Lalaalalalalalalaala...read, review, and hope that one day I'll put something in this footnote that's not worthless crap.:D
A cold line of sweat rolled down my neck as I slammed my tray onto the empty table and scrambled into my seat. Nervously, I glanced back and forth around the cafeteria, making sure that my cell block and I would not be visited by any costumed psychos this morning.
Nope. Just the usual sad procession of over-medicated crazies.
I let out a sigh of relief, digging my plastic spork into the rubbery eggs the bitchy lunch-ladies heaped on my plate. Somehow, they managed to burn half the eggs and undercook the rest. That takes serious talent.
I smiled, despite the fact that I wanted to gag on the disgusting crap on my tray. You see, I love poetry. When I look at things or feel something, lines of poetry immediately jump into my head and frantically dance around on my brain until I write them down.
Prison Food can really suck
I think I might cry
The bacon is black, the eggs look like muck
And...Oh My God, is that an eye!
I laughed inwardly, it wasn't one of my best ones. Plus it rhymed, which was unusual for me. Whatever, it didn't matter. It made me feel better. I read somewhere that a guy conducting an experiment got himself put in a mental hospital. When his research was over, the people were so convinced he was crazy that they refused to let him leave. When his girlfriend went looking for him, she found the guy had actually gone looney from being locked up. Needless to say, I didn't want the same to happen to me, so I used poetry to keep myself sane.
If I ever plan on getting out of here, I need to keep my mind healthy. Which isn't easy, not in Arkham. As long as no one finds my hidden notepad and pen I stole from the psychiatrist, I'll be fine. If they do discover it, then I'll be in a world of trouble. Not only will I lose my anchor to sanity, but I'll probably be stuck in a straightjacket for a month. Theft is considered a big no-no in Arkham.
I heard a crash. I sprang to my feet; muscles tensed, ready to bolt. My eyes fell on a woman who had thrown her tray against a wall and was trying to stab a guard with her spork. Relieved, I slid back into my chair and poked my remaining eggs with the edge of my utensil. I was afraid that a Mask had found their way to the cafeteria.
One of the first rules of Arkham is: stay away from the Masks.
'The Masks' is a nickname given to the 'supervilians' of Arkham. Joker, Scarecrow, Two-Face, all the heavy hitters. Even though most of them don't wear masks, they qualify. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on your view of things, Arkham isn't co-ed.
That only leaves us with two Masks: Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy.
That may not seem too bad, but that's because you've never met those two. Every time they enter a room, separate or together, they bring a wave of chaos with them. Sure, it's funny when they mess with the guards. But usually, their 'fun' usually ends up affecting me: the most sane psycho in Arkham.
I'm not the only patient that gets I trouble, I'm just the only one who fully understands what's going on. I get punched in the gut, I double over and moan in pain. Most of the others just laugh and skip away down the hall. That, or they go bat-shit crazy on their abuser.
So...yeah, I suppose you could say I'm the favorite.
I glared down at my food, I'd scraped away the most burnt and runny bits of eggs and pushed them away. What was left wasn't very tasty, or filling. I turned my attention to the strips of bacon, which were as black as the pan they were fried in.
Reluctantly, I took a bite. The bacon strips tasted like leather on my tongue, but I forced them down. I should be thankful, the cafeteria rarely works this hard on meals.
I froze, realization slamming into my stomach like a cannonball. I should've known something was up by the guards' tame behavior. A good meal and nice asylum workers always means one of two things:
1) Someone was about to get out of Arkham.
2) It was time for our monthly psychiatric evaluations.
Groaning, I left my empty tray on the table and approached one of the guards, arms crossed.
"Well?" I arched an eyebrow.
He shrugged, grabbing my arm and leading me out of the cafeteria. The creamy-white utilitarian walls seemed to stretch endlessly in front of me. The guard's fingers curled even tighter around my forearm, pushing me along.
Most inmates hate the Shrink, and I'm no different. But I know its better just to get it over with and hope he doesn't assign you more meds. Plus, I don't like being out in the open for any prolonged period of time. It makes me twitchy.
I'm pretty sure someone is out to get me. Little things, like unexplained deadly snakes and spiders finding their way into my room. Lighting fixtures smashing into the ground, nearly flattening me. Crazies wielding weapons made from toothbrushes and razor blades charging me in the hallways. Things that others may brush off as accidents.
I wasn't so sure.
I knew I needed to get the fuck out of Arkham, and fast, if I was going to make it to fourteen. The only way that could happen is if I was declared legally sane by the court, and then shipped off to a juvenile detention center until I'm eighteen. Juvie isn't ideal, but it sure beats an asylum any day. Besides, they wouldn't be able to keep me their forever. I stay at Arkham, I may never get out.
To get an appeal, the asylum's psychiatrist would have to give me the okay before I could go before a court. I suppose I could suck it up and play nice with Doctor Shrink Wrap for a little while just so I can get the hell out of here, but...It's just...not that easy.
Oh sure, Mr. Freeze was declared sane a little while ago. That must mean it's super easy to get a petition, right? Wrong. Another rule of Arkham: Intimidation will get you everywhere. The freaky dome Freeze wears over his head may seem a litte dorky, but I guarantee if I saw him peering out at me through that thing I'd probably wet my pants. I'm just a shrimpy thirteen-year-old girl who missed her growth spurt, the only thing running in fear of me are ants.
The guard stopped me in front of a door. He let go of me, shooting me a warning glance before reaching for his keys. I scolwed at him, what did he think I was going to do? All the exits sre blocked off and he's about three times my size. Yeah, I'm going to whip out a shuriken and stab the idiot in the back as soon as he looks away. Irritated, I turned my attention to the door in front of was me. It was silver, with a thick plexiglass window and a nameplate in the center depicting the name of its only occupant:
DR. ANTHONY STRYKER MD, PhD...
S.O.B... I rolled my eyes.
The guard found the right key, pulling the door open and quickly ushering me inside. My legs were on auto-pilot, carrying me across the room to the bench/bed thing that phychiatrists always have in cartoons. I didn't lay down on it, I never did. Instead, I settled down on the bench, cross-legged and hands folded neatly in my lap.
Dr. Stryker, a thin, wiry little man with greasy black hair and beady eyes, smiled at me. It wasn't a warm smile, Stryker's grin was too grotesque and forced to pass as warm. I could see every single on of his yellowed teeth.
I met his gaze, but my mouth stayed an emotionless flat line.
"You may go now, Mr. Reynolds." Stryker's smile didn't waver and he turned to my escort.
Reynolds narrowed his eyes at me, distrust etched all across his face.
"You sure, Doc...?"
"Of course! If I'm to make any progress with Miss. Mallory we need to establish a mutual trust."
I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. Trust? I don't trust anybody anymore, especially not a guy that looks every bit as crazy as the people he is supposedly trying to 'cure.' How come I'm the only one who sees Stryker's oh-so obvious instability?
Reynolds shrugged, opening the the door and shooting me one last evil look before slamming the door shut behind him. There was a jangling of keys and the sound of the door being locked, I was going to be stuck here until Stryker sent for a guard to take me back to my room.
Oh, joy.
"Hello, Quinn, how're you doing today?" Stryker said, cocking his head to the left like a dog.
"How about we stick with Miss. Mallory, Doc?" I kept my voice calm and raised my eyebrows at him.
Stryker smile faded, but only slightly.
"Very well, then. Why don't you tell me about what happened between you and that guard the other day?"
I stiffened. About a week ago one of the women in my cell block committed suicide, she hung herself with some plastic tubing she took from an unlocked storage room. It's not like I knew her or anything, but I was still pretty upset about it. She was only twenty-two years old, and I heard that she was about to be released. For a few days, the guards and doctors were really freaked out about it.
Then the jokes started. Cruel, horrible jokes. Isn't that always how it is? No matter how bad something is, people will find something funny about it. She sure liked to hang around. A real swinging individual, that one. All choked up. None of it was funny.
The breaking point happened about five days afte the suicide. A guard grabbed me on the way to lunch, pulling me out of the jumble of people. I don't know why he singled me out, maybe he knew I wasn't really crazy. Maybe he didn't care.
"I know why she did it, ya know. She was sick of the domestic abuse between the voices in her head."
Then the guard threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed...
I balled my hands into fists, my whole body shaking with anger.
"It's not funny." I croaked, barely able to speak.
"What?" He knit his eyebrows together in confusion, like his little pea-brain couldn't understand why I wasn't laughing my ass off.
"The suicide. It's not funny." I scowled.
"Yeah, it is. Haven't you hear all the jokes? I know some good ones, did you hear the one about...?"
Next thing I know, I had the guy pressed up against the wall. My fists slammed into his face, breaking the delicate bones. I'll tell you what, he probably didn't find his joke so funny anymore. I had to stand on my tippy-toes to get to him, but that doesn't mean I didn't do serious damage. By the time it was over, both my hands were coated in his blood. The guard's buddies had to me off him and put me in a straightjacket to get me to stop, and whole time I kept screaming "It's not funny! It's not funny! It's...not...funny!"
Yeah, not exactly a good move for someone who wants to get out of an asylum. But the guy needed someone to make him shut up, and I guess that someone was me. But hey, it worked out okay for me. Later on, I heard he walked away with a broken eye socket, fractured jaw, and a nice amount of bruises to remember me by.
I never saw him ever again.
"He had it coming." I deadpanned.
"Your...violent tendencies concern me..." Stryker pursed his lips.
"I'm not violent." I assured him, knowing it truly didn't matter what I said. "That was a one-time thing."
"I'm not so sure." he sat down in a chair across from me.
I shrugged. "That's your expert opinion, Doc."
"Since you're so hostile towards that topic..." A sly smile crept onto his face.
"Why don't we follow up with what we discussed last time..."
I squared my shoulders. "Don't go there, man."
"Come on, Quinnie..." His eyes glinted dangerously, his smile was wide and ultra-happy. The smile of a man that should be locked in a padded room for the rest of his life.
"Why'd you murder your family?"
"I didn't!" I screeched, smacking my palms into the bright red leaster of the bench.
This was why all our sessions went south. No matter how many times I promised myself I'd be good and ignore his insensitive, probing comments, I couldn't control myself. As soon as he uttered those words, I freaked the fuck out.
"It was an accident! I didn't even know I had powers!" My hands were gripped so tightly on the bench my knuckles turned white.
Stryker looked smug. "Accident? So you accidentally launched an electric shock at a can of gasoline, accidentally making it explode? My, my, Quinnie, you aren't a very good liar...It's a good think you wear that collar, or you might have an accident right now..."
"No!" my eyes stung. I touched the bulky ring of metal fixed around my neck. The collar rubbed the skin around my throat raw because the doughebag who put it on me made it too loose. It's okay through, it only hurts when someone reminds me I'm wearing a collar.
Thanks a lot, Doc.
"I loved them, and they loved me. I'd never..." I shut my eyes, wishing Stryker would just go away.
"And your sister?" His voice was like nails on a chalkboard.
"Don't even talk about my sister!" My eyes snapped open. "You don't know Rebecca, and you don't know me!"
He pulled a folder out from a filing cabinet beside him. You have to appreciate an organized psychopath.
"You went to a progressive school in New York, correct? Got beat up almost every day. Still, your parents wouldn't let you switch schools. But they took care of your sister, for sure. Went to a fancy private school her whole life..."
"It's not...not like that." I shook my head.
"Mom and Dad...they got laid off from their jobs when I was four, we had to move to a crappy apartment. And when it was time for me to go to kindergarden...they couldn't afford to send two kids. That progressive school was accepting underprivileged kids at the time, they jumped at the chance...I understood! I was okay with it!" I spoke through my teeth.
"Really?" he arched an eyebrow. "At five years old?"
"Shut up!" I covered my ears. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"
I kept repeating the words like I was a demented parrot. It had to stop, if I was forced to listen to his voice anymore I was going to lose it. Stryker's chuckle penetrated through my fingers, I was shaking like a leaf. I couldn't tell if it was from anger, fear, or both.
Strong arms wrapped around my trembling form, gently lifting me into thr air and carrying me from the room. Fearing it was Reynolds and he was going to stick me in a padded cell for the rest of the day, I opened one of my eyes, just a crack, to see if I could confirm my fears.
I sighed in relief, letting my body sag in his arms. It was Aaron Cash, one of the only people in Arkham that isn't corrupt or evil. In Arkham, kindness is so rare that when you stumble upon it you find yourself clinging to it like a baby monkey.
He took me back to my room...cell...thing, delicately setting me on my bed. Cash patted my shoulder, smiled, then left me alone. Because he had to, he locked the door behind him. If Cash had his own way, he'd sit in here with me all day. But he had to make sure his coworkers didn't snuff out a bunch of loonies while he wasn't looking. He alone believed me when I said I wasn't insane. Not that it mattered, he wasn't high up enough in the Arkham hierarchy to do anything about it.
Angry and hurt, I rolled off my bed and reached into a slit in the mattress. My stolen notebook and pen, both colored black, were jammed inside. Wiping my tears away with the sleeve of my green scrubs, I started to write:
The sky is dark
The clouds are stirring
The last light is fading
The night takes over
Clouding us from everything
Creating an evil slumber
No awakening to the night
The day is gone forever
All alone in an endless sleep
No light for hope and comfort
The world has won
And we have lost
No going back
To simple life
Stuck forever at night
I miss the day
The hope of light
Two tears escaped my control, landing on the page as I wrote the last line...
Why can't the moon show tonight?
Heeeey, everybody! My BFF Madi wrote the poem at the end. I wrote the one about food :P
Cash is a dude from the comics. The only Arkham guy I could find who isn't evil. :P
Random: okay, during Independence Day Conner gets punched by the Cadmus monster, and the thing's so huge in comparison to Conner it looks like Conner just gets freaking pancaked by a giant fist. I laughed for about fifteen minutes, had to pause the episode just to compose myself. Come on, you guys need to rewatch the episode and then try telling me that shits not funny :D