I

The sun graces my skin: rays of light bounce off the water. The smell of summer arouses nostrils and the sound of music dances through the air. "Hey, guys! Guess what? It's summer! So, let's start it off right!" The first chords soar over the laughter and cheers. I glance over the crowd and there he is; tall, dark, and almost handsome.

"Thanks so much for taking this patient," The old man smiled a smile that could melt any heart; it was the most innocent of all innocence. "Ever since Ms. Quinzel left, we've been short on staff." His body language immediately changed. He seemed uneasy simply mentioning her name: I could understand why, though it had no effect on me. "I understand, Doctor. I'll do what I can."

Psychology was not a field I ever intended on pursuing as a career. I was an artist; performing weekdays in orchestras and weekends in nightclubs. I had mastered the mentality of an orchestral instrumentalist, as well as the swagger of a temporal musician. I was on a fast track to nowhere, so I had to turn. Psychology was at the end of that road.

The music's over. I am wading through an ocean of bodies searching for the coffee-colored hair. "Hey," a voice as rich as coffee itself ends my search, "Pretty kick ass job. Is it cool if we hang out?" "Oh," I smile, "I guess I got some time for you."

It isn't all that bad; decent pay and a plethora of diverse subjects is more than the mass populous receive in their 9 to 5 jobs. It's just that one cannot simply begin to fathom the cloud of guilt, disappointment, and shame that encompasses an artist once they have abandoned their art. A wave of nostalgia swallows me every time I see a concert flier or hear live music, yet I resent it. People have asked, "Why don't you get back out there?" It isn't that simple; however, one must have a desire to 'get back out there'. I do not.

The walls were white, the windows barred, and the noises blood curdling. An urgent newscast on TV abruptly interrupted our excursion to the patient, "… The Joker has escaped Arkham Asylum… nine killings have already been discovered… torturing and maiming of victims…" He piqued my interest. "Doctor…?" "Yes, Ms. Balafré?" "That man, The Joker. What did Harleen diagnose him with?" "Well, if you want her files, you're welcome to them. They should answer whatever questions you have; however, if you take them, he becomes your patient." We continued walking in silence until we reached the patient's door, "Ah, here we are."

"So, what do you do? Like, hobbies and stuff." He's interesting enough to pique my curiosity. "Well, I'm an orchestral instrumentalist." "Oh, me, too!" I am happy in this moment, right now. "Well, I'm sure we'll cross paths professionally this summer." He smiles. My summer quickly became a whirlwind of rehearsals, recording, and romance.

The Doctor opened the door to a dark room, lighted only by dust-induced rays that filtered through the window. He nodded towards the patient and looked at me with concerned eyes before closing the door. "You're new," stated the patient, "What took you so long? Were you too scared? Did you have to prepare yourself?" "No," I said casually, "I was watching the news. Something about The Joker." The patient's head rose quickly, "Oh? You're intrigued by him?" I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts, "Or disgusted, rather, since you're normal."

I left my band to travel with the New York Youth Philharmonic. I am first chair flute, while Derek is first percussionist. We travel around the world; the orchestra, Derek, and I. Usually, we are in rehearsals, but today we are free. Free from responsibility and restraint. The cold air brushed my blushing cheeks. "I've only ever dreamed of coming here," I smiled, "But it's even better that I'm here with you." He seemed tense. He shifted his weight as if he was uncomfortable.

"Intrigued, actually," I grinned ever so slightly. "No, no…" He shook his head, "Don't think you can make me believe you're one of us. You're not." "Hmph," I lit a cigarette, "I beg to differ." I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward to meet the patient at eye-level, "The only difference between you and I is…," I looked both ways slowly and whispered, "they haven't caught me yet." I smirked. The patient leaned back against the wall. "Heh," he grinned, "He'd like you." He gave an approving nod and shrugged, "He might just end up with you."

We sat for a long time in silence as I pondered those words. The deafening silence was broken, "Aren't you going to 'evaluate' me?" "No. Do you want me to?" He looked at me with unsure eyes, "Is that really a question?" "Then, it's settled." I stood and walked to the door. I flicked my cigarette, "Nice talk."

His brow is bent with thought, "It is a year today, Lane." I close my eyes and sigh dreamily, "I know." He opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself. "Is there something wrong, honey?" I look at him with concern in my eyes. The corners of his mouth turn towards the cloudy sky as his luminous teeth slowly emerge into a crescent moon.

All the way home, my mind was plagued with thoughts of The Joker. He might just end up with you. Would he? "I hope he does," I admitted aloud to myself.