Fox: Sup? Well, this just sorta of happened... I know have many others to work on but this would refused to leave me be! So, I'm taking a shot with this one since I haven't touched on DC too much. Killer Croc is based on the Arkham Origins design.

Plus, I've seen there is small issues with Croc's skin color? Okay, from what I've seen in the recent New 52, the relations of his are white...so I'm gonna presume he is white too? But if you don't agree then imagine him as you will. That's okay as this is just fan works. I mean, I don't care as I find his gator appearance adorable o_o Everyone is entitled to their opinion. (Just don't flame me for it thanks...)

Warnings/Triggers: There is physical abuse, cutting and other sensitive material within this Fic. I will not go into heavy detail but still, you been warned.

I have sat in this confining box called my room for two years now. I cannot say I've seen much that is I've heard much more. Screams of terror, electricity pulsating, pleads for help and the most disturbing of them all is a maniacal laughter that seems to echo throughout the darkness. I have yet to run into the mad creature that owns such an evil laugh but I feel that is better that way.

I doubt that I will meet any of those that I have heard. I am told that I reside on the first floor and have no need to travel lower. That is where the truly mad and misshapen prowl.

I grit my teeth as my wrists begin to itch again. How annoying that I've been advised to leave them be. It's a part of my healing process as I am once more told. That's all people do!

My fingers feel the wrappings that are bound tightly on my thin wrists. The problem is just skin deep... I dig my nails into the bandages and scratch as rough as I can. My tips are met with a warm thick liquid.

People just want and want. Never give anything in return. How rude is that?

I imagine my reflection is quite horrifying. A pale face twisted in sweet pain, disgust and sorrow. Do I look mad? I have wondered many times before. Mirrors and reflective surfaces are useless to me. They do not go beneath the flesh.

I settle my marred arms on my knee covered yoga pants. I care not they will stain the fabric. I can feel it trickle down and onto the plaster floor. My ear twitches slightly as I strain to hear it drip down the air vent. I ponder how they will react to my self preservation?

My chapped lips turn into a smirk when I recall what the doctors call my 'preservation'. Self mutilation. It is not scarring if I can't see it. Scars don't make the body ugly. They tell stories of struggle, addiction, and self loathing. My therapist called my drive something else.

I feel vibrations through the tips of my toes as it travels up my spine. I jerk my shoulders. After I learned to this, I have not gotten over the odd sensation it gave me.

The air shifts as my door slides open. I feel in a festive mood today.

From my kneeling position I bend my spine back as far my bones would allow, arms stretched out wide as the blood runs off my wrists like a leaky pipe. My dark brown hair cascading to the floor like a muddy waterfall.

A scream follows the coffee falling to the floor. I inhale the scent. Black with some sugar to lighten the bitter taste. I recognize the flavor and the vocal outburst. It was my favorite doctor.

"Hello, Dr. Morgan,"

I felt my body sway as the source of life escaped my veins. The dizziness came faster due to the caretakers 'forgetting' my room again.

"Mother of God!" Her heels clicked loudly as she dashed to my side.

Her hands cradled my head as I crashed. Why did I do this? Nothing reasonable came to mind. Other than the outcast life I had been born into. The cruelty, abandonment, and the all years of perfection smashed to pieces by ounce of pressure.

"I need help in here!" Morgan cried, keeping me level while holding strong onto my bleeding wounds. More thudding of squeaky footsteps and jingling of keys. Nurses and security on the way. Oh such joy, I am going to be manhandled out of here.

"Over here!" She was breathless now, the stress constricting her lungs. Morgan feared for my life and sanity. She had praised I had come far over the past years. Now, all of that was trash. But I did not fear for neither. I did not wish to die. My sanity is intact like everyone else's is. I just have a different wave length.

They entered now. Gasps and curses at the sight of my bloody show. Judgement and pity. I wanted nothing from these people. I only desired for true acceptance.

"Poor thing, she was making quite the recovery." One nurse muttered sadly.

Go to hell. You do not care.

I didn't struggle when a hand grasped my forearm roughly. I'm used to being handled like a lifeless doll.

"Be careful!" My Doctor hissed, rushing up along with me.

A needle had tucked its way inside my neck and the medicine began to fuse with my blood. My clumsy balance grew worse as the spinning increased.

"Why did you do that?! She need medical attention not a tranquilizer!"

"Don't need her lashing out at others on the way either," I guessed the security guard with a gruff tone bit back.

There was no not taking precaution in this place. One slip up caused a life to end here in Arkham Asylum.

Patient Record

Name: Katy Williams

Age: 20

Height: 5'3

Weight: 110

Sex: F

Current Physician: Dr. Jane Morgan

Status: Level One (Minor)

diagnosis: Patient Number 103 suffers from mild depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and self mutilation. The patient was admitted by her parents at the age of eighteen due to a mental breakdown and silt wrists. Probable suicide? Mr. and Mrs. Williams then cut off all acknowledgement of Katy after depositing her at the Asylum. They do continue payment for her well-being but refuse further contact.

Note(s): Patient has shown signs of a mental shutdown but has sudden outbursts of fear and anger unexpectedly. Due to her past training in material arts, patient is considered dangerous. Refuses to speak unless it is proven absolutely necessary.

Serious Medical Condition(s): The patient 103, Katy Williams, is blind.

Fox: Thoughts anybody?