fireinu: Thank you, I will!
Maiden of Nightmares: Thank you, I couldn't believe this idea when it popped in my head. It was so simple… I was shocked to see no one had thought of it yet!
Bone White Butterfly: No, what you don't understand is I always make it a little promise to myself that a chapter has to be a minimum of 5 pages. I think I was little short on chapter one, but I couldn't go on without essentially moving to chapter 2! So, I stopped myself there.
But yes, I understand your point about exceptionally long chapters. I can handle them (if I have enough time/am bored enough), but the thing that angers me to no end is posting a story that is essentially one :extremely: long paragraph. I every time I see something like that, I get the urge to copy and paste it to my Microsoft Word and fix it. But that's just me
And I really have to thank you. After reading your review a few times (it was a bit to take in), I went out and Googled Multiple Personality Disorder. It gave me a lot of new insight to what I could/would do, but what was most intriguing (and closest to the 'truth') was a 'disease' entitled Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I think that's what you were telling me about but couldn't remember the name?
In any case, good luck on your exam.
But now on to the true reason you're here (I hope)!
8
Terry stared off in space, worried out of his mind. Max had been missing for several days now, and he had absolutely no leads to where she might be. He just hoped that so long as she was alive, he wouldn't have to kill a lot of people.
He picked his head up as, to his surprise, his science teacher, Mrs. Kerwins, began to chastise someone other than him. The girl she was yelling at was pretty- in an odd way. Her hair was pitch black, glossy and slicked to her head in sleek bob. She had on dark, cherry red lip gloss and heavily lined with black liner. He couldn't tell if her mocha skin complemented or contrasted the dark hues.
She wore a black tank top, and a brown leather jacket with silver stripes on it. Terry's eyebrows knitted together. Wait, I know that jacket- Terry felt his face pale. There was no way that could possibly be- "Now, please sit in your seat by Mr. McGinnis, Miss Gibson." Terry sat up straighter. "Max?" he whispered as she slid into the seat. She sort of side glanced him and whispered back, "Do I know you?"
Terry grimaced. "I guess I deserved that," Max's eyes rounded. "You're Terry!" she hissed, half facing him. "I get it already! I'm sorry! I know I never should've left you here, but you should have at least called to say you were alright." Terry relented.
"And you two shouldn't be speaking." Mrs. Kerwins snapped. Just as she did, the bell rang. Terry and Max stood up, leaving with the rest of the students. "Oh," Max said, remembering something, "Here's your jacket before I forget," she slipped the jacket off her shoulders, but Terry stopped her. "Keep it, Max," he replied. "In case you have to stay late again."
She smiled brightly. "Thanks." She said, then wrinkled her nose. "Just don't call me Max." Terry stared at her blankly. "But… Max is your name. What do want me to call you?"
"Gabrielle. Or Gabby. It's my middle name and I think it fits better than 'Max'."
Gabby? Terry mentally questioned, but he didn't want to disagree and make her angry (pink hair or not, Max was always scary when she was pissed), so he said nothing in reply.
"Max? Is that really you?" Max- or Gabby- turned to face Dana Tan and Chelsea Cunnigham, Max's old freinds. But would they be Gabby's friends, too?
"Like, what did you do to your hair?" Chelsea asked, smiling. Gabby rolled her eyes. "Pink was too… Out of character." Dana cocked her head to one side. "'Out of character'? Max, your pink hair was your character!" Max smiled. "Exactly."
The girls obviously didn't understand, but Terry was beginning to. The new name, the hair, all of it. Something had happened on Thursday that made Max reconsider everything she had ever known to the point where she changed completely. And that scared Terry.
8
"It could be MSD," Bruce offered, only a few hours later in the aptly named Batcave. Terry arched an eyebrow. "'Multiple Personality Disorder'?" Terry repeated. "But isn't that supposed to be a total crock?" Bruce shrugged. "Depends on which psychologist you're speaking to. Point is, sometimes it truly is a disease, and others it is simply an overbearing psychoanalyst conforming an all-to-eager-to-please patient."
Terry scratched the back of his head. "Max never saw a therapist in her life," he informed Bruce. "Even after her parents' divorce, Max stayed sworn off therapy- she was always despised psychologists, saying they were licensed to give pills for no apparent reason." Bruce nodded curtly. "One thing she and I actually agree on."
Both men smirked. There was absolutely nothing that could make Bruce admit to agreeing with Max, or any of her opinions.
"You had better get going," Bruce finally said, gesturing to the computer, which was already beeping, alerting them to some crime being committed somewhere. Terry nodded and walked over, grabbing his suit.
As soon as McGinnis had left, Bruce sat lone in front of his computer, and opened the file he had long since been working on.
In the file, he typed a few words into the search engine, looking for a link. He researched the subject for several hours, even after the kid had left. After a while, the search became futile and Bruce stood up to retrieve his medication and- possibly- get some sleep.
He had 'forgotten' to close the file, and the large computer screen blazed the title.
'Pamela Iseley/Poison Ivy' 'Maxine Gibson'8
Max- err, Gabby- gnawed on her pinky nail while Pam called in an old friend. She had decided to hook Gabby up with some therapist.
"It's not that I don't hate psychologists, too, Gab," Ivy had explained the day before. "It's just I don't want you having a breakdown nd me not being able to do anything about it."
Gabby understood. She really did. She just hated psychologists/therapists/whatever and wanted nothing to do with them.
Even so, she had an untold amount of faith in Ivy, which meant, hate or no, Gabby was going to go to that psychologist and have him/her analyze her.
"You ready?" Ivy asked after she hung up the phone. Gabby nodded only slightly, and picked up Terry's- or rather hers now- jacket and slung it on, wrapping it around her body for protection.
Gabby had become extremely attached do that jacket as Ivy helped her heal. It had become Gabby's refuge from the rest of the world, a second home almost. True, Gabby remembered nothing of Terry, but sensed a lot comfort radiating from it.
Ivy watched Gab out of the corner of her eye. She had healed very nicely, and now the only thing you could see to show any signs of her getting into a fight was a thin line of a scar down her cheek.
But Ivy was still worried. Gabby showed no signs of her amnesia getting any better, or any worse. That was why she had decided to send Gab to Harley's friend, some well-known therapist. She knew there was no way she could send Gabby to Harley, but she wished it all the same. Harley could be trusted; one of her psycho buddies, on the other hand, could not.
8
"Hello, Miss Iseley, Miss, Gibson," The energetic (and possibly eccentric) psychologist beamed brightly at them. "Sit, sit," she assured. Gabby and Pam sat down, both a little flushed from climbing the 18 stairs (the damned elevator was broken). "I'm Dr. Sarah Crane," she introduced herself. Ivy leapt up, glaring at the too-young therapist. "You're a relative of Crane!" she exclaimed.
Dr. Crane slipped off her wireless glasses and sighed. "Yes, I am the granddaughter of the late Jonathon Crane. Or the Scarecrow, as the more flamboyant journalists liked to call him." Ivy threw her head back and laughed dryly. "Please," she crowed, "Dr. Crane was a criminally insane psychologist who got his kicks reeking havoc on people's personal fears! In no way did he not deserve the reputation the journalists gave him."
Dr. Crane sneered at Ivy, replying, "Yes, well, memory serves you were once 'criminally insane', but you need not my psychoanalysis, but all of Arkham." Ivy's emerald eyes flared with anger. "But I am not here for you," Dr. Crane replied coolly, "But for Miss Gibson,"
"Me?"
"Yes, dear, of course. Now, do tell, were you ever molested?"
"What?"
"It's alright, dear, I know it's a lot to take in. But I must be blunt. It's the only way to get the truth out. How young were you when your father first raped you?"
"Excuse me! My father never-"
"That young, eh? So, how many sexual relationships have yo had with men you have no intention of ever seeing again?"
"I beg your pardon! I had never-"
"It's alright-"
"-had any-"
"-you must remember to keep a cool head-"
"-relationships!"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Ivy bellowed, stopping the two. She stepped in front of Gabby, blocking her from Dr. Crane. "I don't know if your credentials are up to date, but I can honestly say I have absolutely no desire to ever visit this rat hole again." She spun, walking out with Gabby, utterly steamed.
"Fine!" Dr. Crane called. "Let Miss Gibson's PTSD go untreated!"
"I cannot believe that woman!" Ivy yelled moments later as they exited the building. "I have seen a lot of slum in my day, but she and her family are the lowest, most vile creatures to ever walk this earth." She sat down in her car, still reeling. "To think I let her talk to you that way! Uggh!" Ivy continued badmouthing the horrible therapist, but Gabby's mind traveled elsewhere.
Fine! Let Miss Gibson's PTSD go untreated! What had Dr. Crane meant? "What does PTSD mean?" Gabby asked, unable to curb her curiosity. "Hmm?" Ivy asked distractedly. "PTSD? Oh, it's nothing. It means Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but it, like the Crane family, is a total crock."
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Gabby repeated. To her, it souunded like a reason to use her computer.
8
Gabby typed in the disorder into the search engine, willing it to move faster. She clicked the first link that popped up, and was more than surprised to read what this person had written on the subject.
The man describing the disease explained it similarities to Multiple Personality Disorder, and that 80-100 of those with MPD are also plagued by PTSD. But the problem was, doctors could no longer tell the differences between the actual sickness and the product of a manipulative psychologist.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder often occurred when something so traumatizing will happen to the person, causing their mind to either completely shut down and go blank or just forget the traumatizing scene(s). Either way, it is the brain's way of protecting itself against something similar happening again.
Max sighed and rubbed her temples. "Okay," she mumbled. "So much for that,"
8
Chapter 2… complete! I hoped you like what I've written so far and please be sure to review. Thanks!