A short story about Arnold Wesker, The Ventriloquist. I love the character and his dependency on his "boss" Mr Scarface. This is my interpretation of what Arnold goes through when the two are separated. Enjoy and please let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, The Ventriloquist, Scarface or Arkham Asylum.

Coping with loss.

It was the loudest sound Arnold Wesker had ever heard in his life. To anyone else it would have just been the sound of splintering wood crushed underfoot, but to Arnold it was the sound of his world collapsing around him. Now it echoes around his head and his desolate prison cell, off the three green walls and the glass entranceway, off the rusted bed and the squalid toilet in the corner. The sound drowned out all the other various noises in Arkham Asylum, all the maniacal laughter and all the assorted screams, be they pain or pleasure. It haunts Arnold on the countless sleepless nights, what little rest he can manage is also tainted by the foul dreams of the event that destroyed his life. For it was scant weeks ago, the day The Batman took Scarface away from Arnold, cruelly squashing his head with his large leather boot, like a child would a bug on a summer's day.

Arnold never felt any anger towards The Batman. Any and all feelings subsided the instant he saw Scarface's visage shatter and explode so violently, causing Arnold to drop to his knees in despair. Then, nothing. Nothing but the sound. The ever louder, ever more vivid sound, like a thousand trees falling in the woods all at once and only Arnold Wesker was there to hear it. The Batman disappeared after, without a sound himself. Then the police took Arnold away, reading him his rights and making thinly veiled threats. They were not fond of Arnold due to the actions of Scarface, or so he believed. Despite all their macho gesturing and bravado, Arnold could not hear a single word they said. Throughout the whole process of being arrested to ending up back in Arkham, Arnold remained stoic, only speaking to confirm his name. He had no words, no thoughts, no feelings, nothing but the sound.

Now however, as Arnold sat lifelessly in his cell, uncomfortably perched on the edge of his bed, he became aware of something else. It started as a simple sensation, a tingling almost. His entire body was numb except for his right hand. The cell was temperature controlled, but his right hand felt cold. Incredibly cold. It was such a strange, alien feeling. His right hand was not used to being uncovered, so open and so vulnerable. As he fixated upon his hand it grew colder still, like there was an arctic wind blowing only inside his cell, and he could feel it solely upon his right hand. Arnold panicked, senselessly worrying that his hand would freeze and become brittle and fragile.

Arnold desperately tried to find something to stop his hand from freezing, he tried a sock as he had done in the past. He slipped it off his foot and onto his hand and for a split second he felt almost right again. Then as he stared at the sock, he found it made no difference, such a thin and negligible item was nowhere near good enough. His hand felt like freezing once again, so much so it began to burn until he tore the sock off. He needed something else, a pillowcase perhaps? He tore it open and discarded the pillow, desperately shoving his hand in to take away the terrible pain and end this torment. Again it was no use, his hand continued to freeze and burn and Arnold grew rapidly more distraught. He put his hand under the mattress of his bed, but felt no benefit. Now it felt like it was freezing and suffocating all at once, like drowning in a frozen lake. With what little might his frail body could muster he pulled the mattress and bed sheets off in one crumpled heap, frustratedly dumping them in the middle of the room. Arnold regarded them with disgust, as though they had let him down because they could not stop the overwhelmingly painful feeling in his right hand.

This now set Arnold off, always a quiet and repressed man, Arnold was not prone to such outbursts of rage. Now he was desperate, now he was without his only solace, his only outlet in the world, he was without Mr Scarface. These pathetic items in his room offered him no consolation, they could not help him, none could match that feeling. They were useless. Following the mattress and bed sheets, the small, rusted excuse for a bed was overturned and ended up in the middle of the room. Again followed by the few books Arnold was allowed in his cell. Arnold then ripped off his own shirt and threw it in the pile, this was not enough, he was not satisfied.

Arnold went over to the thick glass panel that contained the entrance to his cell, and banged frantically, joining the countless others in the endless screaming that echoed around the halls of Arkham Asylum. The furore he had just embarked upon in his cell had already attracted the attention of the guards, now two such guards frantically entered his cell and took Arnold down, swiftly and securely. They were followed by an orderly carrying a syringe, he crouched over Arnold, who was struggling as much as his feeble physique would allow against the two large guards. As he inserted the syringe into Arnold's neck he reassured him everything would be ok. Arnold felt the drugs that had entered his body working immediately, he stopped struggling and breathed a small sigh of relief as the freezing sensation in his right hand subsided. Now as he slowly lost consciousness he once more returned to his previous state of catatonia , once again feeling nothing. Unaware of anything and deaf to everything. Everything except the sound. It was the loudest sound Arnold Wesker had ever heard in his life.

----END----