Charles Norton marched up the cracked concrete steps to the Asylum entrance, the hot rage coursing through him adding passionate forcefulness to his movements. He felt ready to lash out at any passing fool, letting them taste a small measure of the suffering he had endured all night.
"How dare she?" Norton spat aloud, his face contorting with anger and pain, as memories of the fierce argument reverberated through his head. His wife, normally so sweet and docile, had viciously turned on him, assaulting him with subtle insults and innumerable concealed barbs. Oh she thought herself so cunning, believing that he wouldn't notice, but Norton had caught on to the act quickly enough. Her pupils had widened when he confronted her, trying her best to fake surprise and distress, but Charles Norton was not a man easily deceived. Norton had never had a reason to strike his wife before, but by God if she acted up like that again, she would sorely regret it.
At least I'm safe from her here, Norton thought, glad to be back at the Asylum. Here, he held the the power and soon enough his home life would mirror that once again.
Norton burst through the heavy iron doors, inhaling a deep breath that he expected to fill him with harmony and comfort but instead immediately made him feel much worse. His head was already beginning to pound as he shuffled to his first meeting, each dull thud echoing the torture of his wife's piercing comments. Norton did not want to admit it, but he had been wounded by the things she had insinuated. No, worse than that, he had been afraid precisely because they were true. His wife, just like all the others, was starting to catch on to him. The doubters had been appearing in greater numbers, always watching him, their expressions full of masked scorn and their mouths overflowing with scalding gossip.
Someone was spreading lies, truths, about him and Norton was determined to find out who this treacherous adversary was. Most were small-minded sheep, far too stupid to endanger him. Griffin had never shown any ambition beyond getting through the day, certainly none for the position of Warden, could that have suddenly changed? Delapore was easy to manipulate and had been under his thumb for three years, surely she would not have abandoned him now?
Crane.
The name bloomed, sending bleak roots of doubt shooting through his body. Norton angrily crushed the anxiety, dismissing the notion as ridiculous. It was impossible that Dr. Crane was somehow orchestrating the envious abuse. Although he was undoubtedly the most capable psychiatrist in Arkham, he was a detached, cowardly man. It had been Crane's plans Norton had stolen in order to sway the board, but Norton was positive the gangly doctor was too chicken-hearted to seek revenge. Dr. Crane had seemed untroubled to hear his plans announced when Norton listed the changes he would be making as the new Warden of Arkham. No, it could not be Crane, the poor wretch was a weakling and far too withdrawn to convince others of anything, let alone tarnish the reputation of the most powerful man in the Asylum.
Norton had been so absorbed with suspicion and conspiracy that he only noticed the two interns when he was less than ten feet away from them. Barely suppressing a scream he glared at the pair of tormentors, already beginning the process of backing away, one that he was by now very familiar with. He feared them most of all. Where they lingered there was no peace, only whispers and burning shame. Each time he heard their accusations Norton convinced himself he would put an end to it all, but by the time he had built up the confidence to act, they melted away like phantoms.
Then, without warning, the two figures slowly began to twist their heads, the muscles in their necks contorting until they were both looking directly at Norton. They grinned, their lips tearing a gaping laceration of sneering hate into their faces.
Incompetent. Unfaithful. Pathetic.
Charles Norton fled, whimpering softly as his heart convulsed erratically with frantic terror. There was no doubt he had heard those words, the very same words his wife had used throughout the previous night. Norton did not pause to think how such a thing could be possible, he did not think at all, he simply kept running until he slammed into an empty corner and miserably slid to his knees.
He was not sure how long he lay slumped in that crevice, struggling to hold back tears and control his pounding heart. Trying to regulate his breathing proved futile, every wretched gasp he took brought a new wave of nausea and nervous shaking. No-one passed him, but that was not unusual for Arkham Asylum, a person could walk for an hour and not see a single human being, just endless cells bursting with anguished screaming.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Norton rose, his fear of discovery outweighing his dread of encountering the interns. He hesitantly limped down the vacant corridor, unsure where he was going or what he was going to do about...anything. His panic flared up once again when he glimpsed a shadow turn the corner in front of him, but it was somewhat calmed when he recognised it was Dr. Delapore. She was walking fitfully, her whole frame a vessel that exuded nervous agitation. Norton took comfort in that fact that he was not the only one suffering today.
"Dr. Delapore!" Norton cried, using all his willpower to prevent his voice from cracking. Gathering together what remained of his self-esteem, he gave his best, charming grin. It quickly faltered when he remembered the terrible smiles of the demonic interns. He hoped she wouldn't notice the thin layer of sweat he could feel lightly running down his forehead but did not want to bring attention to it by wiping it away.
Ruth Delapore snapped her head up sharply, noticing the clean-cut man standing in front of her as he uttered her name, but only realising that the golden hair and gleaming teeth belonged to Charles Norton when she pushed the deep mist of sorrow from her thoughts. She opened her mouth to reply, but the attempt swiftly degenerated into a violent coughing fit that wracked her whole body with a pain she had been enduring for days.
"Are you alright Ruth?" Norton asked, the genuine concern he felt somewhat marred by the noticeably forced aspect of the cough.
She's faking it, Norton thought, a cold suspicion crystallising as he wondered what possible reason she could have to do so.
"Yes," Delapore wheezed, holding back the wave of filth seeking to flee from her lungs, "just a slight cold, nothing to worry about." Her gaze stayed firmly rooted to the floor as she spoke, her words no more than an afterthought of the cough, which she thought should have answered his question well enough. She was grievously sick, was it not obvious? Delapore supposed she had been more successful at hiding the fiery red sores that had started to appear on her face better than she first thought. Hunched over a mirror, her doe-like eyes brimming with confusion and humiliation, she had seen them as clearly after the generous layer of makeup as before, but then again, Norton had never been very attentive.
"Why the hell did you come in to work then Ruth? Any sane person would celebrate the chance to get away from this place for a while." Norton began, doubts continuing to swim through his head, "In fact I'd wager there are plenty of insane people that would love to get away from here as well."
"What does that make me then?"
A liar.
"An idiot, obviously." Norton smirked, hoping Ruth would be provoked into giving him a straight answer.
Ruth Delapore did not want to tell him that the thought of being trapped, lying pitifully in bed while the festering disease gradually choked her with rot, birthed an all-consuming panic that forced her to struggle out the door, to keep going at any cost. She would not, could not, let an infection compel her to that living grave, the half-death that she had seen so much of and dreaded ever since. Nor could she tell Norton that the senseless physician claimed she was quite healthy, Delapore knew better than to trust the words of doctors. The very same medical 'professionals' had not seen the decay in her mother until it was too late, till there was nothing left to do except suffer and scream until the cancer seized its inevitable victory. Delapore did not want to admit to Norton that the real reason she continued to drag herself into the Asylum, knowing it was saturated with foulness, was because the alternative scared her more than any other fate imaginable.
"It's nothing serious Charles, I promise. I don't need to take any time off work, but thank you for being so concerned." Delapore stated formally, praying that she sounded convincing.
Norton's lips drew tight together, unsure if the answer satisfied his curiosity, but gradually convincing himself that she had no reason to lie. He was still shaken and had probably imagined that the cough was faked, the whole idea beginning to look very silly. Norton looked at the pretty, young girl in front of him and felt an air of clarity descend upon him. Feeling slightly more like his usual self, he decided a bit of harmless flirtation would make him feel much better.
"That's good to hear my dear, but you still deserve to relax a little, don't you think?. Why not join me tonight for dinner, and perhaps a bottle or two of wine? I may not be a medical professor but I'm quite confident that I could cure you of all this unnecessary stress." Norton asked, remembering fondly the satisfying sexual encounter they had shared a few years back after one particularly drunken staff party. He knew that Ruth was a lonely girl, and it was easy enough to lure her back to his place while his wife was visiting relatives. Delapore had left hurriedly the morning after, apparently full of guilt about the incident, and ever since she had blushed furiously whenever Norton winked at her or softly brushed against her leg when they passed a little too close. Norton figured a delightful evening together was exactly what they both needed, and reached out his hand to squeeze her arm playfully.
Delapore frantically jerked her arm back to avoid Norton's contaminated touch, letting out a shriek before lapsing into another uncontrollable fit of coughing. Delapore vividly pictured her feeble lungs ineptly battling some putrid corruption.
Mother, please don't let it happen to me too.
Norton stared in amazement at the woman in front of him, struggling to accept how desperately she was trying to get rid of him. The cough was not real. Ruth Delapore had abandoned him, she was in league with the doubters. For the first time in Charles Norton's life, he felt utterly alone. Without saying goodbye, he walked down the claustrophobic Arkham corridor, unsure of his destination but far past caring. His mind inadvertently drifted to his father's hand grenade, an old World War II relic he used as a paperweight in order to impress guests with fanciful depictions of his dear old dad's wartime exploits. He had no idea if the thing actually worked, in fact he was confident it did not. That's what he'd told Arkham security when he brought the thing in anyway. Norton imagined walking up to those interns, or whatever foul power was behind his sudden downfall and pulling the pin, laughing gleefully just before all his worries and fears turned to rubble.
Delapore watched Norton walk away, realising that he must have left for fear of catching her toxic pestilence. If Charles' had run from her, who would not? Wasn't her fate some dank hospital bed, hidden away by her 'loved ones' so that she would not trouble them too much as she withered into nonexistence?
What am I thinking? Delapore wondered, I'm not dying! I'm just sick, with something so minor a doctor couldn't even diagnose it. When did I become so paranoid?
Delapore spun around, presuming Norton was late for an appointment and it was just his ordinary bad manners coming to the fore again. She had barely taken a step when she crashed into something sharply angular, crying out for the second time in just as many minutes, and stumbled forward, awkwardly catching her paperwork before it plummeted to the ground. Apologies already forming in her mouth she glanced up and recognised the thin, stern face of Jonathan Crane examining her dispassionately. The word sorry had just begun to escape her lips when Crane whispered in a delicately concerned manner.
"You have blood on your hands, Dr. Delapore."
"What?" Delapore replied in a faint echo as she glanced down at her dainty fingers, each one coated with a thin layer of blood. Delapore felt something rush through her, something primal that swept away all rational thought, robbed her of every pleasant joy she had never known and left behind a freezing numbness that promised no end or relief. The blood was sticky and hot on her hands, the sensation amplified by the fact that it was the only thing she could feel.
Then the plug was pulled and her emotions poured back into her, bubbling like a chemical reaction soon to become an explosion.
"I'm sorry Dr. Crane, I-I..." Delapore whimpered, trailing off into nothing. She stared into his expressionless, lean face and saw an almost imperceptible nod of permission. Grateful for his understanding, she fled without a word, searching for any place where she could let out the wracking sobs that had begun to build in her throat like acidic bile, demanding release.
Jonathan Crane stood rooted in place for a few seconds, allowing himself a brief pause to truly savour his work. Then, taking out his little black book, he added a new name to his growing collection of noteworthy subjects.
'Dr. Delapore, R: Nosophobia'
