So... uh... hey. Don't be alarmed if the alert for this popped up and you were left wondering what the hell this was, I had also almost forgotten that this story was even a thing I was doing. As you may have guessed, I ran into a bit of a hurdle with this story, meaning that I knew exactly how it ends, but the whole middle section had just fallen completely out of my brain. And so I decided to leave it untill it came back to me and promptly forgot about it. But I remembered recently and felt insipred again, so this is it. For real this time, I promise.

Basically, the moral of that story is that I'm sorry this has taken so long and no worries if you've forgotten what this even is.

LV xx

Alice

Jack stares intently at the floor. I watch his eyes harden. The floor beneath us shakes as the subway train rattles onwards. It won't be long now. I reach out and gently placed a hand on Jack's forearm. He gives a start and looks up at me. He looks lost and on the brink of something awful. Something I can't put my finger on, something I don't really understand, but it's something that scares me. I run my hand down to take his and wordlessly tell him that everything will be all right. It takes him a while, but I soon see that he's found himself again. He seems stable once more. I even manage to coax a brief smile from him before the train begins to slow. I let go of him and stand up before he does. He's bracing himself, psyching himself up for what I know is his least favourite day of the week. I walk in to the crowded carriage; I know that he will follow me. It's the same routine every week, almost like a ritual.

It's not long before his shoulders brush against mine and he pushes our way through the crowd to the door. Everyone is crushed into one small carriage. We are like cattle on their way to the slaughter, except cattle are far happier. They, at least, have the benefit of not knowing their destination. Everyone around us is acutely aware of the hell they are returning to and it shows on their miserable faces. They are so wrapped in their thoughts that nobody bothers when we push past them, nobody even flinches at the stench of piss and vomit that seems to have soaked into the air around us. People only talk if they are with someone they know and even then their words are few and far between. The train is so nosy that I don't think there is room for much speech. The wheels scream along the track and nothing feels stable. Everything rattles and clangs against whatever it is next to. I'm certain that it's not safe and that the amount of filth and grime surrounding us cannot be hygienic. But it's no different from the rest of this side of Gotham and so everyone turns a blind eye. Humans can get used to anything.

We step out on to the filthy platform and I see rats scurrying off in the shadows. They're not as timid as you might think. Not here anyway. In Gotham's seedy underbelly rats and humans live side by side in near enough the same conditions. The station is pretty empty; there aren't many people who travel to or from this particular one. It's best to stay away from those that do. As we climb the stairs towards the dirty grey light of outside, we come across two drunks on the brink of a brawl. Jack automatically moves closer to me and walks slightly in front, so as to face them before I do. I avoid eye contact with them and we walk in silence, but they still notice us.

"Alright, darlin'?" one of them shouts. His voice echoes and bounces around the stairwell. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jack tense and I pray that he will keep his cool. I do not react.

"Why you ignorin' us, hun?" the other one joins in. "I'm sure your boyfriend won't mind you talkin'."

Again, I don't react. We draw nearer to them. They walk down a few steps, slowly approaching us. Soon they are close enough for us to smell the stench of cheap alcohol. "What? You a couple of mutes or something?" one of them chuckles. But then the other one gets a good look at my face.

"Here, look at this… who cut up your pretty face, doll?" he reaches out and grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him for the briefest of seconds before Jack's fist comes out of nowhere and smacks him back. Quick as a flash, Jack pushes me behind him and springs on the guy again. He pins him up against the wall with one hand clenched around his throat. The man tries to get away, but his struggles only seem to make things worse.

"Jack don't!" I call out, but he doesn't listen to me.

"Apologise," he demands. His tone gives the illusion that he is calm, but I know that means he is at his most dangerous. His tongue darts quickly in and out of his mouth and a fiery fury burns in his eyes.

"I… I'm sorry…" the man chokes out.

"Let him go!" I plead loudly, but Jack's not done yet. He smashes the man's head off the wall so violently that he cries out.

"Like you mean it," Jack snarls. The man's eyes are wild, bulging. They find mine and plead with me desperately.

"I'm sorry!" he says again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"It's ok," I say, more to Jack than him. "Jack, let him go. It's ok, let him go."

Very slowly, Jack lets him go. The man bolts at the first opportunity he gets. His friend had already fled. Jack breaths heavily, leaning on the hand which had been clutching the man's throat. He closes his eyes for a second. The stairwell starts to shake as another train passes through the underground. Then Jack lets out a roar of anger and slams his fist into the wall. He leaves yet more cracks in it and also a slight dent. His knuckles start to bleed.

"Hey," I say gently, placing my hands on the top of his shoulders. I guide him round so that he's facing me. He stares at his hands. They're shaking. "Why so serious?" I ask.

He relaxes slightly, and although he does not smile he at least raises his eyes to meet mine. He stretches the fingers of his bleeding hand, testing him. He then reaches up and runs the index finger of each hand along either one of my scars. Then he smiles. He's the only one who genuinely smiles when he sees them. And he's the only one who smiles in a good way. As if they are the best thing about me, rather than the one thing that drives everyone away. I smile back and move my hands from his shoulders. "Okay now?" I ask. He nods. It's not exactly the first time that this has happened and I'd be a fool to think that it would be the last. I can't keep these hideous scars covered forever and they're not exactly easy to ignore. The trouble with scars is that no matter what you use to cover them you can always feel them there. I only have to run my tongue along the inside of my cheeks and I can feel the bumps, grooves, ridges and stiches.

Jack's in a predictably quiet mood. He doesn't often speak on this particular journey and I never push him to. He deals with things in his own way and you just have to let him get on with it. You might think it pointless that I walk with him every week without fail if all we do is walk in silence, and I can see why you would, but staying with him means more than words. With a friendship like ours words aren't always needed to show support.

Jack stops. Arkham Asylum looms up in front of us.

It's not a pleasant looking place. It stands on the outskirts of the City, looking at it from the top of the hill, resentful at having been pushed out of Gotham. It seems to be a place of permanent darkness, surrounded by high fences and shut in by heavy metal gates. A wall of trees, which seldom seem to have anything growing on the sharp, scraggy branches, also serve to keep the inmates in and the sanity out. I think it rains even more here than it does elsewhere in this miserable City. We get past security without having to say a word; they've begun to know us by sight. Jack slows on the long path to the door. I keep walking, knowing that as long as I do, he will follow.

"Don't wait for me," he says, although he says it every week.

"Don't tell me what to do," I quip, raising an eyebrow. There's laughter in his eyes. "I'll leave if I want to."

"Do," he says. We smile because we both know that I won't. We walk in to the dingy reception. I sit down and Jack walks to the reception desk to have a quiet conversation with the woman behind the desk. She knows who he is. He's here every week without fail. He disappears through a door, glancing at me as it shuts. I smile encouragingly and then he is gone for the next hour. I get out a book and burry myself in it, trying to ignore the cries of those that the City has managed to break down. If I were ever to go mad, I think Arkham would make me worse.

When Jack appears again he's tired and angry. As we walk back in to Gotham in silence I take his hand. By the time we get home he's almost himself again.

Jack

They say that madness could be genetic, but I find it insulting that they think I inherited it from my mother. That explanation is just too… uh, easy. I fought so hard to rid myself of ties to her. Only Alice knew that I visited her in that hellhole. The hellhole I now call home. Arkham… the word brings bile to my throat. I used to watch my mother in here and pity her. I used to worry about her being in a room by herself for so long. I've never understood why they don't just let the mad mingle with one another.

Perhaps they would tear each other to shreds. ..

Perhaps that's why it isn't allowed.

Would be fun to watch, eh?

Maybe they think I'm crazy because I visited her. As if I caught it from being in the same airspace. Like a disease, a sickness. But madness isn't a disease. Madness is beautiful. Madness is liberating. When you're mad you can do what you like. Because people just blame it on your mental health… or lack of it. They can't blame my mother's genes or influence for the way I am. The only ones the people of Gotham City can blame are themselves. I've seen what the papers say about me- the son of a local madwoman gone mad himself and awaiting trial. But they don't get it. You see, there are many differences between my mother and I. I don't think my mother was really mad at all. I don't think she knew what madness... what true madness is. I think she was just selfish. She couldn't even successfully take her own life. She just wanted the doctors to have reason to section her so that she could escape. Escape the burden of having someone like me as a son. Being more of a danger to herself than others she was in a low-security cell, which is a luxury compared to where I am. She had enough food to stop the hunger eating her away. She was treated with some level of dignity and compassion. I have stared insanity in the eyes only to find that I was looking in the mirror. She barely even scratched the surface. She was never accused of murder. That's why we're different.

I was wrong to pity her when I saw her.

She looked at Gotham and sighed wistfully at the thought of home.

I look at Gotham and all I can see is it burning. I look at Gotham and I smile.

Please review :)