Chapter Ten: Only human.
You will wait until it's over
To reveal what you'd never shown her
Too little much too late Muse - Muscle Museum
I smile, a thin line growing on my lips, a snarl.
Her body lay motionless in front of me, of him. Or is this me? I can't tell right now.
Poor Johnny… feeling lost?
What have you done Scarecrow? What did you-!
-do to her? Not much, some of this, some of that… a bit of tox-
-in? You know how she reacted last time she-!
-was so much fun? Come on Johnny! You know as much I do that you like to see their faces…
You're sick.
Then what does that you then Johns? Scarecrow chuckles, she's more fun when there's something wrong! Always wanting to help…
Bastard…
No that's what you are, born out of wedlock! My, my, should I really be associated with such a man?
Go away! I need control now. The mind, her mind, isn't going to be able to take much more of-!
-this…?
Almost lovingly, Crane watches his left hand glide over Cara's sickly pale skin, a knife in his right closely following the path. Under his wraithlike touch, she squirms, experiencing nothing short of yet another unbearable nightmare.
Relax Johnny, you know that chemical we used causes only temporary loss of sensory functions. Her mind will be fine, just some psychological damage; but isn't that to be expected where you are concerned?
Growling venomously, I retort. Where you are concerned, is what I believe you were meaning to say.
Whatever you say, Johnny-boy! Scarecrow chortles, binding and gagging me in the back of my own mind. How? I try not to dwell on belief that my alter ego can do as he wishes in my mind, so I allow him to take me over, giving him a few, choice restraints as I do so: no killing or permanent damage.
Five minutes, Scarecrow. Then I want you to give us both some peace.
Whatever you say, Johnny-boy! Echoes mockingly once more and in that moment everything turns black. And red.
...
When Jonathan (me, I, curse this confusion!) finally regains my body, ribbons of rouge cover the young woman's skin; although the Scarecrow is quick to laugh off my –admittedly unusual- concern.
Don't you get it Johnny? I let you back, you can't fight me off! You're too soft Johns; after all, if you had really wanted to what-? Protect her? Scarecrow scoffs at the idea, tugging at the bloodstained seams around his fingers and... mouth? Then you would have allowed me play earlier. I'm much gentler when I'm calm.
You have never been gentle; never mind calm! You're going to leave Cara out of this from now on... otherwise she will defiantly contact the police- problematic do you not think, Scarecrow? In fact, I'm shocked that she has not already contacted the police... Scowling at the pooling blood around the brunette's body, I consider the reasoning behind her distinct lack of self-preservation and none-existent civic duty to have me put behind bars. Stockholm Syndrome? Scarecrow sniggers, nodding his agreement and flaring my anger with his pleased expression. Scarecrow I would appreciate you doing as I say, like we would before getting into this mess. Either keep out of my way and let me stitch up our host; or –so help me- I shall-!
You'll what, Johns? Hit me? Keep me locked away in the back of your mind? Sedate me? Ha! We're the same Johns and you know it! You'll do well to remember that when your lady friend wakes up and you need to explain. If she turns violent on us or tries to phone the cops… well, you know where to find me.
At that I swore, cursing the Scarecrow, whose chuckling spoke volumes of his blatant amusement. Yet the fiendish brute relaxes the tension of his presence in my mind to a hum of quiet discomfort as I cut and tear strips of cloth from various towels I can find packed away –rather neatly- into draws and cupboards about the apartment.
That was step one. Step two of making sure that the girl doesn't bleed to death before I bandage her is going to be trickier. I need a needle and some thread. Preferably some anaesthetic too.
Something is sliding down my throat.
"Drink." Commands a masculine voice. "It's just water, the drug is still too potent in your blood, it needs to be diluted. Drink." Jonathan... Crane. My body seems to be acting on autopilot, gulping down the water pressing at my dry lips, whilst my mind rebels to even the presence of this man. How dare he continue to hurt me even after we had agreed to 'four golden rules' of his stay here! I hadn't even tried to phone the police, taking pity on the broken man; although the idea seems a lot more attractive now.
Despite my fear of only seeing a black oblivion upon opening them, I attempt to lift my eyelids, needing to be able to see what Crane is doing. Yet a dull, throbbing ache from all over my body prevents me from continuation.
Funny, I recall this happened before.
But never again! Crane has got to go.
Keeping half an eye on the sleeping Crow as I sit reading the works of Oscar Wilde, I feel pleasantly blissful; despite Scarecrow's mumbled plotting in the far reaches of my awareness.
'The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.'
Silently smiling at the last line, I wonder idly of what Cara must think of Wilde's definition. The sadist within me wants to force her to accept that her old profession of making 'beautiful' things for people was a waste of time, accounting for nothing; unlike my old position of power where I could –literally- hold the lives of people in my hands.
Yet I suppose that we both enjoy what we do, I muse, setting the book on the worn wooden bedside table. And if Cara does apply for Arkham, then I can always help her see my side of things... No, I frown, casting my eyes over the sleeping woman's own troubled expression as she experiences –yet another- nightmare, she would not even think to agree with what I did, what I do, to my test subjects... she proved that enough by not using the gas on me- Scarecrow; despite everything he (we, Johnny. And you haven't been the most appreciative of 'guests'...) has so far done.
Glancing at the thin leather tome, I sigh. Silly woman has made me curious now... I shall have to wait for her to wake up before reading anything too fanciful. Reaching into the inner pockets of my tattered; albeit only faintly bloodstained now (I had been working on getting out the said stains whilst my host has been sleeping or unconscious), storm grey suit jacket, I receive my personal notebook and mini-pen- perfect for jotting down more... valued patient notes or suddenly inspired hypothesis of how to improve my toxin's effectiveness. Needless to say, I am running out of space already.
My pen graces the smooth, lined paper, quite prepared and bleeding a fine sketch of a question I have prepared mentally to ask Cara: I already know that physical closeness frightens you, how about mental? Is this what causes your rapid changes of emotion around me, you fear having me 'in your mind'? Involuntarily I shiver at the thought of her fearful expression as I ask her, 'do you fear me?'
Glancing self-consciously at the oblivious woman, I turn away my electric gaze, closing my eyes, fantasying and settling deeper into the same carved oak chair I had pulled through last time I had taken care of her.
First, I would watch her face, the dilatation of her eyes from fear... or attraction, as I open my arms wide and beckon her to me- this would have to be on her own terms; not Scarecrow's.
But then again, what scares a crow more than anything?
Hesitantly she will step, unsure; albeit not from imagining that Scarecrow could suddenly revel in my lack of control and harm her once more. No, she will be nervous because Cara has never done this before. And she never will with another man, for once she comes to me I will not be letting go anytime soon.
I had been betrayed before. I had made sure it would not happen again.
An urgent knock jerks me out of my dreaming.
Am I not to have any peace?
The knocking becomes louder.
I sigh, getting to my feet and walking out of the warm bedroom into the corridor. Apparently not.
Opening the front door by a mere fraction, a familiar female voice begins to demand answers as she pushes her way into the apartment past me. I let her obviously. Scarecrow snickers a negative, as her windswept, dark coffee hair passes just under my nose.
"It's just past half-eight and Cara still hasn't called to say she's okay, where is she?" Izzy –Isabelle- asks, folding her arms across her chest, an action I note with interest.
"You feel threatened." Watching the way her wide (but not in fear... they seem to be naturally so), dark lashed eyes glance to the side then back at me, I feel a smirk tug at my lips: she is afraid. But an expert at hiding it...
"Are you going to answer my question or not? Where is Cara?" Hissing the question with so much malice that her knuckles turn white as they clench into sharp fists, Isabelle glares searchingly at me, hunting for the answer. "If you've hurt her again, I swear I'll kill you. Slowly."
Are you going to take that, Johnny? The toxin is still where you left it, take her to our hurt little Crow and whilst her back is turned-!
"I assure you that will not be necessary." Sparing a smile at the other psychologist (the last time I checked, the Arkham cleaning staff do not wear suits...), I lead the way towards Cara's room. That answer had been for both my headaches. Rather than opening the door for the brunette (since the said door is currently lying against the opposite corridor wall, thanks to my necessary barging it down earlier), I step aside to allow Isabelle to enter first.
"Glad to see you left some lights on," she jokes, her eyes swiftly swerve to the shifting, sleeping figure on the bed. "What the-!" A strangled noise later and after the muffled clipping of heels upon the ruby carpet, and Isabelle is moving away the bloodstained sheets to reveal the extent of her friend's injuries. Bandages cover both arms completely, her torso and back are also bound in the makeshift bandages; although only around the middle. Pulling away the rest of the duvet, I try to keep the relief from my face as Isabelle expresses her own: at least her legs are fine.
Scarecrow snickers, taunting me in the back of our mind. At least she can run...
With deliberate slowness, the stained white duvet is replaced and –with one last anxious glance- the navy suited woman brushes past me and into the living room, giving me a fierce look to follow.
"You hurt her," stopping just short of the aged leather of the sofa, Isabelle repeats with a barely retrained shout, "you fucking hurt her!"
Amused at the reaction I am receiving, I shake my head, chuckling.
"No, Scarecrow hu-"
"Don't give me this bullshit, you flammable idiot! I told you," taking short, fuming breaths, the woman advances, I quirk an eyebrow, nonchalantly reaching into my suit for a syringe. "If you hurt her again, I'll kill-!"
At her vigorous punch, I dodge (made a master of such an art from my school days) stepping inwards to avoid a second, I expose my weapon with a flourish and rest it contently against the pale, quivering (although from anger or fear I cannot tell) skin of her neck.
Scarecrow whoops in the back of my head, urging me on; although I block him out, out of my still smouldering fury for what he had done to my host earlier.
Sighing exasperatedly, I lean forward and whisper into her ear, making sure that the threat in my hushed voice is not an idle one.
"Do you know what this is, Isabelle?"
Shaking her head as little as possible, so as not to be 'accidently' injected, she confirms my suspicions.
"This a sedative of my own making, something which has been used on your dear friend already by-"
"-Scarecrow?" She finishes... or asks. I frown; does she not work with the mind? How can she not be able to tell who is in control? Ah, fear, or course. Shivering delightedly, I swiftly ponder what to do next: continue with my plan or...
... let me play?
Continue with my plan.
"No, this is Doctor Crane speaking. Honestly, I thought that you work with people like me every day! Perhaps I am mistaken...?"
Another cautious shake.
"No? Oh well, back to what I need to tell you." Pausing to wet my lips, I resume. "This sedative works by shutting down –one-by-one- my patient's sensory functions. Memories and recollections of people can also become cross-wired and confused also. This is what caused Cara to lose consciousness. That was when Scarecrow took a knife and slid it gently-"
"Shut up! Just stop this!" Isabelle snaps, pulling away from my grip; yet not daring to move her neck. "What do want from saying this? My fear? You can't have it." She laughs, a harsh, mocking laugh. Instinctively I clench my jaw and press harder with the syringe. She stops immediately.
"Good. Now that I have your full attention," Goodness Jonny, calm down; otherwise I think you might start seeing red, real soon! "I would like to press into you just how much sway I have over your friend: she has been hurt in many ways, some of which have caused people seemingly far stronger than her to be broken, crushed; yet here she is. Bloody and unconscious and yet still alive and –more impressively- sane. I even believe that I would be able to unleash Scarecrow upon her with a canister of toxin and still she would accept an apology from me. Now tell me, why do you worry for her? It is obviously her will to have me as a guest here. What business do you have to-?"
"You obviously don't know Cara all that well," I grind my teeth in response, of course I know her! I have only read her dream diary, subjected her to fear gas, probed her subconscious and-! "she doesn't take well to wife-beaters. I bet she only helped you because she felt pity for you, lying so helpless –dying- in the snow! I bet she'll throw you out soon, since she's afraid of mak-!" Hearing Isabelle's jaw shut tightly at the mention of one of Cara's fears spiked my interest to-
-unhealthy levels?
"I suggest that you finish that sentence."
"No." I have to admire the woman's determination... A pity that I want answers, however.
"I can and will kill Miss Crow using the most excruciating methods possible, and then you unless you finish that sentence."
A light shake of the head accompanied with a stifled laugh. "If you really wanted to kill Cara, you would have done so already." Furrowing my brows together tightly, I glare at the young woman's –still shaking- neck and the deadly still needle threatening to pierce it. Whatever can she mean by that?
"No one –except me- would miss her in the country, never-mind just Gotham! Her entire family lives in England; most people in this apartment block are way on some holiday for at least another eight days," Eight days? The note stuck on the fridge claims that the group will be away for about twelve days... I have been here for just four days? Feels more like a week at least... "And she doesn't even have any work –yet- where she can be missed! You could have easily killed Cara and gotten away with it!"
The lady's right, Johns. So the real question is... why isn't she dead? Although we already know the answer to that one don't we...?
Hush, Scarecrow.
"I want to recover from my last escapade; not have to lug about a corpse or a screaming woman. Regardless," I raise an eyebrow, once more leaning close to unsettle the woman, "I'm a gentleman."
Could have fooled me...
Oh, hush.
"Right," Isabelle sighs, as I finally let go of her jacket and give her some space; although I do keep the sedative in clear view: I do not want to fight her after all. "And I suppose you wouldn't be gentlemanly enough to turn yourself in?"
"No," I laugh lowly, "because that would be idiotic."
Isabelle shrugs. "Fair enough. How about a deal?" Nodding my willingness to listen, she continues calmly, "I won't call the cops as long as –for as long as you are under her roof- you don't hurt Cara anymore... Deal?"
"How do you know that I will not harm her?" Interrupting her instantaneous rebuttal, I steam ahead, "This is not a question of wherefore or not I shall harm Cara; more of wherefore or not my alter ego will."
"You struggle with control?" Cocking my head, I can see the woman more for the psychologist she is with her serious, thoughtful expression and level tone of voice.
Too bad I am far more apt at these mind games.
"No. I struggle only with my desire for research. As you full well know, fear fascinates me. And now," gesturing a hand whilst turning my body in the direction of the corridor, I conclude: "I think our conversation over."
"But you haven't agre-!" she resists; despite moving out of the room and into the corridor as I advance behind her, giving her a modest push to help her on her way.
"Always a pleasure to speak with a fellow professional," forcing my voice to sound cheerful in order to bamboozle Isabelle and throw her from just how close her insightful comments have struck. "Although I would like some time to rest, I have been rather preoccupied with keeping your friend from bleeding to death, you understand?" Wrenching open the thick, oak front door, I make sure that Isabelle is quite clear of it before slamming and locking it shut once more.
Finally, that's over now. At least we'll have someone on the inside to mess with if we ever get caught again.
Mollified by the chipping footfall coming from the other side of the door, I ignore Scarecrow's chatter as a stifled yelp erupts from the bedroom. Cara must have tried to get up...
Perhaps getting out of bed straight away wasn't the best idea... Pawing weakly at the fuzzy (in both texture and in sight, thanks to my lack of glasses at the present) carpet, I eventually manage to push myself upwards into a sitting position, leaning with my back against the cast-iron frame of the bed.
A similarly blurred, bandaged hand presents itself in front of me.
"You should rest, the drug may not be active in your system anymore; but you must rest." Crane sounds... worried about something... wait, some to do with...?
"W-why are my arms and my abdomen bandaged?" I ask, more than simply alarmed at the sight. Oh, I have bad feeling about this...
"You don't-? Oh of course," Catching himself, Crane sighs as a soft chuckle passes through him, "both of us we unconscious..." trailing off, the implications of what Jonathan has just said sink in like the jaws of a feral, ravenous wolf.
"What did he-? What did Scarecrow do?" My throat feels dry.
Instead of answering, Jonathan pauses, and finally leans down to my height and begins to unravel the bandages (are those... towels?) on my right arm.
I see what he uncovers and an overwhelming disgust is my only reward.
"Get out." I breathe, not trusting myself with anything louder; not wanting to howl at him.
"Cara," his blue eyes catch my own in a way which may have once made me hold my breath in a nervous anticipation, if I were not consumed by rage at the present that is.
"I want you to leave. Now." I repeat with more force this time, daring the man with my eyes to resist again.
Apparently the message doesn't quite reach Jonathan.
"You know that I would never-" Sounding annoyed at my apparent lack of consideration for his side of the story (and –what? - is that desperation I can hear?), Jonathan, no... Crane, moves to rebind my gruesomely carved arm when I pull my arm from between his –dare I say careful? - grip on my arm.
Not quite the best course of action.
Stilling tears of pain (I will not allow myself to look vulnerable around him, that fiendish coward, picking on someone who can't fight back properly!), words fall from my mouth before my brain can comprehend the situation I am currently trapped within.
"So Scarecrow can make the wounds and that's bad; but it's okay for you to throw salt into them when I object to 'treatment'?" Expecting another glare, I cringe unintentionally, glancing to the –suddenly very interesting- carpet and wishing that it would either swallow Crane whole or set him alight.
"Cara?" Strange, my posture relaxes by a fraction as I itch to scrutinize Crane's body language, he sounds... civil? No, that can't be it, placid? No, no... he just sounds different, so-
Fingertips grace my cut arm, trailing along the –once blooded- letters and the odd few medical white stitches, there to hold the less well sliced letters (such as the ragged 'S's) together.
-warm.
"I don't want to hurt you –hush now, just listen to me- I know that we haven't been... the best of guests; although I can assure you that I am going to be fully in control from now on."
"That's what I'm afraid of," the words are out of my mouth before I realise what a stupid choice of wording I have just used. Grudgingly, my eyes meet the gleaming, anticipating blue orbs of Crane: probably excited by the prospect of plunging deeper into my mind... gosh, I need rest. Or a strong drink; probably both.
Unfortunately, my suspicions are affirmed.
"You fear me being in control; rather than Scarecrow?" The queer glimmer in his eyes as he mentions his favoured topic, his obsession, is rapidly becoming a little more than simply distracting. It is plainly unnerving and I'm sure Crane is fully aware of the fact.
"I don't want to-" You both scare me. I just can't tell when you will hurt me 'though... at least I know what Scarecrow wants- he's so straightforward. You just... twist...
"Oh," starts the doctor, carefully finishing rewrapping my arm, before sneering down at me as he shifts his weight to give us both some space, "you're afraid of confessing your fears to me. You think that I would warp them and subject you to them, am I correct, Cara?"
Stop using my name like you're a friend! It sounds more like a threat coming from you-! You- you are quite handsome really... even with that unflattering expression. Frack! Stupid female hormones betraying my self-preservation drive...
"I, er, I may have left the oven-" He has just come from the kitchen! That's where my unconscious body was before! "-never mind!" Holy-! Was that a squeak? The situation is far worse than I thought... damn this being female... he is not attractive, he's crazy, he's crazy...
"Crane, I'm not afraid of you!" I blurt out, eyes flickering about the room; at my bandages (Crane has ruined my towels! Okay, for the sake of saving my life but still...), then at the man himself.
Cocking his head and scrutinising me in such a way that I feel more like a slide under a microscope than a person, Crane drops his readable, human sneer for a blank, expressionless, frozen look.
"Why?" Unable to hear anything akin to any emotion I know of in his flat, dead tone, I sigh once and answer unwaveringly; ignoring the alien heat rising in my cheeks as our contrasting eyes keep contact. What the hell is that...?
"You told me that you'll be in control from now on; I cannot trust you since you broke the very same promise before, but for some reason I'm not afraid of you anymore: I know enough about you –I think- to not be afraid."
The dark haired man smiles fractionally, unmoving.
"You know nothing."
Stunned by the candidness of his statement, I feel myself stare, and then laugh nervously in slight hysteria as Crane doesn't respond.
"You fear not knowing and you still know nothing about me. What you think you know, Cara, is that I am a weak, pitiful doctor, who simply cannot control his alter ego –my darker side- and often finds himself at the mercy of the said ego. Furthermore, you believe that I am actually a kind-hearted man," a bark of laughter from the –otherwise motionless- speaker makes me jump suddenly, a movement which Crane's glacial eyes glimmer with interest at, "do you really think that Scarecrow and I are not similar in many ways? Do you think that we care about what happens to our victims?"
"I'm alive," I whisper, not intentionally whispered of course; but the tension in the air combined with the mind numbing gaze of Scare-Crane is stifling.
The newly christened Scare-Crane waves a gaunt hand, tearing it lazily through the air.
"You are... different." And that seems to be all he (they?) want to say upon the issue. "If we were not in any way similar to the other –Scarecrow and I- then one of us would surely become dominant absolutely and... Well, the point is we both coexist, revolving around fear, as does the world in fact! Fear drives everything, Cara. Everything! Even you are governed by fear and I can prove it-!"
Enough. I need to stop him before something worse happens... something time won't be able to heal; unlike my arms or torso. Or neck or wrists or...
"Crane," asserting that my legs are able to move once more, I stiffly rise to my feet; unfortunately so does Crane, that much quicker than me in his healthier state with his eyes glinting inquisitively, waiting patiently, impatiently, eagerly for my next move. "I-I still want you to leave. Enough is enough, you're no longer in danger of d-dying anytime soon, so you should go before I phone the police. I will not warn you again." Despite the few tremors in my threat, I am pleased with the calmness which rings in my voice and the lack of shaking from my abused body. Crane however, sighs in what sounds like-
-disappointment? My brows furrow with distaste. Oh, did I bore him again?
"Understand this: I cannot abide with interruptions, so far I have been patient of such things; but now I-"
"-will leave?" I finish, yet regret it immensely when the doctor's glacial eyes narrow into blade-like slits of a frozen hell.
Oh, bugger.
"You don't get it do you?" Dropping my eyes to the blurred ruby carpet thanks to the sheer malevolence dripping from Crane's voice, I notice that my glasses are on the edge of the bedside table, reaching to slip them on as Scare-Crane continues, I do not notice the change in the way the man speaks until refocusing upon his arrogant, aggravated features.
"... should be thanking me on hand and knee for saving your life! Now you can't wait for me to leave; or should I convince you otherwise using your cleithrophobia, little Crow?"
Glee. Pure glee is what I can see at the mention of my phobia.
Oh my, slinking left (from being in front of the bed into the open space of my cluttered room), I scan my eyes over Scare-Crane's predatory stance, this can't be good...
"Thanking you? No Crane, this makes us even, square. Now please leave."
Cocking his head to one side as if considering my demand, Crane smiles a slow, 'I'm going to tear you apart' smile. He is between me, the door and an uncertain freedom.
"No."
Letting out a small, frustrated noise, I make loose, painful fists and assert a step towards the taller man.
Desperation can do strange things to a person.
"I said leave, Crane. This is my home and you aren't welcome here anymore, thanks for being such an abusive, big-headed, impolite guest; but now it's time to leave. Out. Now. Goodbye." If looks could kill... Shivering at the dead glare boring into my skull, I –regardless- take another two steps towards Scare-Crane, loose my nerve at his lack of further response; even as he must realise that I am threatening to attack him, and run at him.
Oh God, I've never done something so stupid in all of my life.
Without actually punching me per-say, a wholesome agony ripples through my right arm just before reaching its designated (and unreached) target of Crane's diaphragm. The villain had caught my arm and had –and still is, damn-it! - squeezing it where the cuts are with a terrible, medical accuracy.
Unable to prevent my cry of pain from breaching my quivering lips, I stifle it onto my shoulder, whilst my left hand betrays my facade by fisting the torn jumper I am wearing at the collar.
"Painful, isn't it?" He asks needlessly, whilst retaining both his air of indifference and of somewhat mild annoyance.
"Let go of me!" Growling as I dig my fingers into the underside of his wrist, Crane applies more pressure pitilessly until another cry of pain hisses from between my clenched teeth and my short nails cease their attack attempt.
The silence between us now is unbearable. Yet all I can really focus upon is how unpleasant life has been since moving across the Atlantic; maybe I should have not moved to a city? A nice farm town would have much more homely, where the only scarecrows I would have known about would be the none-moving kind in corn fields, scaring away the-
"...Crow?" –s. "Can you hear me? Crow? Cara?" My eyes must have given away some form of recognition or something, because Crane sighs and plunges into some sort of speech... something I really don't care for right now. I just want to reflect on where my life when so wrong –recently- to cause all of this trouble...
Strangely enough, almost everything I've tried to do since arriving in Gotham has been a failure: my art hit a 'bump' four days in after moving (the day before meeting Crane, he must be a bad luck charm or something...), some of my gear got damaged on the move, no-one except Jay, Becca and Martha will be friendly with me; but Martha keeps trying to feed me curry...
... And now Crane, Jonathan-bloody-Scarecrow-Crane, is not leaving my apartment! My Karma can't be that bad can it? I helped him, saved his life, and that was all I really wanted to do; but no, Fate's a sadistic bitch. Isn't she?
Having sensed that I wasn't listening in the slightest, Crane had stopped talking, scanning and mentally noting the expressions which must have been flickering across my face as I wondered.
There's another thing wrong with life (or more specifically me): any emotion I feel just flickers immediately across my face, making me a nearly impossible liar and a sucker for watching sad films.
Thanks for the reminder, Crane...
"A-are you quite done watching me?" I snap, both uncomfortable and angry; yet dismally aware of the fingers posed ready to crush the delicate, bandaged wound of my trapped arm.
Chuckling darkly, Scare-Crane looms over me, a smile on his lips which does not quite reach his calculating, arctic eyes.
"I will not be done with observation for a while yet, Cara; but I can let go of your arm, if-!" Closer still, the demented man seems to relish in the fact that –despite clearly wanting to- I do not move away from his advance this time, "-you promise to be good."
"I p-promise," I echo swiftly, unable to take much more of having him so close. My old anger –despite the carvings upon my bruised arms and midsection- now wearing off and a new, recently familiarised, emotion taking its place. Fear. "Aren't y-you going to let g-go now?"
"Of course, how silly of me. There, Cara, your arm is quite safe now." Drawing the said limb close to my rapidly rising and falling chest, I turn my gaze back up to Crane, thankful for the distance he puts between us.
Inspiration strikes. Scare-Crane puts distance between us when he wants to; I can do the same. It's all just a matter of confidence and –on my part- devious plotting...
Opening his lips (they look so dry... really, I should try and- No! Think the plotting; not teenage girl, giggly, petty thoughts!) to speak, I take the opportunity to interrupt him before he starts, to avoid any further frustration on his part. Although he appears masterful at concealing his emotions, I have the nagging worry that Crane is still annoyed with me from earlier; despite the way that –logically- it is I who should be trying to do him harm.
"Oh, Crane... Jonathan... I-I think I might be ill..." rubbing my arms just above where the home-made bandages finish, I give a small groan of (real; albeit now unconcealed) pain, bending inwards and pressing lightly against my stomach.
Starting at the unexpected feel of a lanky hand against my forehead, a titter comes from the man and I shudder, expecting the worst from his reaction.
Crane's only a doctor after all; I bet he can spot a fake sickie a mile away!
"Hm, you do have a mild temperature... do you have any medicine in the house?" Please don't sound so concerned! You're going to make this unbearable! Just stay as freakish as before and please make up your mind already!
Without meeting his eyes by feigning pain, I shake my head, that same, alien feeling heating my cheeks once more. Funny, what could-?
Realisation dawns.
Oh, God no. I'm blushing.
That would explain the temperature.
"S-sorry, I..." counting the amount of towel-scraps Crane had bound my left arm in proves to be good enough distraction from the hand –still- on my burning forehead.
The hand recedes. Thank goodness.
"I cannot risk a visit to the chemist, you understand, don't you Cara?" Blinking once at the obviousness of his temperate statement (of course Crane, the Scarecrow, couldn't just pop-out the apartment without suspicion! There goes my only hope...) and at the wavering sincerity in his voice, like Crane is trying to bury the emotion leaking into it; I inch my face up to meet Crane's.
Apparently, some call it the puppy-dog expression.
"Then again," he backtracks, coughing into his curled fist as he briefly turns to the side, "I do need to visit one of my old warehouses... I might have some toxin left which has not been destroyed by the Bat or police as of yet."
The sound of footsteps has never been quite so satisfying.
"I will return at four a.m. should I not be at the door by then, I will have been apprehended." Walking through the empty door frame of my bedroom, I take the initiative and follow Crane into the hall. But slowly, and with a groan to keep up my act. Mustn't get carried away...
"Are you taking a key or...?"
"No. Nothing which will lead anyone back to you. I will need a safe house for next time, and since making a brief exploration of the surrounding area, I feel it's safe to say that I will know where to find you."
Taking that moment to look back at my shiver (so that's why I saw his shadow pass by my door a few nights ago), Crane seems to stifle a chuckle with another cough, resting his hand against the front door.
"Wait for me."
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry... Why cry? He's only using your apartment as a safe house and you for a test subject!
"O-okay,"
With a cool, final wave of his intense eyes over my face and across the bandaged wounds littered upon my battered body, Jonathan- Crane, smiles.
Oh, I can't cave in now... Please, just stop that.
"If you don't," dropping his rich voice down to an amused, joking whisper he resumes as he matches my height, "I may have to scare you."
Laughing softly at his own (definitely not funny, no not at all...) joke, Crane smoothly slips through the door as he draws it open, clicking it shut behind him.
Crane has no key and he's locked out of my apartment.
A grin spreads across my face and my –faking ill- posture straightens.
No more pain, no more fear... A chipper laugh breaks through my elevated, blissful quiet, as I turn to go the bathroom, grab a shower; oh, maybe a long, hot bath, and examine the rest of my injuries. Curiosity can be as much of a blessing as it is a curse! As I had –unfortunately- discovered with-
"Cara?" Freezing with my back turned away from the door, I slowly turn as Crane continues to ask to be let back in.
He had forgotten his suit jacket.
"Cara? I know you can hear me," the rapping of knuckles against the door is more than enough to make my current shivering a tremble. "Let me in."
"No, Crane. I asked you to leave and so now you have-"
Bang. The door shivers at the impact of his fist.
"You planned this?" If Crane had been fuming before, then now he is a demon of wrath itself. Everything about my plan is crumbling. If Crane wants me dead, I will be dead before the night is over. Speaking of which, that would give me...
Bang!
"I will count to five. If you have not opened this door by five then I will assure you that you will regret not heeding my warning, little Crow. Five."
About three hours, it's already nine o'clock.
"Four." Menacing and deadly do his words ring out, the door usually blocks out most noise... he must be shouting right next to it. He doesn't fear being caught. He can handle anyone with that gas. My shaking fingers drag down the front of my throat.
"Three."
"Scarecrow," I yell at the door, imagining his crude, taunting, plainly abnormal mask, pulled up in a sick grin, like he is enjoying a joke no-one else could understand... or the fear people undoubtedly fear upon seeing it and just knowing that it will be all which they will be able to see when locked in a cell at Arkham whilst screaming the name over and over, like some unholy prayer or symphony.
My thoughts continue to spin wildly as I resume shouting.
"Scarecrow! Just leave me alone! Haven't you already-!"
"-made my mark?" Flinching and clutching at my trembling forearms, Scarecrow continues regardless, "I think I would like to include some more, more permanent –and mental- marks when I see you again, my dear!"
"Liar! Don't call me that!" I bellow; although the pitch of my voice edges towards a screech or a... scream.
Oh, bugger.
For some reason my hands are covering my mouth and I cannot move –petrified- before the door and –inevitably- the man standing behind it.
"I shall warn you one more time, either open this door in the next five seconds or I will make your nightmares a reality."
"Been there, done tha-that. You've gassed me already, remember?"
"I do... and what's more I would enjoy further exploration of your innermost demons and fears."
So neither Scarecrow nor Crane can decide on wherefore or not to civil or toxin-happy... although Scarecrow definitely leans towards the latter. Shuddering, I change tactics.
"Please... as much as I like helping people, this has got to stop, just please think about what your victims go through and-!"
"Time's up. I warned you Miss Crow, now suffer the consequences."
Without the luxury of hearing his footfall, I take Crane's last line to be a 'goodbye' of sorts and... and...
I'm free? Rubbing the cold sweat from my arms, then scratching my neck, I stare for another moment of disbelief at the oak door.
Removing myself from the said door and making a beeline for the living room (there's no way I can sleep with Crane's... Scarecrow's, threat still ringing in my ears), something unfamiliar catches my eye next the TV set in front the, his sofa.
"Oh, Jay..." That 'something to really worry about', my wonderful landlord had been talking about on his note all those days ago (a lifetime, really...) are horror films.
If Martha could taunt me with spicy food, Jay would taunt me with director's cut versions of SAW, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Final Destination...
Body horror, shivering, I finger the battered case of one of the films in the pile, makes me feel sick.
But what can scare me now?
Slotting the DVD into the player, I settle back into his sofa as the trailers play through.
Despite the gory clips, the smell of aged leather and of something else, something more refined, settles me as the menu screen is set to 'play movie' and the opening scene starts.
A second later and the scent reminds me of Jonath- Crane, just before he had stolen a kiss from me. All for the sake of humiliating me and getting 'reliable information' of course.
"Freak," hissing the word with all the distaste I can possibly muster for the man, I glare at the silver television, all the while being irrationally sorry for having such a keen nose.
On the screen, the title appears and soon after (although I'm not entirely sure how long after, since the majority of the film so far I have been hiding behind the nearest thing I could grab... that being Crane's forgotten, storm grey jacket, that is. Why can't he just leave me alone? Oh no, don't let the killer see you! No! Stupid girl! Run!) a heart-wrenching shriek resonates throughout the scantily lit room.
The phone rings.
"Holy-!" Cursing whilst slipping –much too precariously- from the warmness and comfort of the musky smelling couch, I swiftly kill the television (okay, maybe I am still just a tad frightened by films; despite having survived Scarecrow) and pull the receiver to my ear.
"Hello, Cara Crow speaking." Who calls at... 10:42 at night? Scammers?
"C-Cara?"
"Izzy? You sound terrible, boy trouble?"
"Sort of,"
I grin, rolling my eyes dramatically. Again?
"Who?"
"Crane."
My grin drops, as does my jaw- struck dumb by shock. Breathing? None existent. Gasping? Oh, yes.
How did he find Izzy? Something tenses within me, tugging at my fear, growling protectively. If he's hurt her...
The sin black receiver shakes slightly in my quivering, questionable grip (on more things than one at the present...), the muffled sound of a man –Crane- speaking drone wordlessly through the speaker.
"C-Cara," both of our breathing is suddenly unhealthily heavy, just dying to ease the pressure somehow from our current... situation. "Don't do a-anything he says, it's a trap! Listen to me! It's a tra-!"
The line goes dead.
"No..." staring in disbelief at the phone, I slam it suddenly back into place, scarcely able to halt myself and not fall to my knees, believing my friend, Izzy, to have been... no, she's not...
"No," I whisper again, short nails dragging blunt, scarlet lines down the sides of neck as sheer helplessness threatens to overwhelm me. "Please, she hasn't had anything to do with this!"
The phone rings for a second time.
Snapping it up to my eager, apprehensive ear, my immediate response is quite un-noteworthy, courtesy of shock.
"H-hello?"
A sigh and a threat of 'I shall only say this once' later and Scare-Crane is down to business (if you will) immediately.
"Seeing as your friend cannot follow a simple instruction, I shall have to do it myself: you have one hour to get here (Isabelle's apartment naturally); otherwise I will use the toxin, which the Batman failed to recover in one of my more... obscure bases to break dear Isabelle's mind. Then yours. Oh yes, bring a spare key for your apartment, I don't think you will want to 'accidently' lock me out again once I'm finished with you, hm?"
Click.
The receiver literally falls from my horrified hand. Fear consuming my will to move.
"Move, Cara! Got to save Izzy! Put on some clothes and get going!" And don't forget the spare key. I mentally add, as the world begins to blur violently.
My breathing hitches to a series of silent howls of anguish.
Not now! Why is Crane's drug kicking in again now? I need to help Izz-!
The taste of salt stings my –unconsciously bitten- lips.
Tears. Tears are blinding me.
But tears can't help anyone.
Stripping as I lurch forward towards the broken door of my room, I hurriedly dress into something easily put on: a t-shirt and skirt (without tights; but still with the other two essentials of course), anything else would take too long.
I haven't the time to waste.
Lacing up my sneakers against my bare feet, I decide that –whereas my upper body clothes mean very little in this situation- what I wear on my feet will be of the upmost importance: I can see there being a lot of running involved in this... predicament. Ballet flats –although faster to slip on- are pathetic for running or even fighting (or so one would imagine) in.
Sneakers it is then.
Pausing only to snatch up my extra keys on top of the one already in my coat pocket, I fly through the door and into the waiting arms of the cold, black night.
Hopefully my scooter will be up for a run.