sinister laughter. "Oh, come on! It's only a scratch!" A chill ran down my spine as four security guards ran past, headed for a patient down the hall. I tried to peek over Scott's shoulder, but he purposely blocked my view.
"Careful! He's armed," a guard shouted.
"He's not supposed to be down this hallway!" Scott yelled.
"What? Not allowed?" There was an amused giggle. "Since when was I limited, Scotty?"
"Shut up, clown! Give up! Someone get the knife from him!"
"No!" he crackled. "I wanna know why I'm not allowed down here." His loud voice was moving closer, and Scott stiffened. Even as they came closer, I could spot them over Scott's shoulder, seeing five guards holding onto a struggling patient in a straitjacket.
I blinked, my mouth dropping open slightly. Time seemed to slow as I caught sight of the patient's features.
He appeared to be in his late twenties, his curly dirty blond hair whipping across his face as he struggled against the guards. He was laughing, enjoying this as he jerked his head, his eyes darting like he was searching for something. When his eyes caught mine, I stiffened.
Those brown eyes…so filled with laughter and…madness. They haunted me more than the gruesome scars that cut out and up his cheeks, stretching his smile beyond the limits.
His laughter cut off abruptly, and he slid his tongue over his lower lip, grinning wickedly. The movement caught my attention, and I narrowed my eyes. Was that…familiar?
My breath caught in my throat, and I reacted like I was choking for a moment. A sharp pain jolted through my head. I raised my hands, clenching my forehead, taking a sharp intake of air through my clenched teeth. I heard him grunt as one of the guards smacked him over the head with a baton, and he hung limply in the others' hold.
They dragged him away, but he still lifted his head, flashing his Glasgow smile at me. I watched him go, despite Scott's attempts to get me moving again. The patient laughed out loud when he saw that I was resisting, and anger shot through me. I started away, following after Scott, but I had to look, to see where they were dragging him.
Before the guards could drag the patient around the corner and out of my sight, he whistled at me to gain my attention, and then gave me a wink. Then, he burst into a fit of laughter as he disappeared.
Back in my cell, I sat down on my cot, rubbing my neck first before moving to my wrists to rub the feeling of the handcuffs off – and to give my hands something to do before they started shaking again. The intern who talked to Scott appeared at my cell, and I retrieved the small paper cup he gave me, the one with my prescription pills, including a sleeping drug to help me relax. I simply set it on my little table and lied down on my cot, my mind wandering over my encounter with the infamous giggling patient.
It seemed interesting that he had been on my mind moments before I crossed paths with him in the hallway. The way he acted as he had struggled, like he was looking for someone, only to find me. His parting action, the wink, couldn't have been something his madness forced him to do. And the idea that he was in the hallway that he wasn't supposed to be in.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Lordlink13: Like I said before, this was a difficult chapter to write. I actually needed help from a friend who was kind enough to write part of the scene to see if she could figure out where I was going. Anyone ever have that? Writer's block, when you know what you want to happen, but can't seem to put it down? I wish it didn't exist, but everyone needs to be blocked in something, right? Makes us all stronger in the end. Okay, I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter. Please review! I want to see if I can get more reviews for this story than my first. If that fails…I'll cry. So please take time to review every chapter you read, even if it's a simple "loved this chapter". I'm talking to those people who are lazy or who just catch to whenever we are in the chapter – I'm obviously talking about the future. That's all I'm asking, and for those who aren't lazy, tell me what you think and again give me suggestions, remarks, or critics when you see them pop up. Nobody's perfect. I know I'm not. (And a side note: last book I had said that Emma Stone seemed to fit Shadow, if this was a movie. I've changed my mind. Claire Forlani from The Medallion is totally Shadow.)
