Chapter Twelve: Remember?
The feel of hot, wet fingers of water trailing down my back and through my hair is wonderfully relaxing.
Even Scarecrow can't take this away from me.
Rinsing out the last of the soap in my hair, I wince as the bubbles slip across my lower back, arching in a small; albeit sharp pain, as the otherwise pleasantly scented water runs into the crude cuts there.
Hissing from between my braced teeth, I focus on shutting off the water and reaching for the last –out of my original four- olive green bath towel, wrapping it securely around my abused body.
Scarily enough, some of marks I cannot remember for the life of me where they had come from; but then again, I still don't know how I got back from Isabelle's that night. When I asked Scarecrow (against much of my better judgement) about it whilst hunting for the last of the towels, he simply laughed and asked: 'You don't remember?'
Bundling my clothes under one arm (what possessed me to go out –in winter- in a skirt and t-shirt?) I unlock the bathroom door, shivering involuntarily as the slate floor beneath my feet is colder than I expect.
"Cara? I need to clarify something on this application with..." Glancing across at the man pacing out of the study doorframe down the left side of the hallway, I cautiously start for my room, appreciative for the makeshift curtain/door Crane had nailed to the top of the splintered doorframe whilst I was sleeping from the ... maybe Isabelle had a party? Did she somehow convince me to drink? That might be why I cannot remember being at Izzy's nor coming home?
"Would you mind if I get changed first?" I raise an eyebrow, hiding the fact that my hands are shaking by gripping the towel tighter than usual.
"I... of course not. Hurry, I want to get this form filled in right away and in the post, you are much too intelligent to be jobless."
Averting my eyes at the –questionable- compliment, my feet move towards the relative safety of my room acting on autopilot, thankfully.
"I suppose I am, Crane. Although can I trust you in my apartment while I'm out slaving to get us a decent meal and new sofas when you feel the urge to go furniture shopping?"
Crane coughs a chuckle, indicating the 'door' I am about to walk through with a tip of his head.
"Get changed, then let's discuss trust." The last word cuts through me like a knife. I swallow forcefully, stepping into the darkness of my room and flicking on the light switch as I go.
"Aw, did you try using the old light switch? The new one's over here."
Terror. That voice sounds so close, more importantly who does it belong to? A strangled noise rises from the back of my throat; it comes to nothing. Who's so close? I can't remember. My body reacts by pressing itself into whatever's behind me.
Nothing: just the cloth door. Are those my kitchen curtains? Vaguely I realise that I have fallen, I am on the floor, shaking in the towel.
Roaches. I remember roaches everywhere. On a face. Tap. On my skin. Tap. Up my sleeves. Tap. Up my skirt. Tap. In my hair. Tap. Tap. In my skin. Tap. "Cara?" Tearing their way in. "It's not real." Ripping. A sigh. Hands, arms, scoop me up against something warm and hard. Reassuring. I sigh. Reassuring. The roaches fade, scuttling away.
Then, feeling movement, I open my eyes. Blinking twice at the light to adjust. We are in the study, Crane carrying me in his arms awkwardly; yet his face shows no sign of strain from either the ache of his muscles from my weight, so why-?
Ah, the towel.
Hastily amending the upwards ride of the offending olive green towel, a groan of wood against wood sounds out as Crane shoves back the high-backed chair behind the boldly carved, surprisingly organised (did he...? Of course he did, the neat-freak...), oak desk.
"Uh, I'm alright now Crane... thank you." The doctor doesn't even glance at me, which is a good thing I suppose, seeing as I still trying to make sense of what had just happened and this situation isn't doing much to help with the thinking side of things...
Although from this angle I can see quite enough of his angular jaw to make my thoughts quite-! My eyes avert abruptly, taking in the application form Izzy had brought a few days ago resting neatly between a book from one of the shelves (Oscar Wilde? I would have thought that Crane would be reading a psychology book or a horror or, something...) and a sleek, sin black notebook. I have not seen it before, it must be Crane's. Although slightly tattered at the edges, the pocket-sized pad gives off a mild sense of foreboding: some terrible secrets must be stored in that curious, black notebook.
With a strange expression of nothing being out of the ordinary, as if he often finds himself carrying women in towels, the doctor adjusts his hold on my cradled body so that I am pressing gently into his suited chest.
When did Crane get a new suit? Hm, navy brings out his eyes... No! I blame the closeness of position! He is not bloody attractive in any way! Thankfully, no blush comes. Calm down Cara, he's still dangerous...
Feeling the way Crane's body seems to coil over mine, I tense suddenly in his arms, even going so far as to lean into him in the moment of mild panic.
He sits in the chair. The leather groans in protest at our combined weight and the body coiled in upon my own recedes, resting back against the tall, bark brown back; albeit my hands prevent the back of his neck touching the cool leather.
Crane chuckles.
Blushing furiously (curse him for making me blush! I never blush around anyone else!), I snap back my hands and nervously begin readjusting and fiddling with the bunching towel.
"Crane," I exclaim, flustered and terribly uncomfortable with our position. "I need to go and-!"
"Fill out your job application for Arkham?" His voice is even, level, controlled. We could be sat on the train talking, in public; not in our current... situation. I twist my body, wary of the towel, to frown up at the faintly smiling face.
"Get changed." I finish, hissing the final words with an embarrassed rage, I twist again, this time in order to break free of his lean, strong arms. They pull me closer. Unable to break free, my body stops struggling; but by no means do I relax in his arms. The warm, steady breath on the top of my wet head just reinforces Crane's almost inhuman-ness in my mind: how can he be so calm, so unbothered by this?
I don't even think that I can breathe properly.
"Never interrupt me again!"
The monst- man, sounds as though he is shouting; yet the... memory? sounds as if it is coming to me through a filter or screen. Although less potent; fear immerses me and I can neither move nor speak, whilst my thoughts take a violently pessimistic turn.
The queer moment passes as suddenly as it came; although not before Crane takes full advantage of my abrupt stillness.
"Cara," he starts again, resting his chin atop of my head, "why do you only call me Crane now? I do not refer to you as Crow, do I?" The emotion in his drawl is either none existent or well hidden; although I do think that I can detect a twinge of smugness in his words. How frustrating.
"Wh-why don't you let me go and get changed, then we can have this conversation?" Don't stutter! Screams my mind. What if Scarecrow-?
"This way saves time," Crane explains patiently, removing his chin and reaching for the pen next to the form and handing it to me. "I need you to write in your reasons for wanting this job; I cannot do everything for you."
I frown.
"Did I ask you to fill in my application, Cra-?"
"Jonathan." The –definitely mad- doctor corrects. "I want you to call me Jonathan, if you would, Cara." He stresses the fact that he uses my first name, a threat.
"What do you," I mutter, turning away from him, "care what I call you?" Huffing, I replace the pen upon the desk, preparing to certainly get away from Crane this time.
I have barely moved when a pair of gaunt hands crushes either side of my face, wrenching me around to stare shocked and directly into Crane's, no, Scarecrow's blazing blue eyes.
"You should care because you wouldn't want to mix us up now would you, Crow?" Taunting, then chuckling throatily, so deeply that I can feel the vibrations of his humour rattle through me as well, I feel yet another blush stain my cheeks as Scarecrow's eyes trail down the bothered towel and –more worryingly- across my bare skin. He pauses at the sight of his name.
"Scarecrow," My voice wavers; but does not stutter. Seemingly rapt at the strange delivery of his name, the fiend shifts so that his warm breath tickles against my ear, playing with trickles of cool water left from the shower not five minutes ago, the sensation making me shiver with a frightening assortment of emotions. How can things change so fast? This is terribly dangerous... damn, I want die clothed. Or does he want to kill me? He called me 'Crow'; not any of those ridiculous pet names he usually uses...
"Yes?" The raw emotion in his scratchy speech, his one word, makes me pause. No matter how many times I hear it, know it, the change from Jonathan Crane to Scarecrow will most probably stay like this to me: unnatural, alien, terrifying.
Snickering at the stunned silence, I struggle to breathe regularly as the breath ascends down my neck, which pulsates as the rapid throbbing of my pulse becomes more and more apparent.
"Don't..." I warn with a whisper- I can't trust my voice not to break if I speak any louder. Why is he doing this?
"Don't do what, Crow?" Scarecrow chuckles huskily, breathily, whilst his wiry fingers run down my legs from where the towel stops. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." Something solid and oh-so slightly moist grazes my neck then nips sharply.
"Ouch!" The pain relieves me of the fog of the fruit-salad of emotions destroying my –somewhat questionable- sense, and my hands push at the chuckling man's chin and forehead, forcing him away. "What the hell was that, Scarecrow?" A half laugh, half shudder escapes me at the alien flicker in his gas flame blue eyes. "You... you didn't bite me, did you?" I ask, no nervous laughs now to cover the anxiety in my tone. I don't really want to hear the truth anymore. It makes sense that I'm scared after all he's done and now this? I think I'd prefer him to hurt me. Oh, this is freaking me out... he bit me! He freaking bit me!
The flicker of emotion strikes, a match, a burning flame of a coy, somewhat needing expression of delight lighting up his angular features. I shudder at the sight.
He pushes me off his lap.
Surprised, I only just mange to grip the desk with one hand, the towel with the other, to prevent me from hitting the floor. The rapping of feet against the wooden floorboards jerks my attention to...
Scarecrow?
Cra... Jonathan?
Either way, both leave the study, closing the door with a slam behind them.
Still watching the door and listening to the muffled tap of his feet, I stand, rewrap the towel and pick up the application form for Arkham.
I decide that I'm in shock. After all, shouldn't I be more worried that a wanted criminal just bit my neck?
Scarecrow bit me. With his teeth. What sort of person bites...? Why? Oh God, the last time I was bit was by my younger brother when he was six. Six! What the hell... is going on?
Suddenly it's all too much and I start laughing: a terrible, hollow, sardonic sound; completely unlike my usual –far more jolly- laughter.
"He's a vampire, of course," The voice of reason screams out that I'm hysterical now. Calm down! It tells me, control yourself! But the hysteria is too much now: Cra- Jonathan kissed me; Scarecrow bit me, "that's why he bit me!" Giggling, I keep on laughing until tears slip down my cheeks. I'm shaking. Trembling in fear. Again.
Suddenly it's not so funny anymore.
It's the same. The hand holding the form clenches, I glare at the crackle of the paper and tear it until it looks the same as the snow outside. It's all the same! Crane or Scarecrow do something, I forgive them, they do it again, I forgive them... one of us gets hurt, we help the other, Crane or Scarecrow hurts me, fix me, hurt me, fix me... What do they want? I let the remnants of paper in my hands fall to the floor as my fingers work their way, tangling, into my soaked hair. What do they want?
Unable to find an answer, the logic of normality decides that what I want is to dry-off properly and get into some clothes.
On my way out of the long study, I glance at the light switch, remembering that haunting voice with a reluctant shiver of displeasure.
"Aw, did you try using the old light switch? The new one's over here."
Frowning slightly, my nails draw a short path down my neck as I open the door and step out of the room, wandering down the hallway, lost in thought, trying to remember what I had forgotten. Mad really; but what else can I do right now? I'm in shock, I need something –anything- to distract me.
'You don't remember?' That's what Scarecrow said... Pushing the makeshift curtain-door to my room to the side, I give my room the once over (not much good seems to come from trusting Cr- Jonathan, and defiantly not from Scarecrow) and start rooting for my brown long-sleeved shirt (I don't want to see Scarecrow all over my arms anymore than I already have...) and some jeans.
Jonathan probably knows what happened... if Scarecrow hadn't been in control at the time. There's no way I'm going ask him after what he just did. I can't believe that he bit me. What the hell was he thinking? Was he trying to frighten me? Well, it worked! Maybe he was showing some sort of dominance, control over the situation... over me?
Wearing everything but my shirt, I lift up my arms and stare at them. I had looked at them before; yet never actually looked. Fear had stopped me before; albeit now I shall refuse to be controlled by fear –by Scarecrow- anymore.
The cuts are healing, the stitches Jonathan had sewn it had most defiantly sped up the healing process; despite them being somewhat crude, akin to Scarecrow's grin on his ma-
Stop it, Cara, mentally I chide myself for feeling afraid and lowering my arms- out of sight, out of mind, Scarecrow has already-
"...Scarecrow has already had his share of fun."
I freeze. For a second there, I peer quickly, around the room, in time to my –suddenly rapid- breathing, I thought that I'd heard Jonathan... with a bad throat, his voice had been so scratchy.
Like Scarecrow's.
"Afraid of my mask?"
This time I have to actually stifle a cry of shock that rises from my throat at the sound of Crane speaking. I had been half expecting a canister to hiss with a malicious intent that time, the sickening amusement in his words! The dark, twisted, delight, the terrible finality that being afraid of his mask seals one's fate to a lifetime of horror and madness; his anticipation of ravaging the mind of one of his test subjects; the mere sadistic suggestion of things to come, scratching against my ears.
No, they can't be bleeding, that's just silly.
I just want the –his- voice to stop, so –squeezing my eyes shut- I count to ten.
For reasons unknown, 'Bodies' by Drowning Pool plays through my head... almost reassuringly...
One. There's nothing wrong with me.
Two. There's nothing wrong with me.
Three. There's nothing wrong with me.
Four.There's nothing wrong with me!
One. Something has got to give!
Two. Something has got to-!
My eyes open even before I can finish the chorus and Jonathan is standing next to me, saying something. My head stops buzzing finally and I can listen.
"I'm glad you stopped screaming." He says, gazing down at me through his glasses, looking smug as if he had been proven right about something.
I start, I had been screaming?
"I c-can't remember screaming, Cr- Jonathan," his smug air becomes a smirk and he holds up a familiar shirt. My cheeks flush crimson as I make a grab for the item.
The taller man waits a moment as I turn and slip it on, a second later and a period of madness (or, should we say, a period of more madness than usual) appears to overcome the doctor as his wiry arms slide around my waist and hold me to him tightly.
"Jonathan..." Even to my ears, my voice sounds so small; none of the warning I had wanted to inject into my tone had come through. It sounds as though I'm pleading, I realise bitterly and with sense of dread.
Crane sighs into the side of my neck, his head bending down at an awkward angle, the sensation causes a shiver of nervous expectation to run through me. I feel guilty; but-
"You like having me this close." Hesitantly I nod, then shake my head, at the statement, his declaration. I don't like this, I don't like this... "Do you want me to tell you what you were screaming, Cara?"
Something about personal space, perhaps? And I thought Scarecrow was bad at knowing when to give people space... I don't like this, I do not like this...
"I asked if you would like to know what you were screaming, Cara. Or maybe you feel embarrassed because you know what you were saying...?"
"What w-was I saying, Crane?" I can feel myself grow tired of his games: I don't even know what happened to Isabelle! Wait, why would something bad have happened to Izzy?
"Only my enemies have a tendency to call me Crane," the pressure of his body forces me into the nearby corner of the room, close to my personal sink, no longer covered in brushes and ink, clean. I barely struggle –it only gets me hurt, let him say his piece, then he will let me go - as he turns me around to face him, his frozen eyes glinting eerily as he demands. "Would you consider yourself as one of my enemies?"
"No;" I falter, "but I will unless you give me some space. What was I screaming, Cr- Jonathan?"
His eyes soften a fraction at my submission as he ignores my request for space.
Why so touchy-feely, doctor? Spews my thoughts sarcastically.
He licks his lips before answering, apparently unable to keep his hands to himself as they cause miniature shivers at their touch on my sides and around the lower hem of my shirt.
"You were screaming my name."
I could really punch my subconscious in the face right now.
"R-really?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Oh, what?" Crane raises an eyebrow.
"Oh dear," I sigh, "my subconscious appears to have broken."
"Broken?"
"Yes, why else would I screaming for you for help? Actually," my head cocks sideways, my swamp coloured eyes scanning Jonathan's features for... a sign? I fail to see the holy light of any deity helping me out here. "Actually you did try, succeeded even, to patch me up... on several occasions..."
He grins, a tad too widely for my comfort. Or maybe I'm freaking out from being so close to someone who's male (not related to me) and is considered clinically insane?
"You trust me?"
Hesitantly I incline my head, never leaving –unable to break- eye contact with those gleaming, icy eyes. There has to be something wrong with me for that. Madness must be contagious. Where can I get a vaccination –or better yet- a cure then?
"Maybe a little... if you tell me what I can't seem to remember, please Jonathan?" At his falter, I ask a more direct question. "Where is Isabelle?"
"Isabelle is dead."
"And now I am all you have..."
Go away! I mentally roar at the voice. I can't believe it. I cannot believe it.
"Isabelle is..."
"Dead!" I spit the word, fury whipping at my thoughts, tingling in my fingers, pounding in my chest. I'm furious. I'm angry. I'm seeing Red. I want answers and I want them fucking now. "When were you going to tell me that you killed her Jonathan? When?"
All the coward does is stare. Staring as if I had just asked him a deep and meaningful question, contemplating his answer.
"Don't you dare lie to me," I warn, somewhat gladdened by his lack of rebuttal about lying (I may deserve it though, lying is a terrible thing to do... no, conscience, not now please); although my jaw sets at the extending silence coming from my main source of pain at the moment. Why did you do it? Why?
"I thought I had time." He murmurs, brushing away a tear I am not aware of shedding. I slap away his hand; regretting it when a blue glare assails me, a sharp voice soon following- like icicles. "Can you not see that I am trying to comfort you? She-! That, Isabelle," he draws out her name like a foul taste, "was getting in the way. Too many people would have known!" Sounding uncharacteristically flustered, Crane steps away from me and the wall, running a wiry hand down his face, catching on the stubble forming there. "If I had been caught, what do you think would have happened to you?" He challenges, changing direction now.
I bristle.
"Don't you dare turn this-!"
"You seem to be daring me to do a lot of things, I would think about your position before continuing." The malice in his words is thick, the threat in his eyes even more so. What is it with Jonathan and his eyes? Briefly, a flicker of a memory –an intense memory- shows those blues in an odd, dim light, virtually alive.
"Why?" A bark of laughter leaves me feeling somewhat hollow and I can already feel my anger fading back into that familiar emotion. "Going to g-gas me? Wait," another memory, more fragmented this time: the hiss of a canister –I can't recognise the surroundings- dark, everything is dark. Light. A morgue. A fracking morgue! Roaches. Something breathing on me, I can't see it. My breathing... out of control. A panic attack? Probably. I remember screaming. Screaming when it was about to bite, about to tear me apart, this must be why Scarecrow bit me: trying to make me relapse! Thank goodness, he did not succeed... wonder why? Regardless, screaming in terror, then for help, for-
"Jonathan!Help me!"
Everything fits.
A low chuckle from in front of me pulls me back into the present.
"You remember?"
"Yes." I whisper, staring at my hands, clutching the other and shaking oh-so slightly. "I remember everything."