I sat at my generic, cheap desk in my office hunched over a newspaper. The article I stared at was one I knew well, as one might assume from the worn paper. I straightened my glasses on the bridge of my nose and read the passage under my finger for what felt like the hundredth time.

ANOTHER GRUESOME MURDER AT ARKHAM ASYLUM

The bolded letters nearly screamed at me. Below the headline was a picture of Joan Leland, a colleague of mine. Well, make that former colleague. I couldn't focus on a single printed word. I was in surprise. Shock... The Joker had killed another of his psychiatrists. Painted the walls maroon with her blood. Thankfully I didn't see it.

The brunettes' eyes shined brightly in the headlining photo and her smile was one of content. She looked happy. Joan was one of the type of people that just had a way of making you spill her guts. An excellent therapist indeed. She was a trustable woman. Next to her photo was a staple picture for the Joker. It was a mugshot, one of many. The mans features were striking due to the photo being in black and white. His tattoos and grill were displayed proudly though weren't too distinguishable from the fuzzy print. That was a constant theme in all of his mugshots: he was proud of what he had done, no matter what it was.

Another one bites the dust. They had to be doing something wrong. Or right. But Surely one person could not be so difficult to diagnose. I brushed a couple of loose blonde tendrils behind my ear.

This meant he was without a psychiatrist. Again. Maybe now I could take Joan's place. Id been there for over two years and have rehabilitated 23 (24?) patients. It's not as if I was glad she was dead, not at all. Joan was one of the few people I actually liked here. Funny how I'd prefer to chat with my patients than half of these jerks on the payroll. They're all so stuck up. Joan wasn't.

However... I'm not much of a crier. Never have been. I was sad, of course, but no tears would fall from me. I think I even tried to cry. Probably because I thought I should. But I didn't budge.

Returning the paper to the top drawer I wiggled my mouse to awaken the computer. Quick email to Dr. Arkham. A simple 'when you have time I'd like to talk to you' sort of thing written boringly, like a professional. The drab colors of this place was enough to put anyone down in the dumps.

Two sharp raps to the door announced Frank, one of the guards, with Emily Trasio one of my newest cases. Butchered her family with an axe and tried to sew them back together. Manic depressive with voices to accompany her every thought. The poor thing was only 14, but extremely polite. She fascinated me indeed. "Come on in, Frank!" I called to the door.

The door opened and in stepped Frank, Emily in tow. He was a tall man with tan skin, built like a machine. Blue eyes and brown hair colored him. "Morning, Harleen." He said cheerfully, leading Emily to the couch. He wasn't aggressive in his actions, rarely was, but his hand still was prepared to use his gun if need be. Always alert.

"Morning, Frank." I smiled, rising and sitting across from Emily in a sturdy plush dark brown chair. Opening my file I got my pen ready. "And I've told you, call me Harley. Everyone does." The name Harleen aggravated me. It was dated and sort of weird.

"You look beautiful, as ever." He flirted, hovering longer than necessary in the room. Looking up to him I gave him another polite smile.

"See you in an hour." I said pointedly. There was nothing I wanted to do more than talk to my patient. Now was not the time for flirting, and Frank knew it. Sometimes the man just irritated me.

"Er, right. See ya." Frank said, taking the hint I so obviously dropped. His tone was a slight mix of anger and disappointment, but he stayed polite and professional. When he exited, I turned back to smile genuinely at Emily.

"Good morning Emily, how are you?" I asked.

Sitting with proper posture, the girl smiled back. "Just fine, thanks. I get to go outside today." She said gleefully. "How about yourself, Dr. Quinzel?"

I looked over the young girl. Her dark, slightly tangled hair hung down her back. Her face was plain, and long lashes made her brown eyes appear almost black. The hideous orange ARKHAM jumpsuit certainly wasn't doing her any favors, although it made her olive skin tone pop a bit. "I'm doing well, thank you. You look well rested, does this mean the trazod has been working?" I asked, curious of her answer. Last time the dark circles had been the prominent focus of her face.

"I've gotten a lot of sleep since our last visit. The voices aren't yelling as much, I can hear my own thoughts a bit more." The young girl moved to lay across the couch instead of sitting. Whatever made her comfortable enough to spill her guts to me I was on board with. I was hungry for secrets. Hungry for insight into her brain. "I hate the blaanzorfine, take me off of that immediately." She said seriously. "It makes me feel like I'm suffocating." I made a note to find a new prescription that would fit her.

"Noted." I replied. Looking through my notes from last time I looked back up to her and removed my glasses, setting them in my lap. I hated wearing them if I didn't need to. "So last time we talked about what led up to the 'warp'." The 'warp' is how Emily referred to for the murders. "Today, I want to talk about the incident itself."

Emily's face soured. "That's not something I want to talk about right now." She refused.

"It's a part of healing," I said softly yet firmly. Pushing. "You have to make yourself uncomfortable to heal. To test yourself. To push yourself. It's not handed over you have to work for it." This seemed to make Emily roll her eyes. It didn't surprise me. I received a lot of different reactions and had seen them all a hundred times. We sat in silence, or at least I did. Emily was clearly having a silent conversation. She would silently mouth words. Pause. Respond with varying slight shakes of her head and then mouth words again. Patiently I waited.

"They were so annoying. All four of them. But I would never hurt them. I think all families think each other are annoying." She paused and I gave her a nod. She wasn't wrong. "My mom made me really mad. She didn't believe me about the people in my head. I think I scared her." She admitted.

"She had a special way of making people feel like shit. Sorry, like garbage." Emily corrected herself.

"Please, speak freely."

"We had just gotten finished fighting. My dad took her side. Tommy was in his room. The baby wouldn't stop crying. Dad wouldn't stop yelling. Spot had pissed on the floor. I had the biggest headache. They wouldn't stop, the noise wouldn't stop." Her voice started to rise a bit in hysteria. Taking several deep breaths she calmed herself. "He reminded me about the axe in the shed. He told me I could just scare them into being quiet, I didn't actually have to hurt them." It was clear the girl wasn't referring to her father.

"It sounded good to me. But when I saw their faces, it was finally silent. Quiet. The epitome of bliss. They were terrified. Of me. The silence was beautiful. Even he was quiet for once. I didn't want it to end. The baby started to cry again and my mom tried to run and call the cops. Then... It was silent forever." Emily grinned despite crying. "I slept like the dead. When I Woke up the next day I regretted it. In all honesty when it happened sort of felt like a movie. Like I wasn't even in control of myself or something. A time warp of sorts. Like I was watching it through a screen. I tried to save them. But I'm not smart. I'm not a doctor like you." Her grin was strained, it looked like it hurt her cheeks and I grew a bit uncomfortable. "I lived with them for about a month before they kept falling apart, despite the stitching. The baby was the hardest to keep together. Someone smelled them and called the cops. That's the whole story. Are you happy now, Dr. Quinzel?" She asked with slight resentment, though who it was directed at was unclear.

I was writing the key parts from the story, highlighting the parts I found most interesting. So she had been hearing the voices before the deaths. Hmm. I nodded. "Is there anything you want to reflect on or add?"

"Not today," she grimaced. The retelling had clearly taken effect on her mood.

"Okay. We have 20 minutes left, but we can cut it short. Enjoy going outside." I smiled at her, and rapped on the door, signaling Frank. He responded quickly. Truthfully I wanted to push her a bit more, but if you push too hard they crack. And that's a major setback in rehabilitation. As a psychologist the game is to successfully rehabilitate as many as you can.

"Done already?" He asked. I nodded. He led her back to her room without any other comments, for which I was grateful. Huffing as I sat I looked over what I had written. Hearing the story from the woman who did it... Unsettled me. Hooked my interest. Especially how Emily had grinned as she cried. Normally she didn't get shaken by patients, but Emily managed to.

My email light blinked. Dr. Arkham was free to talk. Perfect. I rolled my head around my shoulders to release the tension that had accumulated.

The only noteable sound as I made my way to his office was the soft click of my shoes. They were sensible and comfortable, much like my outfit. Who was I trying to impress, especially here.

"Dr. Arkham." I poked my head into his office and tapped the doorframe.

"Harley, hello dear, have a seat." He turned away from his computer and gestured to the plush seat for visitors. I obliged and crossed one leg over the other. "You wanted to talk? What about?" The elder man asked curiously.

It took me a moment to figure out how to properly phrase what I wanted to say. The subject was delicate. "With Joan's passing I realize her patients will need to be fitted with new psychiatrists promptly." I said slowly, gauging his reaction.

"Go on..." His brow furrowed. I could tell he had a loose idea of the direction of this particular conversation.

"I'll be frank. I'd like the to treat the Joker." I said directly. Jeremiah hated beating around the bush.

"Why?" He asked in confusion. "Most doctors shy away from such extreme cases. I'm sure you're aware of the risks associated."

"Yes sir, I am. I've been doing this for a while now, and I love my job. However, I haven't quite felt any real challenge in my work."

"Harley, I understand, but... Are you sure? I'd rather not put you at risk, but I'll be honest, no one else wants to do it. There's a reason for that." Dr. Arkham was full of concern.

"You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these 'super criminals'. My plans are to write a book. A book that will forever contribute to the understanding of psychology. Give me a chance, Doctor. If I suspect the risk is too high I'll back out." It was bullshit. I wasn't a quitter, but I hoped to further sway him.

With a deep sigh, Jeremiah nodded. "Okay. He will be in solitary confinement until Wednesday. I'll give you a shot, Harley, just please be careful. And if your book becomes a hit, give me a shoutout okay?" He chuckled uneasily, still evidently hesitant considering what happened to Joan.

I grinned. Success. My mom used to say 'Harley, honey, you will never receive anything in this world unless you ask. The worst they can say is no' and the advice has never failed me. Of course I've been told no... But not very often. "Thank you. And don't worry, you'll be the first I mention in the Acknowledgments." I rose, smiling at the old man. I couldn't shake my excited smile and I had a flutter in my belly. I would be treating the Joker in less than a week.