Hey guys, new story. I wanted to write from the perspective of someone who wasn't nice. This is what I came up with. Enjoy. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of its characters. Only Medea is mine.
*Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present, a picturesque score of passing fantasy.*
28th July 2008
I'm staring up at the ceiling, contemplating the dull gray surface. That colour has surrounded me for two years now, and I'm finally beginning to get a little tired of it. I'd close my eyes, but that's no good. My guilty past is permanently engrained against the inside of my eyelids - I can stare at the gray ceiling panels or I can watch scarlet blood drip across my vision. Not much of a choice. A soft cough breaks the silence. I lower my gaze from the ceiling and look across the table. A short, slightly elderly man faces me, his eyes studying my face with something akin to surprise. I know what is going through his mind. It's a look I've received many times before. Lieutenant Jim Gordon has undoubtably faced many criminals in the fifteen long years he's been serving Gotham PD. I don't look like any of them. I'm a woman, twenty-four years of age, though I am aware that I look younger. I'm short and slight, and dressed in my two-sizes-too-large regulation orange jumpsuit, I look even smaller. What with that, and my pale, freckly skin and light gray eyes, I do not fit the well-worn psychotic killer mould. And that, my dears, works perfectly to my advantage. Even now, I can see the lieutenant thinking to himself that I belong in a college library, studying hard for final exams, not in this house of killers. He's obviously read my file, he knows what I've done...and yet the doubt remains. I feel sorry for my fellow inmates – none of them can pull off innocence like I can.
I've been taken from my cell for God knows what reason, suddenly deemed well enough to be trotted out and presented to this police officer like a performing animal in a circus. He wants something. And for some reason, he needs me to get it. The only question is what hoops does he want me to jump through?
"Miss Craven," he begins, with a glance at the guard who stands behind me, watching my hands carefully as they sit demurely in my lap, should they attempt to slip loose of the handcuffs restraining them.
"Lieutenant Gordon," I reply innocently, smiling, "How can I help you?"
Again, I can see surprise in his eyes. We're in Arkham Asylum, and I should be foaming at the mouth, not speaking politely and rationally. At the very least, I should completely refuse to tell him anything. After all, it's because of the police that I'm incarcerated here. Rebellion is what he's expecting. So be unexpected.
"Gotham PD would like to ask you a few questions regarding a certain recently escaped inmate..."
"You want to know about the Joker," I tilt my head on one side, watching his face for signs of confirmation. Gordon's lips tighten, and he appraises my face once again, more carefully this time. I nod calmly to myself, successfully hiding the suddenly uneven thud of my heart. I fix an expression of apology on my face, "I'm sorry, but I can't really tell you much about him, I'm afraid. You could try-"
The door behind Gordon's shoulder bursts open, and a tall man with thick blond hair and a square jaw enters, his eyes flitting over the people in the room. It's Harvey Dent, the viciously enthusiastic new Gotham District Attorney. Well, well. The powers that be have come to visit. He is clearly here to make sure fatherly Gordon isn't too soft on the criminal – me, that is.
"Sorry I'm late, Gordon," he says, briskly, searching around briefly and pulling up a spare chair.
"Not at all," I say, cutting across the man as he opens his mouth to reply. Dent narrows his eyes at me slightly and my smile widens to the point of insolence. I study him briefly, and with the information gleaned from this one glance, I consider every single way I can push him to breaking point, just with my words and my smile. With a man like this, it's not too difficult to figure out. What can I say? I can appear sweet and vulnerable when I need to...but, hey, I'm still an Arkham Asylum inmate and deranged criminal underneath. They've chained me up; but there's no muzzle yet. I can still talk. I can still bite.
I think that Dent can sense the danger behind my mask – he leans forward on the desk, examining me with an expression of complete and utter contempt. Hot anger flares through me, but my expression doesn't change. I am oh so good at hiding things these days.
"Medea Craven," he raises his eyebrow as he pronounces my name, "Unusual."
I shrug, "My father had a...penchant, shall we say, for the Greek myths."
The two men glance darkly at each other. Ah. So they know my father's history. Well, like father, like daughter.
"You could say that," Dent said, clearly choosing his words carefully. It's wonderful – the justice-loving freedom fighter within him hates the casual way I refer to my father's rather extensive murder spree; and yet, he can't risk turning me against him, because he needs the information I can give. It's a wasted effort - I'm not going to tell him anything. But there's no need to give the game away just yet.
"Do you know the mythological story of Medea?" I ask, making my voice vaguely inquiring. Inwardly I am revelling in the looks of hate and faint horror that immediately come over Dent and Gordon's faces respectively. An educated pair of men, I think they know the story, and I think they know exactly where I am headed with this. Ah, such fun I'm going to have with these two.
"She was a Greek princess, daughter of the King of Colchis, who helped the hero Jason to win the Golden Fleece from her father. She made the young demigod promise to take her away from her home and marry her, in exchange for her assistance in the trials he had to face. But Jason betrayed Medea, and despite the fact that they had two children, well, in my case, just one, left her for a young, beautiful princess. And well, we all know what happened next..." I trail off, watching the hard faces of the men. Revenge. That's what happened next. Oh yes...I let the silence stretch, then shrug and smile ruefully, "Ironic."
I see Dent's jaw clench, and congratulate myself on successfully disgusting him. What? They caught me, condemned me, locked me up and threw away the key. A girl has to get her kicks somehow, and manipulating a tight-ass civil servant definitely classes as entertainment.
"Though, clearly, I was a much better mother than my namesake – I didn't even come close to killing my daughter. So, what was it you wanted again?" I'm smiling as I speak, but now I can see that neither of them is taken in by my young appearance and polite tone. They know why I am in Arkham, and for the first time, they believe that I am capable of having committed my crime.
"The Joker," Dent says shortly, his face expressionless now.
"Ah, yes," I say slowly, once again hiding a small shiver. What is it that causes my skin to grow simultaneously cold and hot when his name is mentioned? Fear? Anger? Perhaps a lingering trace of something that wasn't love, but rather some kind of twisted perversion of that emotion? But consider. I am, as the good doctors so frequently remind me, an almost fully-fledged psychopath, and am therefore incapable of fear or love. So, how, how is it that just talking about him has me trembling? "The man who's always laughing," I mutter bitterly. Dent leans forward, aggressive, predatory, picking up on the barely disguised emotion in my voice and willing to rip me apart to find the meaning behind it. I look up at him, and shrug again, forcing my expression to relax, "Two months since he broke out, isn't it?" I query (as if I haven't been counting the days and thanking whatever lucky stars I have that I'm alive to count them), "I'm disappointed, lieutenant. Letting such a dangerous criminal roam Gotham's underprotected streets..."
Dent grinds his teeth together, "Well, we're looking for him now, Miss Craven."
"But you need my help," I say, raising my eyebrows, "dear, dear. My faith in Gotham's finest is reaching an all time low here." This time, I get no response from either man. And that's good. It means that I'm back in control. Smug, I give my head a regretful shake, "As I was saying to the lieutenant just before you arrived, Mr. Dent, I'm afraid I can't really help you. I didn't really know much about the man, other than he was a complete psychopath." 'Oh, you liar...'
"On the contrary, Miss Craven," Dent says, pulling a large buff-coloured file from somewhere and flipping it open. From it he takes a sheet of paper, and several glossy photographs. "We have it on good authority that you had a...close...relationship with the clown."
He shoves the photos towards me, and I take them silently. The power in the room shifts yet again as the two men watch me - because as much as I want to laugh and throw Dent's pretentiously shiny, blown-up photographs back in his face, I can't let go of them. The shots are clearly taken from the CCTV cameras scattered through every room in Arkham. The first is of Joker and I sitting next to each other in the uncomfortable holding pen better known as the 'recreation room'. My stomach lurches unpleasantly. The image appears intimate, with that freak leaning towards me to whisper in my ear, his hand resting possessively on the back of my neck. I remember the feel of his hand; his grip was light, but I knew, I just knew, that if I moved even an inch, it would tighten mercilessly. Yes, you can see, even in this grainy security camera photo, the tenseness of my shoulders under his hand. Almost without realising, my mouth curls into an empty smile. 'Close relationship. Fire your behavioural analyst, Dent, he's not doing his job right.' I cock my head to the side, and flick to the next photo. It's me, sitting passively in a chair, eyes fixed blankly on some point above the camera. Slowly, I reach up with my hand and touch my face in the exact spots where the bruises and cuts sit on the photographic me. I look up at Dent and Gordon, and am surprised to see pity on the face of the middle-aged officer. Fool. He doesn't have a clue what suffering is. Not like Dent. His expression is cold, unaffected. And I find myself loving it, the harshness that is twisting his classically handsome face.
"A close relationship, you say," I push the photos back towards Dent with my handcuffed hands, not bothering to look at the others underneath. "That photo?" I tap my mutilated face, "Would you call that close? He did that to me because I wasn't quick enough to laugh at one of his insane jokes. I disappointed him, in his words." The two men glance at each other, and I lean forward on my elbows, allowing a sardonic smile to twist my face, "Well, he was easily disappointed."
Certain they are watching, I slowly turn my head to the left and lift my hair out of the way, so that they can clearly see the long puckered scar that falls from the right side of my jaw to my collarbone. It stands out against my pale skin in an ugly red colour, not yet old enough to have faded to white. "This was another reminder of my capacity to let him down. As I recall, he did it with a nail he found lying around on the floor somewhere. Somehow, he managed to just miss my cartoid artery, while still inflicting a tremendous amount of pain and damage. I think the doctors were astounded by my survival. Ingenious, don't you think?" I stare hard into Dent's eyes, forcing myself briefly to relive the pain of the cold metal being dragged roughly through my skin.
I scrabble backwards towards the high stone wall that rings the exercise yard, my heart throbbing so hard it seems ready to burst out of my chest. My lungs seem to be on fire, my throat is lined with razorblades. One hand is cradled uselessly against my stomach, crushed and burning - 'My fault,' I think, dazed, 'mine. I tried to stop him from hitting me, I tried, my fault...' I spit out a mouthful of blood, and with it a small titter of hysterical laughter. The sound of it is even funnier, and I vomit up a stream of giggles that sound more like screams of fear. I look up. He stands before me, above me, the permenant grin turned into a leer by the genuine smile beneath it. Somehow a clear thought manages to push its way to the front of my mind - where are the guards? Then he's advancing towards me, tongue whisking across dry lips, eyes bright with anticipation and that thought is replaced with another. 'It's not real, though,' I think, with a sudden calm, 'It's just a nightmare about your dad. You have nightmares sometimes, don't you Meds?' My own internal voice mixes with the voice of my father, speaking from the past, from some
(nightmare)
memory, buried deep, from a long time ago...and on top of that, in the real world, where there is a man standing over me with a two-inch long nail in his hand, there echoes a voice that is almost as real as my father's - his voice.
"You, ah, let me down,
(you have nightmares sometimes, don't you?)
didn't you, beautiful." His voice stops on the 't' of didn't, spitting out the letter with a frightening force before continuing. His voice, that odd mixture of stressed letters, little pauses and, of course, occasional bouts of strange, screamy laughter, "Let me down again. I ah, guess you don't remember what happened the, he ha ha, the last time you did that." He laughs now as I stare up at him, abruptly puzzled, because this can't possibly be real. I got away from my father didn't I? And I killed Henry, and so this can't be happening, can't be real.
The pain is real. Oh god, the burning, sickening pain that makes me want to puke. The nail is as cold as ice, the line it draws across my flesh is like white fire, and unable to stop myself, I scream. My working hand cups my throat, where cold is giving way to a feverish warmth. I find wetness there, and pulling away, see that my hand is stained with crimson. More than stained, I seem to hold a puddle of my blood in the palm of my hand. It drips through my fingers, and I fling my hand away from myself. Drops of blood splatter on the cement floor. I can feel my scream ballooning out of me, stretching my face, widening my eyes until I'm sure they'll burst. That thought is almost worse than the pain - and still, the scream claws its way out of my throat. It keeps on growing as the guards beat the Joker to the floor, as the paramedic hurries towards me. Time stands still, and I feel that my own mouth gapes so wide that it threatens to turn in on myself and swallow me. Then there's another stab of pain, this one in my forearm, and the screaming stops as blackness rushes up to meet me.
The memory must show, because for the first time, it seems Gotham City's White Knight can't meet my gaze. Satisfied, I turn back to face them, smile back in place. "I was his favourite punching bag – that is the only point on which I would describe us being close."
There is a brief silence, then Gordon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm very sorry-" he begins, but I slam my handcuffed hands down on the table, the loud clatter of the metal on the table top cutting him off. I am suddenly furious. He just doesn't get it, any of it. Oh, the things I have been through in this place, with that man, that monster breathing down my neck every second of the day, giggling in my ear, stroking my hair only to suddenly grab a fistful of it and pull my head back hard, screaming with laughter all the while. Oh, he'd apologise later, stare at me with that crooked little smile that just begged to be forgiven, that puppy-dog face that seemed to make his scars melt away. "I'm sorry beautiful, you know how things get a little, ah, crazy in here..." And then, if a single little thing went wrong...Gordon's sympathy is pathetic, weak, his understanding meaningless. "Don't you pity me, you sweet, idiotic old man. You are not supposed to pity me!" I am breathing hard, my hair hanging in my face, blood racing in my ears, "You are supposed to despise me, like he does," I say, jerking my head in Harvey's direction. "I can't tell you anything about the clown, so I suggest you get out!" I snap to my feet on the last sentence, leaning towards them, my harsh scream echoing around the small room.
I catch only a glimpse of Gordon's shaken face before I am slammed into the table by the guard waiting behind me. By turning my head at the last minute, I'm at least able to avoid a crushed nose. I am held there, the side of my face pressed against the plastic until I hear the door swing shut behind my visitors.
Gordon blinked, startled by the girl's sudden outburst of screaming. He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder at her, taking in the way her gray eyes, so clear and rational at the beginning of the meeting, were now lit with madness, bulging out of their sockets, her pretty mouth twisted into a snarl. She didn't struggle as the guard shoved her down, but the police officer noted the way her gaze rolled blindly until it fell upon himself. He could only meet her mad stare for a minute before he turned, uncomfortable, and followed Dent out of the room.
'Yeah, that's right, you'd better run away,' I think with calm satisfaction as Gordon breaks eye contact with me, and leaves. In an odd way, I feel sorry for him. If I look like I should still be at school, Gordon looks like he should be a librarian.
"Come on now sweetie," says the guard in the surprisingly gentle tone he always uses on me, "You know you should behave better in front of your guests – and you've hurt your poor hands hitting that table." His voice is vaguely reproachful, "Now let's get you back to your cell."
"Right you are, Richard," I agree cheerfully, as he finally allows me to straighten up, his hands resting firmly on my shoulders. He leads me back to my cell, passing the rec. room on the way.
"Dear, dear," calls Jonathan Crane snidely, "We heard shouting you know; meeting not go so well, eh, Craven?"
"Honey, it was a veritable cornucopia of love, smiles, happiness and giggles. Ta, now!" I trill back as we pass the door. Mad laughter echoes down the corridor behind us. I roll my eyes.
Richard pulls open the door to my cell and gently pushes me inside, "You get some rest now, sugar, calm down a bit."
"Thank you, Richard, you're a sweetheart." I blow him a kiss as I sit down on the floor, propping myself up against the back wall of the room. Richard smiles fondly, and exits. I am left all alone, shivering and empty, to remember the ten months I spent under the Joker's power, all those memories suddenly brought back by Dent and Gordon's questions. Was I the only one here relieved when he broke out? No, plenty of the lesser denizens of Arkham were terrified of him too. I smile to myself, 'And they barely even came near him. Cowards.' The smile becomes a giggle as I think about my two visitors and their questions. The police have no idea what they're up against. If they were going to catch him at all, it should have been when he first escaped. But they've left it too late now. I'm sure that in the time that he's been out, he'll have found plenty to amuse himself with - and once he gets hold of a 'project', he won't let go. I find their incompentence extremely amusing. I suppose there's always the Batman...but I doubt if even he is up to the challenge the Joker presents.
I shift where I sit, pressing the soles of my feet together in a meditative position. I'm tired, exhausted in fact, but I don't feel like sleeping. In fact, I doubt I'll sleep tonight at all. I prop my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands. Abruptly, a longing to see my daughter rises up in me. It's a feeling that's been nagging me more and more often in the two months since Joker escaped. Little Louise, my poor sweet child, the only person, besides my parents, that I have ever loved. Two years old when I killed her father, and another two years since she's seen her mother. There is only one way in which Arkham Asylum is not akin to a prison - but it's a crucial one. You don't get family visits in this place. The only ones who have any reason to see us are policemen and shrinks. The sad truth of our empty lives - in the end, the only comforters we have are the ones who put us here.
"Name of Patient: Medea Craven
Patient ID Number: 199
Date of Admittance: 8th January 2006
Date of Session: 11th January 2006
Notes: Patient displays lack of guilt, or any emotive response when discussing the murders for which she was admitted to Arkham. She is able to talk calmly and rationally of the details of the killings, but when asked for a reason why she committed them, she repeatedly refuses to explain. Patient mentioned that she sometimes suffers from insomnia, but laughed when it was suggested this may be due to guilt. From this first session, I am able to reaffirm the diagnosis that Patient 199 is in the mid-to-late stages of developing psychopathy.
Signed: Dr. Jeremy Sander"
23rd October 2007
"See ya, doc," I give Sander a cocky salute, feeling vaguely surprised when he gives me a brief smile in return. He's been "treating" me for nearly a year now, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's smiled at me. Must be because I saluted. Have I done that before? "It's been a blast, yet again."
"Goodbye for now, Miss Craven," he replies, scribbling something in his familiar black notebook. Oh, how much faith he put in that notebook at first. He tried to put me down on paper, to capture the cause of my madness with the usual questions: mother, father, life on the street, daughter, boyfriend...boyfriend's lover...but then he realised how ridiculous his efforts were. He could learn nothing more than what I chose to tell him - and I would no sooner explain the workings of my mind to Doctor Jeremy Sander than I would dance naked in front of him.
"Geez, doc," I say, rolling my eyes as I'm led out of the interview room, "you're so uptight. You've known me for like, a year now, I'd say you're qualified to call me by my first name." I know he'll never call me Medea, just as I'll never call him anything other than 'doc'. After all, we're only faking the cordiality that lies above the conversations; it's an act that we keep up to mask the fact that our weekly sessions are little more than a form of entertainment to me.
The journey back to my cell is slower than normal – my guard and I have to stop halfway there, as there is a man in a dirty suit being tackled to the ground, consequentially blocking the corridor. I watch with mild interest, amused to see that the man is laughing, his hands twitching spasmodically in their handcuffs. Giggles shake their way ecstatically out of him, echoing around the narrow corridor, bouncing off the walls and sounding just a little like screams. The guards fall back, unnerved, and for a moment, Arkham is in danger of losing its newest member. Three of them however, bravely daring their discomfort, edge forwards to lift the man to his feet. They rather helpfully turn him to face me, so that I can study our new inmate. I glance him up and down once, quickly, disdainfully. His frame is lanky, and pathetically skinny, his clothes grimy, his hair greasy, and for some reason, dyed green. His face is slathered with white greasepaint, in a way which I vaguely realise is meant to resemble a clown. His brown skin is visible in patches where it's been rubbed away; presumably in the scuffle with the guards. His dark eyes are crudely circled with black paint, and a grotesque smile has been scrawled across his cheeks in red. Underneath, thick twisted scars slash upwards from the corners of his mouth towards his ears. 'Ooh,' I think, allowing myself a small grin, 'nasty.'
The man, apparently feeling my gaze on him, suddenly stops laughing, staring at me hard. He cocks his head to the side in a sudden jerk that reminds me of an animal, "Well, well, well, who's this little thing?" He draws out the 'ng' sound, almost drawling it.
His voice is odd: I can't pick out anything specifically wrong, and yet everything about it, the pitch, the accent, the emphasis...they combine to form something not quite right. Something...off. The crowd of guards around us glance at each other, clearly unsure as to whether they should reply or not. I decide to take the initiative.
"I'm Medea Craven." His dark eyes dart over me, quickly, lightly, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds, feverish in their intensity. I follow his gaze as it skitters across my hair, down my forehead to my eyes, along my cheeks, diving further and further down, past my lips to my throat, my chest, my legs, resting momentarily on my soft, nondescript shoes before flicking back up to my face.
"Hi, there. Are you, uh, in charge here, Medea Craven?" His tongue darts out and whisks across his lips briefly, his eyes still staring, bright and dark and fierce into mine.
I consider. I suppose in some sense, I have gained a type of fame, a sort of notoriety around this place. Currently the only female patient, I am also, at twenty-three, among one of the youngest. Despite this, I have never been attacked, never hassled by the brutes that hang out near the weights when we're all having fun outside. I often sit alone, surrounded by empty space, no one quite daring to come near me. I suppose this is how every kid with a famous father must be treated. And believe me, my father is famous, at least in Gotham's underworld.
"Not in charge as such, more...well known," I say, watching him intently under cover of a nonchalant shrug. His expression breaks into a delighted grin. He would look like a child on Christmas morning, if not for the grime and greasepaint. But before he can reply, my guard decides enough is enough: "Save the chit chat for the playground, girls. Get moving." I am shoved roughly forward, ending up so close to the man that I smell his sweat. I wrinkle my nose slightly, noting at the same time that it's not an entirely unpleasant smell. He smells warm and musky and exciting; he smells attractive. He glances at me as I pass, and slowly, deliberately, winks. I feel a shiver suddenly rake down my spine, and I quickly glance away from him, plastering a calm, detached expression on my face. 'Just a psycho,' I think coldly, 'someone best kept away from.' All the same…
"Hey," I say suddenly, "can you dump me in the rec. room, please? I'll be good." My guard eyes me doubtfully. I smile sweetly, "Come on, I've been in my cell all week. Just a quick visit?" Behind me, those mad giggles have started up again. My skin tingles slightly at the sound of it; frightening and yet...interesting.
"Alright," he says reluctantly, "but if you cause any trouble, you'll be stuck in your cell a lot longer than a week."
"Of course not. Thanks so much," I gush, as he pushes me forward again. 'Perfect.' Time to put my father's influence to good use. I pull up a picture of the new guy's face again in my mind's eye. 'Pretty distinctive looking guy...someone must know who the clown is...'
"Save it," he snarls, tightening his grip on my arm briefly. It hurts, but only a little. 'Well, somebody's in a bad mood...'