I was three year olds when I first saw someone die.
I don't remember much of it, besides the occasional glimpse in a flashback. Mostly, I remember their panicked voices, the gunshot, and sitting there for what felt like an eternity, with nobody coming in to help. In the neighbourhood I had lived in, it wasn't uncommon for gunshots to occur during the night, and nobody had thought much of it until they realised that neither parents had shown up at work for at least two days. I remember the men knocking on the door. I remember them storming the place, only to find nothing but me sobbing and clutching on to my unresponsive parents, who I claimed "wouldn't wake up." I think I knew they were hurt, knew something was wrong, but my 3-year-old mind couldn't absorb the full impact of what had happened that day. Death was not a concept I had been familiar with.
I also remember, most prominently probably, the young and kindly cop who had scooped me up in his arms and promised me that everything would be alright. This same cop and his wife would take pity on me in the week to come, and agree to adopt me into their family despite their young age; Jim Gordon, or "dad" as he often implored me to call him. Over the next few years, I learned to love them as my own.
I was a bit of a handful for the unfortunate Gordon family... at first, at least. I went through numerous councilling sessions as the years wore on, and had met the asylum owner Mr. Arkham too many times to count. Whilst he was no real psychiatrist, he had gotten along with me famously, despite my new parents' obvious suspicion of him. Every night after he'd visited, Jim and Barbara would always quiz me over what he'd spoken to me about. Years later, I would realise why: he'd been grooming me to join his little fleet of psychiatrists at Arkham. Also years later, I would discover it worked. My interest in psychology and criminology steadily grew over the years, so much so that I eventually settled on it as a choice of occupation, much to my parents' displeasure.
Nowadays, 19 years onwards, I was still living in Gotham and in close connection to my family. Mr. Arkham's ploys, if that was what you wanted to call it, had been a success. I had recently been employed in Arkham Asylum, a place that was quickly running out of people to work for it with the amount of craziness that was going on today. The last little round with the Joker had definitely had a lot of people resigning, and I'd been... struggling in terms of getting a job. The offer from Mr. Arkham to work at his asylum had been a bit too well-timed. It'd resulted in me finally moving out from my the Gordon's and renting my own apartment in the Narrows. I knew it was dangerous, living in such a shady part of town, but it was within easy access of my new job and helped save me money on petrol and such. Can't say mum and dad were as agreeing.
First day on the job.
As stated beforehand, Arkham Asylum has been fast running out of people to work for it, and it showed. Upon entering the building for the first time ever, I realised just how... empty it was. One measly receptionist sat at the desk in the entrance, a phone pressed to her ear as she talked to the person on the other line, desperately trying to file through a stack of folders at the same time. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, lips were pursed together, and she practically oozed the aura of somebody you simply did not want to cross. I approached her cautiously, not wanting to get my head snapped off on the first day, as ridiculous as that may sound.
"Excuse me?" I asked, unable to keep the nervous tone out of my voice.
Her head snapped up, grey hawk-like fixing themselves on me with a peircing look. I fought the urge to flinch away from the gaze, instead schooling my expression into one of more control; the kind I would be expected to present the patients I was treating with. If she noticed anything wrong, she didn't show or address it, instead ending her phone call and turning to look at me. My own blank expression seemed to pale in comparison to her stony, expressionless face, giving me the impression that she'd either: a) worked as a psychiatrist here before, or; b) she'd spent too much time in this place, and even if you weren't a psychiatrist you still needed to be fairly controlled and disciplined around the inmates. I liked the sound of the former better.
"Visiting hours aren't until ten," she told me firmly, lips still pursed, giving me a disapproving look over the top of her glasses.
"Um... I'm not here to visit, ma'am," I told her, the formal title slipping out of my mouth before I could stop it. "I'm the new psychiatrist."
She didn't say anything, not at first anyway. Instead she regarded me with an unreadable look, one that made me question whatever small shred of authority I might have over her. My immediate reaction would've been to look away and break eye contact, to submit in some sort of way, but I quickly caught myself. Working at Arkham Asylum, I would have no more room to try and get on everyone's good side. Whilst I had initially intended my thougher attitude to be aimed towards the inmates, it seemed that some- if not all- the employees would have to be treated in a similar manner. Her eyes narrowed when I refused to be the one to forfeit first, a small twitch at the corner of her lips being the only signal that she was displeased with me.
Yep. She's definitely been a psychiatrist here before. Either that, or all employers of Arkham Asylum had a ten foot pole shoved up their ass.
"Is that so?" she said, more of a statement than an actual question, and said so quietly I nearly missed it. "Aubree Labelle, 22 years of age, adopted daughter of Commissioner Gordon and his wife Barbara." She recited the facts so easily, not moving a muscle as she did so. Not even the twitch of a finger to help her check them off. I arched an eyebrow, not exactly sure how I should respond to that one, opting to say silent instead. At least she didn't bring up the fact that my middle name was a brand of car, which I tended to get a bit touchy about. Her gaze didn't waver once, and after a small pause she powered on. "Your office is on level 3, door C-225. These are the keys," she looked away now to fish around in a drawer, seemingly pulling out a key from nowhere and slapping it down on the desk, "and Mr. Arkham has the files of the patients you will be treating. His office is the one at the end of the hallway." She jerked her thumb in the direction at the door behind her.
"Erm, thanks," I said lamely, picking up the key and placing it in my pocket, before leaving to take the hallway to see Mr. Arkham.
I glanced over my shoulder to wish her a good day, but she wasn't looking at me any more. She was filing through stacks of paper again, phone already back in her hand and punching in numbers with her pinky. Going by the filthy look she shot me for loitering in her area as I watched her, I decided against speaking anyway, and hurriedly opened the door and pushed onwards into the hallway.
It was a long walk. The hallway was surrounded by closed doors and cupboards on all sides, leaving no room for windows, and the only source of light was the bright bulbs that shone overhead. It was also painfully empty, and I had a feeling that either those rooms were soundproof or there was just nobody in them, because the place seemed to be eerily quiet. Every so often somebody would step out of one of those closed doors and briskly walk past. A couple of them nodded to me, but for the most part I was completely ignored. My footsteps were the only source of noise as I strode onwards purposely, sights fixed on the room at the very end, willing what felt more like a walk down deathrow than a walk down a simply hallway to hurry up and end.
Despite my eagerness to quickly reach that single door that awaited me at the end, when I did finally get there I found myself hesitate. I knew Mr. Arkham very well, sure, but that was merely as a friend of sorts. As my employer? I couldn't help but think this might just be a bit too awkward. I felt more pressure to impress than I suspected I would feel from any other, and I knew for a fact that when I was trying to impress people, particularly people that mattered, I tended to make an idiot out of myself. Taking a deep breath to help steel my nerves, I pushed down the door handle and tried to pull it open (only to realise I had to push it), before swinging open the door and taking a careful step inside.
The first thing I noticed was that the room was surprisingly tidy. I'm not exactly sure what I had been expecting- perhaps folders scattered all over the desk in unorganized piles and stacked up from the floor to the roof- but whatever it was it wasn't this. The room was also larger than I had expected it to be, with a large desk that had comfortable-looking chairs in front of it and many filing cabinets taking up the majority of the room. A couch sat behind the door on an angle, facing towards the window where sunlight streamed in, lighting up the room like the fourth of July. A large, flatscreen TV hung up in top left hand corner of the room, turned off for the time being. Even with all this, there was still much room to spare, and I couldn't help but feel a tingle of envy.
Clearly this guy had too much money to throw around.
"Aubree!" Mr. Arkham boomed as he glanced up from his paperwork, opening his arms up in a friendly gesture. "Come, come. Sit down. I suppose Matilda sent you, did she? Very organized that lady. Very onto the ball. A bit uptight, unfortunately, but I suppose that's the price you have to pay for hard work. Haven't I already told you to take a seat?"
I offered a weak smile in return, shutting the door behind me and hurriedly accepting his invitation to sit down. As I did so, he put his paperwork to one side in an organized pile, before turning back to me with that friendly grin on his face. It did nothing to ease the pressure I was feeling to do well whilst I was working under him, but at least it calmed my jumpy nerves a little bit. I hadn't felt exactly right ever since I'd stepped into this place, which I've heard stories of happening to other people, too. There was something about Arkham Asylum and all the loonies it held within it that seemed to set the entire building on edge.
"Thank you," I said, doing my best to break the silence, keeping my tone civilised and polite.
Mr. Arkham merely laughed at me, not in a scathing way, but more in a way as if I had said something incredibly amusing. Though confused as to exactly what I'd done, I made a pathetic attempt to smile along anyway, feeling rather awkward as I sat there with absolutely no idea as to what I should be doing.
"Oh 'Bree," he chuckled once his laughter had finally dimmed down slightly. "There's no need to be so formal around me- not here. I thought we would've known one another better than that by now." His encouraging smile didn't do much to soothe my nerves this time, but I gave a slight nod to show I'd heard and acknowledged his message loud and clear. Out of sight, or so I hoped, I played with my fingers nervously. If he was pertubed by my lack of a response, he didn't show it, and instead began rummaging around in his desk for something. "You must understand how pleased I was when you accepted my job offer. Things in the asylum have been somewhat... strained as of late. This whole Joker fiasco still have people a bit on edge, unfortunately."
I nodded obediently, watching as he pulled out a couple of folders which I figured would be my assignments. He laid them out on the desk infront of me, his smile fading to a more concentrated than happy one as he glanced at them, but the warmth seemed to return when he faced me again. Entwining his fingers together and laying them on the desk, he nodded to the folders, an indication to take them I was guessing. Carefully, I picked the top one up, opening it up and frowning at the contents within.
"Is that-?"
"It is," he answered simply, gaze intently focussed on my face.
"Are you sure I'm qualified for that?" I asked skeptically, closing the folder, not liking the way the picture's eyes seemed to track my every movement.
"Sweets, I reckon you're qualified for anything. This guy'll be a peice of cake!"
"Isn't he dangerous?" I continued to quiz with a small frown, still skeptical over his choice in patients. Perhaps Mr. Arkham's time with the crazies had had an effect on him in the years gone by.
"Dangerous? Pfft. Hardly," he snorted, shrugging it aside as if it were nothing. Upon seeing the look on my face had not changed, however, he pressed on, "He's nothing, hun. Trust me. Perhaps a little deranged and not right in the head, but there are people here a million times worse than him. A bit sadistic, maybe... we think. We're not actually too sure on that one. He's not very forthcoming with information if you get my meaning."
"Alright. If you're sure."
"Completely. Now, take a look at this one."
He slid another folder towards me, and I replaced it with the one in my hands. It was considerably lighter than the last one, looking as if it had nothing within it except a few scant pages. I gave Mr. Arkham a suspcious look, having not exactly liked the first one, and he returned it with one that prompted me to take a peek inside. Cautiously, as if the folder might actually bite, I opened it up... only to gape at the contents.
"Mr. Arkham I really must object-"
"It's ok, it's ok, Aubree!" he assured me, not looking the least be unnerved by my reaction, his stupid friendly smile still comfortably seated on his face. "I know the guy's a bit of a tough cookie to crack but I believe you have what it takes."
I wasn't so certain. Scowling, I placed the folder back down, and fixed Mr. Arkham with a hard look. My dad had warned me about him doing this: taking advantage of what he expected to be a submissive and compassionate nature. I was beginning to wonder if he really was a bit of a nut afterall, and if it was wrong to accept the job that my parents had both explicitly warned me about.
"I don't mean any disrespect, sir. But you're teaming me, a completely inexperienced and young psychiatrist, up with some of Gotham's most hardened criminals. Excuse me if I don't see the logic."
"Of course I understand you're unease, of course I do! But see, nobody else is able to take either of them at the moment, and I think you'll be just perfect for the job!" I opened my mouth to protest otherwise, but he quickly cut me off before I could get a word out. "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal, I shall. Since I'm such a kind and generous man, I am. I'll give you one week to get settled in and get used to the place with this guy," He pointed a finger down at the first folder I'd read, "And then you can get started on this one next! That way, you'll be all good and ready."
He was way too optimistic for my liking, possibly delusionally so. Not just in his tone, but his whole demeanor as well, and I was beginning to realise that arguing with him was becoming a lost cause. Giving up, I picked up the two files, deciding I was due for a date with my office. Might as well begin catching up on the patients instead of sitting around and trying to worm my way out of it. With a defeated sigh, I gave a nod to Mr. Arkham, before rising from my seat. Beggars weren't choosers, and I supposed I should just be thankful I got given this job in the first place.
"Thank you, sir," I said, although I wasn't particularly sure what I was thanking him for.
"Have fun, now!" he replied cheerfully, pulling his paperwork back to him.
I left the room, shutting the door softly behind me and wondering what on Earth I'd just gotten myself in to. A week didn't sound that long. As week didn't sound that long at all.
Well... tell me what you think, I suppose. You know when you have a story in your head for ages, and you just have to write it down? Yeah. That wasn't what this was. ;) This was more of a splitsecond thing I came up with when I saw Batman Begins on TV one night, and it lead to me rewatching The Dark Knight. I have a feeling this story's going to be one of those ones when I just make things up as I go along... hehe. Oh well, least it'll be interesting (for me, at least).
