Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Batman Begins/Dark Knight characters. All other characters are mine.
The paper was rudely ripped from her grasp, sending the plastic pen bouncing along the concrete floor.
"I wasn't done." She hissed angrily.
The security guard chuckled and carelessly crammed the letter into a manila envelope, his steely gaze never leaving hers.
"You got an evaluation, gorgeous, gotta' leave the bedtime stories for later."
He roughly hoisted her off the metal chair, his death-grip on her arm having no effect on the 'pain-filters' she'd turned on years ago.
The two of them left the meeting hall, and trooped down the long corridors of steel and peeling paint. Overhead, fluorescent boards of light buzzed like flies and added a strange, dream-like, flashing to the journey.
"The doc's been dying to speak to you again Kitty-cat."
She winced at the patronizing nickname and the unwelcome slap that met her behind. The guard laughed again, this one in particular enjoyed to play with her, to own her.
"I wonder if your wife knows you treat women like this." Cat remarked coldly, this earned her another slap and a growl of a response.
"You 'aint a woman Missy, you're just a psychotic bitch."
Eventually they turned into a door with a brass name plaque, 'Psychiatric Ward'.
"Enjoy, don't worry I'll be right here." And he grabbed her, in an unsavory place, before shutting the door between them.
The room was one she knew very well.
Two, large windows were hidden behind tan-colored blinds. The walls were of reinforced steel, the floor of a concrete that seemed to bleed cold through her meager white shoes. At the simple desk sat a woman with a mop of red curls and blood-red lipstick.
She looked up from her documents and nodded at the seat opposite her.
"Where's Doctor Palmer?" Cat inquired as she lowered herself into the plush seat, she didn't like how her feet dangled off the chair so she crossed them in her lap; not caring if the lady thought this odd.
"He was reported for assault, apparently he had been taking advantage of his patients in very unprofessional ways."
The lady said this with a quick glance up to Cat, regarding her curiously. Cat met her gaze coldly, she had endured sessions of Doctor Palmer asking her questions about her past love-life, to describe it in great detail.
She had punched him the first time he touched her, a black eye for a grope seemed fair; the guards didn't see it that way and beat her senseless when they found out.
"Like you care what they do to me." Cat muttered, tucking loose hair behind her ears.
The Doctor, who Cat read from her badge as 'Doctor Yvonne Huntley', removed her thick glasses and leaned back in her chair. Instead of replying she picked up the folder of documents and began reading its contents aloud.
"Born September 26th, 1990. Mother's maiden name: Sherlowe. A Libra. Five foot five, 119 pounds, AB+, born 23 Front St, Ruishton, England." She paused, looking up, "Eyes: green. Hair: blonde/black."
Cat rolled her eyes and drummed her well-bitten nails on the table, this Doctor was vexing her, avoiding the criminal charges, avoiding the counts of murder.
"Yeah," Cat nodded sarcastically. "My favourite colour is purple and I dyed the bottom of my fucking hair black, it doesn't matter."
Huntley held up her mugshot in response. The 'Caterina' in the photo had dark, painted eyes, black lips stretched into a grin, and half her head shaved with her scalp showing in the letter 'J'.
"You've changed."
The girl in the photo seemed to ooze confidence and crazy, now it was all crazy.
"Yeah." Cat muttered, trying to avoid the steely gaze of her psychiatrist. Huntley tucked the photo away and once again brought up a file.
"Let's see now," she tutted, pushing her glasses up her dainty nose. "Clinical depression, insomnia, schizophrenia, borderline-personality disorder, ADHD, anxiety, PTSD. Either your doctors got it wrong or you're really messed up in there."
"They change their diagnosis every few sessions."
She seemed intrigued by this and folded her hands beneath her chin, Cat thought that If this woman hadn't been a murderer's psychiatrist, she could make it easily as a model.
"Why is that? Why couldn't the doctors diagnose you with a mental illness?"
This question was harder to answer than the last, even Cat still struggled with this concept.
Eventually, she let out a low sigh and gazed out to the windows, where large drops of rain fell between the slats. "Because the only illness in my mind, is him, and he becomes whatever the hell he wants to be."
Huntley tried to comfort her, by lightly brushing Cat's arm, Cat recoiled at the touch and held herself away from further violations.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Huntley said sadly, her tone shifted to one of a more gentle variety.
"That's what Palmer said." Cat murmured, more to herself than anyone. They both sat in silence for a few seconds, recounting what they knew. Cat wanted to return to her solitary confinement with her messed up thoughts and body of bruises.
"This 'him' you mentioned," Huntley rifled through her papers as she said this, either to hide her discomfort or for legit reasons Cat didn't know, or care. "Do you mean Joker?"
A crack of thunder echoed through Cat's mind that had nothing to do with the weather. She felt the sudden flush of cold and hot race through her veins, like a shower turned so far to the heat that it felt icy beneath her fingers.
"No shit."
She tried to brush off the dread sarcastically, the only way she knew how. But Huntley caught her involuntary shudder, the vulnerability in her eyes.
"Do you still…care for him?"
Cat tried to shake her head, to snap 'no, of course not', but all that came out was a whimper of a response.
"I think, most of the time, I hate him."
"Most of the time?"
"When he wasn't around, it was effortless to hate him, but when he was with me, like second-hand smoke I couldn't help it, I couldn't help adoring him, obsessing over him." Cat wished this sounded less crazy than it did, but Huntley nodded in understanding and scribbled something in her notebook.
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
"I don't use that word with my patients, and no I don't think so. Just an addict."
"What? I never did drugs."
Huntley stood up from the table with her chair in hand, Cat watched her cautiously as she made her way over to her, placing the chair beside her and sitting down.
"Caterina, there's more than just drug addictions."
They were now a few feet apart, Cat could now see how Huntley carefully pinned her hair over her shoulder and pressed the wrinkles out of the coral button-down shirt. She tried so hard to look pretty, why?
"Here's what's going to happen Caterina," Huntley was talking again, clicking a pen, her voice melding nicely with the pattering rain. "You're going to recount everything for me, from the beginning, and then I am going to officially and correctly diagnose you."
Cat scratched her cheek nervously.
"Everything?" she echoed, Huntley nodded, making herself comfortable in the chair and readying for a long story.
It certainly was.