Jonathan Crane doesn't think breathing should be this difficult. He can't be positive, of course, since he can't remember anything else.
He coughs, tasting blood, and forces himself to swallow it down. Funny, he never thought it would be like this. He always thought there would be a mishap with the Batman, or an overdose in Arkham, or something more memorable than this.
He misses Kitty. These last two weeks-or is it only one?-have been the longest of his life.
He coughs again. This time he spits the blood out.
He's bored. Who would have thought that dying would be boring?
He should have gone to a doctor a long time ago, he knows that now. But they would have put him in Arkham and done nothing. At least he would have gotten painkillers in Arkham. He almost wishes he would have donated himself to science, but they would have been more interested in his brain than whatever this is. Idiots.
He blames the Batman for this. The man grabs so many people every day. It's entirely possible that he gave Jonathan something.
Go to sleep, Jonathan.
He doesn't remember Kitty's voice replacing Scarecrow's, but he doesn't care. Feverish delusions are surprisingly nice. He'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Jonathan…
All right, all right! God, even the imaginary Kitty is bossy. He supposes that's a good thing.
He takes one last look at his surroundings, taking in the pile of notes in the corner. All that work that was never finished. What a waste.
Forget it. Just go to sleep.
His eyes flutter shut. He can't open them again. For a second he swears that cool lips brush against his own, and then there's nothing.
AN: Hey, if you ignored the 'tragedy' tag when you clicked on this, that's not my problem.