Emily awoke after a few hours sleep, almost hesitant to open her eyes, afraid that the vision she saw of Jonathan would be gone and the beautiful hours she remembered, the hours they spent of love together, were nothing more than dreaming fantasy. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw the room darkened, whether it was now night or the curtains still were drawn she did not know. She turned her gaze beside her, her heart hoping beyond hope that Jonathan still would be there, lying beside her, but the bed was empty, the place cold beside her.
Oh, God no! Not again!
Emily's heart raced in sorrow and panic as she sprang up in the bed, her eyes searching for him and then she saw him, sitting on the edge of the bed, nearly fully dressed; his shirt still was unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest beneath. His back was towards her and he seemed lost in thought somehow, staring at nothingness, at just a wall.
"Jon?"
He turned towards her, his eyes soft and gentle, a gaze she remembered when they were making love. Slowly he moved away from the edge of the bed toward her and she wound her arms around him, almost hesitant now. Emily suddenly felt awkward and unsure of herself, almost trembling at his touch, realizing what a silly reaction this was, especially after their intimacy.
"I'm so glad you didn't leave. I was afraid for a moment you had."
Emily noticed when she said "afraid" a brief spark lit in his eyes, but it quickly died and instead was replaced by sadness and weariness.
"But tell me what you were thinking," Emily continued. "Why are you so sad, Jon? Not about us?"
"No, Emily. I could never be sad about us. I haven't been happy most of my life, but today I wish could I stretch for a lifetime. No, I was thinking about the future."
"Our future, Jon? You think we have no future?" Emily felt her heart sinking into crushed embers.
"You misinterpret me. Ah, if only Gotham City were like the legendary Phoenix this night, to burn bright and from the ashes arise reborn anew!"
"Jon, that makes no sense and you know back from high school I never had any patience with riddles. You always were the one who was good at puzzles."
Emily slipped from the sheets and wrapped her silk robe about her.
"You never did tell me what happened last night," she said. "The night of the madman."
Jonathan had an odd faint smile upon his lips, a faraway gaze in his eyes, but quickly these vanished as he was snapped back to reality once more.
"Excuse me? The 'Night of the Madman?'"
"The madman, the madman who kidnapped me from Arkham. I mean, one moment I'm abducted on that damn horse of his and I'm knocked out with a chunk of rock, next thing I know I'm waking up in my own apartment and there you are. Coincidence, I think not!"
Jonathan's brow furrowed, a slight perspiration gleamed upon it.
"I mean, the madman must have been your patient, right? And that wound on your cheek." She pointed to the bandage. "How'd you get that anyway?"
"Um, I was attacked the night of the Arkham Asylum breakout."
"You mean when that Bat guy came or by that madman or another patient?"
Jonathan heavily sighed and turned his eyes down toward the bedspread as if suddenly frustrated with the whole line of inquiry.
"Jon, that madman said he killed you! I just want to know what happened to you – and to me."
Jonathan turned his clear blue eyes up and gazed directly into her eyes.
"That madman did attack me, but it was before Arkham was emptied, before that strange vigilante. I was not killed as you now see. I left before any of the chaos happened in the Narrows." He took a deep breath before continuing. "As for you, I was on my way home. Most of the street was in ruins and traffic was delayed. I saw the madman on the streets and suddenly recognized you. While the madman was distracted, I used the sleeping gas on him, and brought you back to your apartment."
Emily nodded and gazed at his open shirt, at his beautiful chest that gently rose and fell with each breath. She remembered the kisses and caresses a few hours ago from this man whom, when she first met, didn't think could be so gentle, so loving. Her eyes moved up toward that graceful throat, toward several crisscrossing scratch marks that stood out red and swollen against his fair, perfect skin. She reached out toward him, her fingers outstretched, the scratches almost matching with her fingernails.
From the distance a lightening flash momentarily lit up the night as the blast disconnected the monorail. Emily briefly saw the eyes clearly through the ragged holes of the burlap mask and even in the lunatic's insanity and anger she saw something disconcertingly familiar in those pale blue eyes.
"Dr. Crane is dead now," gloated the lunatic. "You will have to love me instead,"
He loomed close to her in the mask, but she struggled and desperately fought against him, tearing at his throat with her fingernails.
Emily blinked as she gazed at the scratches, then at Jonathan's pale blue eyes.
No, it can't be. That truly would be crazy.
But Emily realized he must have sensed something, because he noticed she was staring at the scratches and quickly buttoned up his shirt, and slipped on his suit jacket. She also noticed his whole demeanor changed, he had become formal again, now Dr. Jonathan Crane, the professional persona he presented to the outside world.
Emily, you idiot! The one moment where he trusted you and loved you, and then you had to act like the Spanish Inquisition! You really blew it!
She almost watched in panic as she saw Jonathan leave the room.
No, he's not leaving you, Emily. He's not like Kevin, Jeff, Steve or Michael. No, not out to abandon you for the next pretty thing to come along. No, not out to use you and then throw you away. Jon, he's not like the others. He always had a kind heart and this morning he was so loving.
(But weren't the others initially?)
Emily was taken aback as she sat alone on the empty, crumpled bed she shared with Jonathan earlier. Quickly she slipped out of bed and put on her soft white slippers.
"Jon, do you want to go get dinner or a movie or something tonight?"
"Hmm?"
She could hear him moving around in another room as if occupying himself with something. Just what was he doing?
"The morning paper should be just outside the doorway. Could you get it? It should have movie times and everything. We could do something. Have a little fun, eh?"
"I'd like that, Emily."
There was a warmth and softness to his voice, which suddenly soothed Emily a great deal. Her heart rate slowed and she went back into her bedroom, beginning to change.
"I don't know about you, Jon, but these last few hours, I've realized something, I've realized how deeply I feel about you."
Emily had the door closed while she changed and she half knew he couldn't hear her. In her cowardice she almost was afraid of admitting these words to Jon, afraid of admitting it to herself. She slipped on her blue skirt and flesh tone silk stockings.
"But Jon, I – I think even back in high school – even as far back as that – yes I know I was a foolish girl then – foolish for not recognizing it then –."
She slipped on her cream cable knit sweater blouse, then brushed her long brunette hair to get out the tangles and static.
"But I think even then I knew, Jon, I knew that I – that I. Oh, Jon, I can't say this to a closed door! I know you probably won't hear."
Emily opened the door and walked out into the hallway, searching for him. The kitchen was lit and this morning's paper was waiting for her facedown on the table. A big advertising splash was on the back, announcing sales at a variety of stores and Emily, in annoyance, flipped the paper over.
TERROR HITS GOTHAM! Read the headline and Emily thought she knew the story from the vague memories from the night before, but as she skimmed down she saw something she didn't expect – a picture of Jonathan – her Jonathan.
"Dr. Jonathan Crane, head of psychiatry at Arkham Asylum, also masterminded operations, ordering large quantities of toxin – which would incite mass fear hysteria when inhaled as a vapor – into the city's water supply. The case currently is under investigation, but Dr. Crane, who escaped from Gotham City Police last night, is at large and potentially dangerous.
Emily's vision swam with tears and her throat choked as the paper trembled in her hands.
Oh, God, Jon, no! No, this can't be true! No! No! NO!
"Jon!"
She cried as she jumped from the kitchen table, slamming the paper face down. Emily saw Jonathan nowhere and as she raced through the apartment, screaming his name, part in anger, part in sorrow, she ran past the doorway and saw it partially open.
Oh, no. Please, no!
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she raced down the stairs, hoping madly that she would see his fleeing form, his trailing shadow before her. But as she rushed out into the empty, lonely street she saw nothing, nothing but the occasional car passing on the street, the trees swaying softly in the wind and the moon, pale and watery in the evening sky. Emily shivered, clutching her cold, naked arms.
But, Jon. I love you.
He now rode in the shadows, in the dank, narrow confines of the alley. Gunpowder carefully stepped past the overturned boxes and the heaping piles of garbage. Jonathan Crane felt a pang of guilt taking this magnificent animal away from the beautiful pond into the filthy bowels of Gotham City once more. Gunpowder deserved being where there was beauty and peace, not this, but he couldn't stay with Emily, as much as it hurt him to leave, he couldn't draw her into his guilt.
The police will be looking for me Emily and if they find me with you, they will suspect you helped me. No, I can't risk it, not anymore. Even I have limits to my selfishness.
He pondered now as he rode through the dark, claustrophobic alley, winding through the back ways of Gotham City, if the last hours he spent with Emily were selfish.
Yes, Jonathan, it was selfish. You knew what position you were in, what the future held, yet you succumbed to that boyhood fantasy, what you had been dreaming of since high school. Ah, Jonathan, you fool! Now you have wounded her more deeply than you ever could imagine!
He felt something hot and wet burning in his eyes and streaming down his cheek. Angrily he wiped away the tear, but still more came and his vision blurred, making the alley look like it was swimming in murky brine. Almost in relief, Jonathan reached for his Scarecrow mask, now torn and stained, and slipped it over his face to conceal his grief. Now the world would just see a gruesome and terrifying visage, and never see the pain and sorrow that dwelt beneath.
At last, after several hours of winding through the back ways, alleys and lonely side streets, Jonathan emerged near the starting point of his long journey with Gunpowder – the bridge leading to Narrows Island. Truly it was madness that compelled him now. He knew he could not return to his apartment, surely the police would be waiting for him there and just a common enough trap could be set at Arkham Asylum, yet he was compelled to return to it somehow. In many ways that asylum was more home to him than his apartment, swallowing much of his waking hours – no, more his soul – within the white brick confines and black steel gates.
He lightly kicked Gunpowder's sides, urging him forward from the shadows of a side street into the broad, brightly lit intersection leading to Narrows Island Bridge. Gunpowder's hooves clopped loudly it seemed; the hour was late and blessedly no cars were on the road on that empty street. Jonathan kept Gunpowder at an easy pace, gradually approaching the gatekeeper's window at the entrance of the bridge.
A man slouched at the chair listening to the radio, his pot belly nearly popping the buttons on his now too tight uniform. He nursed the coffee in his right hand, clearly not noticing Jonathan as he approached.
"Heh, kinda a late night for mounted police, eh," mumbled the gatekeeper, without looking. "What is it? Almost 2 a.m.?"
The gatekeeper sat up with a grunt and gazed idly out the window, and saw Jonathan who still wore the Scarecrow mask. Suddenly the gatekeeper's eyes widened and the coffee mug slipped from his fingers, shattering upon the steel plated floor.
"What the hell? Stop you freak!"
But before he could reach for a gun or call for assistance, Jonathan stretched out his arm and shot a clear sleeping gas into the gatekeeper's face.
"I'm in no mood for fear this night, sleep instead," Jonathan said as he watched the gatekeeper heavily slump back asleep in his chair.
Jonathan rode across the length of the bridge unhindered and at last found himself in a territory he knew so well from childhood – the Narrows.
The Narrows Island still had not recovered from its Night of Terror. The streets were scarred with broken concrete from a crashed vehicle and an occasional twisted or crushed car. Jonathan didn't know whether it was the late hour or the shock the island still was reeling from, but the streets were eerily silent and still as he rode like some remnant of last evening's nightmare.
The quietness was deafening to the point he almost fancied he had lost his hearing within the muffling mask. Jonathan sighed, the tears now were gone and he hardly feared prying eyes seeing him on so deserted a street. Slowly he slipped the rough burlap off and smoothed out his hair.
Gunpowder tossed his head briefly as they turned the corner and began their long walk down Sweeney Street – named after one of the great benefactors of Arkham Asylum. Gunpowder pricked his ears and grew more ill at ease as they approached the large, looming white structure ahead, as if approaching some massive haunted house. Jonathan slipped on his glasses from his breast pocket and now that they were closer, he realized that something was not quite right as could be imagined.
The always locked steel gates hung slightly open on its hinges and the guard house, which always was lit, stood black and cold. Jonathan gently kicked Gunpowder's sides, urging the reluctant stallion forward. The horse snorted and quickened his pace, and as the gates quickly approached, Jonathan also saw not only the guard house was empty, but the lights within Arkham also were dim – on emergency power.
There must be somebody there. There always has been!
He flicked the reins and kicked Gunpowder's sides once more, urging him into a run. The black gates swiftly passed them and the menacing structure of Arkham rose ominously to greet them, more a massive gray shadow with faint lights glimmering from the barred windows. When he reached the main entrance, out of habit he reached for his ID card to unlock the door, but then saw there was no need – the door hung open upon its hinges.
Jonathan heavily sighed and slipped from the saddle. Again he had to content himself with haphazardly tying Gunpowder's reins to a nearby tree bough, then walked through Arkham Asylum's door, for the first time not knowing what to expect inside. Papers littered the corridor like autumnal leaves and Jonathan's sudden emergence caused them to slightly shiver upon the floor. Briefly he gazed upon them and saw they were patients' records, undoubtedly scattered from medical files in the panic.
A little further down he saw signs of a blast, deep scars in the cracked tile, soot burns and shattered wood at the nurse's station, but thankfully no sign of bodies. Even further still was another sign of a heavier detonation, this time at the door leading to the Criminally Insane Ward. The thick metal doors were warped and broken open from a massive blast and from the opening he could see each one of the patients' doors sprung open. Yes, all of his beloved guinea pigs were now loose on Gotham.
He gazed at the patients' records beneath his feet, stained, torn and burned – years of his research either destroyed or damaged beyond repair. He honestly didn't know if he could ever recover it again and now that his subjects were gone – now that they had returned to their native environment to wreak whatever wickedness and evil they wished upon it. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. His fists clenched hard, feeling his nails biting into his palm.
Betrayed! I trusted you! You gave me your word! And you betrayed me!
Black revenge and bitter hatred swam in his heart. For a moment Scarecrow awoke within his mind and began to whisper delicious tortures in his ear. But as he briefly savored these thoughts, suddenly a panic, so sharp and piercing entered Jonathan's heart and drove all thoughts of revenge from his mind.
Oh, God! How could I have been so blind and stupid!
Jonathan ran harder than he could remember through the asylum into the West Wing. His heart beat frantically as each door, one after another, appeared open and empty, but there was only one he hoped and prayed still had a patient that remained. As Jonathan saw Room 221, he fumbled with his ID, hoping it still was securely locked as he grabbed hold of the door handle, but just as easily as all the other doors it came open. The chair was in the place it always was and the room didn't seem in disarray like much of the asylum.
"Mom! It's me, Jonathan! Are you okay?"
He rushed into the room, his heart madly racing, not caring for decorum or his appearance, just hoping beyond hope she still was there, that she was okay. Jonathan's eyes widened as he stood before the chair and then slowly sank to his knees, just staring in dumb shock.
"Oh, no. Oh, please no."
He reached out and placed his hand on the armrest, where his mother's hand always was – where his mother's hand now was gone. The chair was vacant now, just like the rest of Arkham Asylum.
That night there was only one sound in Arkham Asylum and it was the sound Jonathan Crane sobbing.
