Misery.
That was the only word that surfaced in Priscilla's mind. It hovered in the stagnantly dry cell air above her mop of blond hair, now browned with a lack of a good shower. She reached up to touch it and pull on a strand, a nervous habit acquired over time.
Why hadn't she had any visitors? After the press has accosted her on the solemn car ride there, and she was escorted to her lonely cell by two intimidating and tired looking guards, she had yet to see a familiar face. She had yet to have anyone say one word to her. Her throat itched to call out, create a scene, any kind of human interaction.
Priscilla was never one to be observant but her situation forced her to lap up her surroundings with hungry green eyes that appeared ghostly in the dimness. A change of scene...anything to stop her thoughts from leaking out.
Misery.
The color scheme of her cell reminded her of Gotham City, shades of blinding white and dirty gray with the occasional pollution of dirt and dust. Her clothes matched it, a scratchy dress uniform of sorts that itched and itched and itched.
There was no window to let a breeze in, and dirty glass walls leading to the main hallway obscured figures walking by in flashes of gray.
A dingy hum from above indicated a flickering light, blinking at her from the ceiling like the eye of God. Priscilla glared at it, hoping the force of her gaze would cause it to stop.
It remained.
Rosie shivered and tried to relax on her cot before the reality of her situation fell on her.
The blinking continued, always watching.
Scott Hampton was a nervous fellow with a nervous countenance. Working at the asylum had added multiple anxieties to his growing list but it kept him from unemployment, which would most likely set him over the edge.
He walked with hesitant footsteps down the white hallways, always cautious to listen for an extra pair of footfalls. In all his five years there he had yet to experience a breakout, but being cautious could not hurt anyone, he thought, his fingers twitching towards the pistol attached to his hip.
Hampton clutched at the papers in his hand as he approached the main source of his apprehension. The blurred glass door with imposing gold symbols haunted him every day but there was no escaping Doctor Jonathan Crane.
Most days when Scott hesitated outside the door Crane would laugh, or cough, it was hard to tell, before calling him in. All without turning his head. Could he smell fright? His eyes certainly matched those of a predator, the ice cold background of his night terrors. Never faltering, never losing control. Perhaps the thick black hair that Crane always slicked back concealed an extra eye.
A frigid voice sneered from inside. "You're late."
Hampton threw open the door with his free hand and staggered in the impeccable office in a panic. The commanding presence positioned at his desk in the corner appeared bored, perhaps a bit bothered. But a more cautious observer could see past his rectangle eyeglasses and detect malice in his eyes.
A drop of sweat ran down the back of the victim's bald head.
"Mr. Hampton, you look as if you've seen a ghost." Dr. Crane's full lips quirked up at the edges, a contrast to his seemingly concerned tone. He never smiled fully, perhaps to conceal canine teeth.
Scott stammered out, "G-good afternoon Doctor. H-here are the recent updates on all of the patients..." He handed Crane the papers, who took them as if they were covered in dirt. Hands free, Scott laced his fingers together as a source of security.
"...a-and the camera for the new patient, 22...23A-"
"24B," Jonathan dictated. He enunciated each syllable as if speaking to a small child.
"24B is set up. S-so you can c-carry on with your...b-business."
Scott wanted to smack himself in the face. 'Distressed minds cannot communicate properly,' he recalled reading in one of Crane's books. Who were the true patients here?
When Scott refocused on the Doctor he was completely focused on the 24B screen behind him, that girl he had heard about on the news.
"Mr. Hampton if you are capable of leaving, please do, so I can...'carry on with my business'." Crane's condescending and arrogant tone sliced through Scott's reverie and he shot out of the room as quick as his feet would let him.
Even though Crane was in his own office Scott could still feel eyes on him while walking down the research hall.
Always watching.
(A/N) Hello again readers! I apologize for the two weeks of waiting, you guysare the best! Thank you for the reviews and follows so early on, they are MUCH
appreciated! Please R&R or PM me if you want to talk, I'm all ears for ideas and(deep inhale) critical comments. This chapter is a bit short but that means the next one will be longer and have more Crane goodness :)
Disclaimer: I don't own DC Comics or Batman or Doctor Crane..(single tear)
More Crane to come in the next chapter!
Xx CC