It's become mandatory: I own nothing of the Batman franchise or anything related to it, just what I have mixed in to the concoction.
An unimaginable pursuit, maybe a clandestine worker for some health department, who knows. Nothing more can be said without a lie, or story enhancement about herself, to truly captivate the mind. Of course stories of running head first into poles and falling under one's self on roller blades subsequent to gliding over a penny are illustrious tales in the presence of informal company, but nothing captivating to any other person on the street. There were tales to impress, yes, accounts gathered from hard work and long nights, but none to stop the human on the receiving end and force a deciphering thought or two. An unimaginable pursuit, maybe a clandestine worker for some health department. Not even that story had the same luster as it used to have.
This gifted leather couch was becoming a pain. Lay on it too long, the skin fastens itself to the leather's surface, try and kick the foot rest in its respective space, it became a game. How many reversed shoves does it require to put everything into order?
All fun and games, but there wouldn't be any complaining. Maybe a chagrinned and spoiled four year old Augustine can get away with such a fuss, but not this evening. This was a gift; she was happy to receive it disregarding its overwhelming size and seemingly stuck foot rest. Transporting the over heating laptop to the free and cold seat adjacent to herself, she resulted in standing, kicking the foot rest with more force than needed to finally have that loud snap suffice her aural senses.
It had been dark for a while. The last time she lifted the then framed brown eyes to the sky line, a sick hue of smudged orange drained almost too quickly, giving way to a thick indigo. The ticking hands of the wall clock revealed the day to have only aged a mere six hours since the opening of the afternoon. A month's experience with Gotham's transition from daylight still had no effect in answering the pre-set question 'Why does it get so dark so early?'.
Six hours into the afternoon she glanced at the clock on the wall, hours later she glanced again but this time at a small digital alarm resting diagonally on the nightstand. 2:46, The glowing neon green numbers told her. What an impression she would make tomorrow morning with red rimmed eyes and low voice tone followed by a mid-day crash. Drawing the blinds, followed by the curtains on the two standard windows in her haphazard room, already a month's worth of living occupancy, she still had empty boxes pushed into a far corner.
2:48, shutting off the remaining light before hurrying off into bed. With nothing but the whir of the fan and the sound of ceasing life and approaching silence, she found herself utterly awake. Always a great place to be, She thought, blinking her eyes with a glimmer of hope it would make the transition of adjusting to newfound darkness a quicker mission. The dark, unlike many phobias experienced by others, has no effect in making her insides swirl. What the dark had the capability of concealing, however, could make her hand reach frantically towards a light switch or a cold sweat wash through her system.
3:05, she felt blindly atop the digital alarm, hitting the button on the farthest left. What filled the air wouldn't have been a personal choice of a piece to fall asleep to, someone pounding viciously away at an organ with vehemence it sounded, but it'll do.
5:00, the neon green announced in a series of rings, urging her still sleeping body to go ahead and roll out of bed and into the shower. From this point, she would take the Velcro rollers into her damp hair already parading incoming frizz and stare into a mirror holding a blow dryer to the comical display. 5:30 and the rollers left what could've passed as a natural wave in the hair of a woman lucky enough to possess such a trait, but still rather orderly. A once over followed by instant disapproval.
Her reflection told of a smug woman who would sit in an office counseling families with minor problems, nonetheless still seeking help in understanding just what exactly their dysfunctions meant. Her reflection told of a woman you sent your child to in hopes of gaining comprehension of why they act the way they do through each of their growing stages. Her reflection told of a woman a middle aged man would seek solace in wondering why he felt the sudden urge to dye his hair and pursue sexual fantasies one could only achieve in a two cent romance novel contaminated with smutty encounters.
Her reflection should've told of a woman across a steel table with two way mirrors over head and a heavy set guard waiting patiently outside the white room, a woman who could sit through a story of hostility pushing the urge to implement any personal emotions far away to be locked up, a woman who could walk the corridors of an asylum reserved for the criminally insane.
It's what she wanted, what she sought after. Anywhere else, she would have gone mad herself listening to a miniscule problem that could be repaired by simply communicating with one's self and one's surroundings in a truthful manner. No truly captivating motives to haunt her thoughts and keep her busy in family psychiatry, no. To intern under Dr. Quinn at Arkham would be where she felt she belonged, where she felt the education slaved over could be put to some use.
5:49 and she discarded the necklace, the pins that held her hair in an intricate design, and the tinted lip balm. 5:50 and she departed with nothing but plain silver studs in her ears, bangs pinned away from her sight and keys dangling from her unpolished fingers.
The sky line of Gotham turned brighter shades every minute she allowed herself to gaze upon it rather than the momentarily sedentary vehicles in front of her in the midst of morning traffic. The sky line, located in the exterior of Gotham's core, lagged in the illuminating. The sky around Arkham still maintained the façade gifted in the earlier morning hours assimilating with the reputation of the asylum. Get your mind out of the cartoon universe, imbecile. She thought once a daydream of loony inmates laughing maniacally and digging tunnels into the concrete walls with a spoon snatched from dinner entered her mind whilst parking.
The air around Arkham even retained the moist characteristics of premature morning. Dilapidated looking, kept as best as it could be, a bulky loony inmate sketching out blue prints of the sewers he would take once his tunnel was finished re-entered her thoughts causing the slightest bit of laughter only to have it slapped away by the burning aroma of a bleach-ammonia concoction.
The early morning routine of retuning the asylum for another day was what she had walked in on. A woman in between the state of complete vitality and a consummating crash acknowledged her entrance with a blank stare.
"Augustine Cross for Dr. Laurel Quinn." She spoke; the only thing conjured from a now blank mind.
"Dr. Quinn won't be coming in for another hour," The woman retorted, her gaze fixating upon a rather small waiting area. "Please have a seat."
Waiting isn't a problem, waiting when something this anticipated is on the receiving end is a true pain. She folded and unfolded her hands upon her lap, crossed her legs right, crossed her legs left, watched as stately men and women, even some of whom she recognized from the newspaper or the news on television, walked through with a flash of a laminated identification card. As what seemed to be the last man to enter the awakening asylum, one more came through the doors. Dr. Quinn took no immediate notice of her presence until the woman in between life and sleep nodded in her direction.
"Good morning," Dr. Quinn smiled the same smile the last time she saw her days ago post interview. Laurel Quinn looked like she would be on the verge of retirement. An older woman with fair hair upon her head and statuesque features with the height to back it up. Laurel Quinn never appeared to have let Arkham swallow her whole; she'd had a good run with no dead end in near sight. But that was it, as light as she seemed, Laurel Quinn's post at Arkham was not one notorious as 'the easy doctor' or 'the gullible doctor'. Laurel Quinn was just like all the others, almost emotionless inside these walls, just as stern, just as knowledgeable.
Her mouth twitched. Do you smile or do you retain a normal face? Was there a correct and incorrect way to present yourself in front of the man behind an SLR rested upon a tripod? She swallowed and let the nominal indication of a close-lipped smile display before the flash.
And there it was. A carbon copy of what she had seen this morning whilst men and women trickled in. The same laminated white rectangle of identification with the gist of her being printed boldly across the surface.
"I cannot distress enough how important it is to have this on you at all times," Dr. Quinn said once the card was in her hand. "It's the only wall of -"
Author's Completely Short Note
I may not be making a whole lot of sense, my apologies, : , stick around and we'll all find out. Review, please.