Rated T for language, and some disturbing content.
Naturally, I don't own Batman Begins, or anything to do with it; I'm not profiting from this; please don't sue me.
Chapter 1
"The death of a loved one is a curious thing," says Dr. Crane softly.
I enjoy that perhaps a little too much, the way he says 'loved one'. It sounds like something a controlling spouse would say—my sweet, my pet, my loved one. There is some nugget of truth in the sentence, certainly. Underneath the fact that he's only saying it to sound empathetic (and oh, I know he's not), there is the fact that he's right. The death of a loved one is a curious thing, especially when the loved one is so loved that you hack up your wrists after you realize that they're actually gone.
"Curious," I murmur, tracing the scars with ginger fingertips. He watches my movement through the Glasses.
This isn't the kind of gone where you can get over it—not the kind of gone as in, "I'm gone to the store, honey, I'll be right back." Not the kind of gone where you just don't fancy each other that way anymore and you'll still be friends. Not even the kind of gone that allows you to fill your emptiness with complete hatred for your previously beloved (sweet, pet, loved one) so that you'll be plotting their death instead of your own. This is not just gone. This is Gone. This is a word so heavy that you need a completely new adjective.
"Did you have another dream?" Dr. Crane asks, poising his pen over the paper on his clipboard. "You look tired."
I stop stroking the scars on my wrist and meet the Icy Stare. I smile, and then a little chuckle escapes me while our eyes are locked. Dr. Crane does not return the smile, the gentle pulling at the corners of your mouth, though I reflect momentarily on the fact that he's probably enjoying this moment even more than I am.
"Did I say something amusing?" he asks coolly.
I shake my head, no longer smiling, and say, "Nope."
"Then you won't mind telling me…what about your current situation is in any way funny?"
The scars on my wrist are upraised, white. They are like little frozen rivers beneath my fingers as I resume the gentle stroke, stroke, stroke. Like petting a dog, only different. So different.
"Funny," I say, just to hear it come off my tongue.
Dr. Crane signals to the nurse who is standing watch outside his office door. She comes in with a plastic smile that everyone in the room can see through. She's a smoker, and a mother, and she really, really doesn't want to be here. Just like me. Probably just like everyone else in this God-forsaken building.
"I think we've had enough for today," says Dr. Crane serenely. "Please escort Hallie back to her room."
The nurse touches my shoulder gently, but I don't respond. My fingers are still magnetically connected to my wrists, and I'm staring at Dr. Crane, letting my deep hatred for him consume my entire body. He reads me like a book, like a fucking book every single time. And this time, luckily enough, he's just skipping out on the reading. Maybe today he's decided I'm not worth the effort.
The nurse picks me up by my elbow. "Come on dear," she says. "Don't fuss."
I don't 'fuss'. I go quietly, shuffling my feet along behind her in my ugly beige sweat-suit.
Our visits aren't usually this short. I've only been in his office for forty-five minutes this time around, and for that, I am grateful. Tomorrow, however…well, tomorrow, I'm not sure what's coming, but whatever it is, I'm sure as hell not looking forward to it.
The Small Part laughs. "Back to the lovely little ward from whence you came, Hallie-dearest," it taunts me.
"Shut up," I whisper.
"Shh," says the nurse, stroking my hair. Her touch sends shivers down my spine, makes me want to vomit. "It's alright now," she croons.
I steal one final glance of the (curious, funny) icy Dr. Crane before Nursie and I begin our long and not-so-picturesque walk back to my cell in the Criminally Insane Ward—the place that I have called, for the past month, Home Sweet Home.