This Maniac
i
Harleen Quinzel was at the ripe age of twenty-five. She had worked at Arkham Asylum for nearly six years, starting off as an intern for the, now institutionalized, Jonathan Crane. She was now part of the psychiatric team. Her white heels clicked against the linoleum floor, as she tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear, and stuck a pencil there to hold it in place. Her bright blue eyes gazed out from behind a pair of horned-rimmed glasses. She gently bit down on her lip, as she flipped through the chart she was carrying.
Harleen always did extensive research on who she would be helping, but this was a special patient. She had personally volunteered to treat this patient. She had been following him through the news, like most everyone in Gotham, and had been taking notes on his behavior. He was a odd one. She had, through what she knew, diagnosed him as a clear a psychopath, possibly with a mild-to-extreme form of narcissism and paranoia. Did she think he was insane? Well, she believed everyone had a bit of insanity inside them, just waiting to break free. The residents of Arkham just embraced their insanity more than those outside it's wall.
She swiped her card key, entering an Employees Only lounge. As she closed the door behind her, she heard the conversation in the room over.
" ... take him. She's crazy!"
"Don't speak so loud! She'll hear you!" a voice hushed the first, how laughed.
"So? She'd take it as a compliment." Harleen sighed, and crossed over to the coffee pot. As she poured the Joe into a cup, the conversation continued, but she had grown bored of eavesdropping. Stirring in two packets of sugar and a small bit of creme she yawned. Harleen had been up all night, gathering her papers for the day ahead. She took a sip of coffee and sighed. Sitting down in a chair, she crossed her legs and pulled an abandoned newspaper closer to herself. She scanned through the articles, finding the one about his capture. She smiled, reading about how the police force had cheered when they found him, hung up by his ankles. He never tried to escape, and, had it not been for his actions, he could have been mistaken for a model citizen.
Harleen glanced at her wristwatch, then up at the wall clock. It was nine o'clock. Time to start therapy. She stood, took her coffee mug and left the lounge.
She smiled and waved at one of the guards, who tilted his hat in greeting. She ran her card key, mentally despising the high security for this section of the asylum. The guard followed her as she walked down the rows of inmates. They howled, hollered, cat-called and berated her as she walked passed and ignored them. Her destination was just at the end of the hall. The therapeutic room. Here she would have to use her card key, and get the guard's hand print to open. She took a deep breath and opened the door, and stepped inside.
Inside the room, it was all painted white. The floor was rugged after a foot or so away from the entrance. The few clicks of her heels caused him to look up from the table, the only piece of furniture in the room, apart from two chairs. His hair was light brown under all the grease and paint. His face had been wiped clean, but bits of black still clung under his eyes, and red seemed to have been permanently tattooed into the folds of his scars. He licked his lips and watched Harleen with his dull brown eyes. She crossed over to the table and sat down, placing her mug next to her and pulling the pencil from behind her ear. The guard stood next to the door, at ease. Harleen gave a genuine smile, and crossed her legs.
"Hello, Mister J. My name is Harleen Quinzel." This caused the man to grin.
"Mister J, huh?" he licked his lips once more. "I like it."