The Laughing Stock – Chapter Two
His interest in her case lasted long enough for him, and the rest of Gotham, to discover that she was convicted of murder in the first degree. She got more publicity than he'd expected, but he supposed that he had underestimated the public. It would seem that everyone did love to see perfectly good doctors go nuts. Just take Crane, for example. As far as Gotham City was concerned, Harleen Quinzel was now no better than her former colleague.
He hadn't expected things to go quite so smoothly, either. He was slightly disappointed, actually—it had been an easy case, with few doubts or second thoughts. Everyone was absolutely positive that Harleen Quinzel had murdered Guy Kopski. He heard it mentioned that the cops were sure that he'd been having an affair with one of the other doctors at Arkham, but scoffed at the flimsy excuse for a motive.
Ah, Gotham City—where everything is possible, nothing is as it seems, and a few crooked cops go a long way.
- - -
She couldn't believe it. She simply couldn't believe it. Her vision was blurred slightly and her head was pounding, but she could not force herself to sleep that night. Her thoughts were spinning wildly, out of control, running away with her—how could she have been convicted? Nothing made sense anymore.
Not that that was a particularly foreign idea, though—nothing had made sense in Gotham City for as long as anyone could remember. But her life had been normal, or at least as normal as it could get living here. And for the past few months, she'd watched it fall apart, thread by thread, until the pressure on her sanity was so intense that she might snap at any minute. She knew that she wouldn't, though. She couldn't, because she still had one thing left, and even though they'd take it from her in due time, she had it now, and nothing else mattered.
Harleen laid a hand on her stomach, smiling slightly, and found comfort in knowing that he would be with her for a while longer. Most women looked forward to the time when it would finally be all over, but she was different. She was dreading that day. She didn't have a chance of keeping him, not in here. They'd take him from her. She'd be alone.
Lethargically, she rolled out of bed without necessarily wanting to. This had become a ritual of sort—every so often she would stand and move about, just to do something. Sometimes she would walk to the sink and wash her hands, or look at herself in the reflective sheet of metal meant to pass as a mirror. This time she veered towards the toilet, frowning. She hadn't been feeling well the past day or two, not enough to complain about but enough that it was bothering her regardless. Her stomach hurt, first of all; it was like she was experiencing cramps, but cast it off as an effect of the pregnancy. And there was the nausea, which she also thought was probably due to the pregnancy.
It wasn't until the following week, when the bleeding started, that she realized the full extent of what was occurring. Harleen had stupidly cast all other symptoms aside as normal side-effects. She hadn't even considered... how could she have known?
They noticed her eventually. She was refusing to leave her cell, remaining curled on the cot with her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. She fought them when they came to bring her to the mess hall, telling them desperately that she couldn't go, she couldn't leave him, she couldn't let him leave her. It wasn't until a guard noticed the bloodstains on her clothes and the sheets that they began to seriously worry about her condition, physically as well as emotionally. It was obvious even to them that she knew what was happening within her body.
Eventually she simply gave up the struggle, and with red eyes and a wet face, allowed them to take her to the hospital. After the procedure was complete, and she was watching them carry the small, lifeless, blood-covered boy–a boy, she could have had a boy–that the despair truly began to take its toll. She did everything in her power to get him back from them: she cried, she screamed, but kicked and fought and bit, but it got her nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.
Nowhere, also known as Arkham Asylum. The inmates howled and gawked and laughed as they watched her, Harleen Quinzel, being led down the halls by two orderlies. What had once been the enemy was now on their level. She was one of them. She would be playing their games now, their way.
She passed Jeremiah in the hall. He watched her, disappointment obvious. He reached out, laid a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment before she shrugged it off and picked up her pace.
"You were one of us, Harleen."
I still am.