Warning: This chapter includes some disturbing scenes and mention of drugs.
The warm spring breeze wafted the delightful fragrance of blossoming cherry trees from the Gotham City Central Park. It was a welcome change from the usual car exhaust and the stifling dank smog that sometimes shrouded the city heavily. But this afternoon the dank fog had lifted and a clear afternoon was shining on the city, still gleaming from the noon rain. Jonathan's heart felt light and he couldn't recall feeling so alive. He was tempted to smile, but that was never a good idea, not on this side of town. He kept his eyes to the wet pavement, which was dotted occasionally with filthy gum.
Jonathan, you are acting like an idiot in love. Now concentrate. Finals are coming up in a few weeks. Got to get excellent grades to qualify for a scholarship. Now Jung's first study was on schizophrenia, The Psychology of Dementia Praecox.
(She smiled at me. She really smiled at me. She didn't call me Scarecrow, like all the others. She didn't think –")
Jonathan! Concentrate! Carl Jung classified personalities into introvert and extravert, according to that person's view on the world.
(She didn't even care what her friends thought. She didn't even care if they called her a Crow. She just wanted to talk to me. She is so beautiful –")
You love her, but she doesn't love you. She probably just sees you as a friend – like all the others. Your studies Jonathan – remember that! Carl Jung defined neurosis as "the suffering of the soul, which has not discovered its meaning."
". . . the suffering of the soul, which has not discovered its meaning."
"Hey, Scarecrow!"
Jonathan snapped his gaze up from the pavement. He had frequently been taking the long way home on a regularly basis, bi-passing Shackborough Street altogether for several days. How could he have been such an idiot to think Stan wouldn't start scouting alternate routes to see where he had gone?
Even though it had been less than a week since Jonathan had been beaten by Stan in Shackborough, he looked far more intimidating. Stan had been practicing on the football team more. His black hair was buzzed close to a near-Marine crew cut and his broad shoulders and muscled arms bulged out of his red T-shirt. Jonathan also could see in Stan's dark gray eyes a mixture of anger and delight at being able to beat him senseless again.
"Too long Scarecrow. What's the matter? Afraid your stuffin' will be beaten out of you?"
Stan's toadies stood back. Jonathan knew he was in for business – Stan wanted to do the beating all himself this time. Last time that happened, Jonathan came home with a bloody nose and both eyes nearly swollen shut. As Stan lunged for him, his huge muscular hand ready to grab and twist Jonathan's arm like a vise, Jonathan jumped out of his grasp.
That made Stan really angry.
"So the Scarecrow wants to play? I'll play with you Scarecrow."
In an expert tackle Stan slammed Jonathan into the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Jonathan crumpled to the ground, aching in his stomach and ribs. While Jonathan was still on his knees, gasping for breath, Stan hovered close, maliciously smiling. Grabbing a fistful of Jonathan's hair, he yanked his head back. Panting, Jonathan's heart thundering loudly, he saw something else in Stan's eyes.
"The Scarecrow is afraid of me! Good! You should be if you knew what I was going to do to you for making me wait those last few days."
He is going to kill me.
His arms were still free, so Jonathan aimed a blow, not for Stan's face, but a sharp blow to the stomach. He knew it didn't harm him, but it was enough to stun and shock, enough to buy him time. Jonathan twisted free of Stan's grip in those crucial moments as he was doubled over and swearing and ran – ran blindly, anywhere to escape. The street he was on was West Avenue; it was far too open and wide to hide or out distance Stan or any of his toadies, who were far more athletic than he was. Panic flooded Jonathan as he gazed about the street wildly. He could hear the footsteps rushing up behind him. A narrow alley stood temptingly next to him – and he took it.
If there was one thing he learned ever since he was a young child was to never ever take an alley. Only travel down streets in full daylight. Going down an alley will only get you killed. As Jonathan ran deeper into the alley, the sunlight seemed to be swallowed up and the wetness that made the street clean and fresh made the alley seem dank, slimy and unwholesome. Graffiti and filth covered the walls, and rats raced out of Jonathan's way as he panted, desperately running, trying not to look back.
"Scarecrow," Stan's voice echoed. "Scarecrow, I'm going to get you for this!"
His heart raced, the walls of the alley seemed to close in on him. Panic swelled in his veins and his lungs felt like they were ready to burst. Now he realized he was not alone. Scantily clad women, some not that much older than he was, gazed at him, asking if he was "interested." Some of the homeless crouched in the narrow shelter of an overhang, gazed with great interest at his shoes. From an adjoining alley a man in a black trench coat slipped a gun into his pocket – one of Falcone's men who had just finished a "job."
You're going to die here. Either Stan will kill you or –
A second burst of energy and fear flooded him, and Jonathan gazed backward. He saw a dark figure quickly moving towards him. The silhouette looked like Stan's. Jonathan turned the corner and he thought he could see a light ahead of him – perhaps a way out of the alley and new places to hide. Suddenly the light was blocked to his sight as a large, rough hand reached out and grabbed him, dragging him into the darkness.
Jonathan struggled, but it was more a weak, pathetic struggle, like a gnat caught by spider. He was pressed against the cold, filthy brick wall, that large hand, rough hand crushing over his mouth. Jonathan's blue eyes gazed wide, straining to see who his murderer would be, desperately trying not to whimper and fighting back the tears. All he could see was a huge dark figure before him in the shadows.
"Shh-shh-shh-shh. Just be quiet. It will be okay. Yer pal will be passing by soon. He's real pissed at ye."
Jonathan closed his eyes as he heard Stan's footsteps approach and swiftly pass by, oblivious to the dark alley he was now caught in.
"Hey, wake up ye. Not nap time, lil' boy. But I got some goodies, that's right."
Jonathan's eyes shot open and saw that he had moved slightly, though his hand still pressed hard against his mouth. Some dim, filthy sunlight had managed to creep into the alley way and he could see a large, filthy man with a tattered, graying beard and bleary, slightly crazed eyes fumbling in his rags for something.
"Ah, I have some good stuff. The Falcon gave me some. Eh, yeah. Says, give the boys and girls some. But I take some too, eh?"
The filthy man looked like he was laughing, but made no sound. All Jonathan could do was stare.
"Now, if yer a good boy, I'll take my hand off. But no running, no screaming. Good boys don't do that? Okay?"
Jonathan tried to nod "Okay."
"Good lil' boy. But I'll hold on to ye just in case. Boys can get lost in scary places like this, eh?"
He took away the hand from his mouth but slid it down to Jonathan's arm and squeezed it so tight it nearly cut off his circulation.
"That's a good boy. No run. Now the goodies, eh?" His bleary eyes lit up as he showed Jonathan a crinkled clear plastic bag filled with pills. "This is yummy eh? Mixed bag o' candy. Uppers – makes ye feel like yer flying."
Jonathan stared at the bag of drugs, stunned at realizing where he was and what was happening to him.
"Boy doesn't want this candy? Uncle Jo has lots more. Oh, lots more goodies for my boys and girls."
He shoved the bag of drugs back into his rags and began fumbling for something else. Jonathan was struggling to find his voice.
"Uh, I –"
"Call me Uncle Jo."
"Uh, Uncle Jo. I don't want any drugs."
"Goodies, candies. They be good. Uppers, downers."
"I don't want –"
"Listen!"
Before Jonathan could realize, he was being crushed into the wall again, "Uncle Jo" was squeezing his face and glaring into his eyes. He had the eyes of madman.
"Listen, lil' boy. The Falcon said, 'Give these goodies to the boys and girls,' and I give it to the boys and girls. Now I saved yer life so I give ye a goody, but ye take a goody. See."
Jonathan could smell alcohol on his breath and his stink. A glint of something silver suddenly flashed in the corner of his eye. He glanced at it. It was a knife.
"Now will the lil' boy take a goody or take the shiny?"
"Uh – the goody, please Uncle Jo."
"Good boy. Good goody for my good boy."
He put away the knife, but still gripped Jonathan hard while he fumbled for a "goody." As Jonathan's heart raced, a strange calm fell over him and from a small corner of his mind, the tiniest voice spoke. Jonathan closed his eyes and let that tiny voice, that small part of him, temporarily take over. When he opened them again, his blue eyes were suddenly cool and calm.
"Uncle Jo, do you have something you can inhale – a powder?"
"Some snort? Like coke?"
Jonathan slightly smiled, a dark delight in his eyes.
"No – something more powerful."
"Like, ah, I know just the thing. A new tasty treat for my lil' boy."
He pulled out a bag from his ragged pocket. Unlike the pill bag, it was entirely in powder with some tiny crystal particles in it.
"New. They call it CliMax. Intense, powerful. Make ye feel like yer soaring."
Jonathan turned his cold eyes to the filthy man.
"I want something that will induce nightmares," said Jonathan. "Will it give you nightmares?"
"Uncle Jo" was taken aback by the question and slowly shook his head.
"I guess – in a high enough dosage. But only the best treats for my boy – and the first taste is free."
He crushed the bag filled with white powder into Jonathan's hand and released his vise grip on his arm.
"The Falcon says give treats to the boys and girls and so I do. Uncle Jo will see you again real soon lil' boy."
The filthy man smiled, showing most of his teeth had rotted away, and shuffled off into the darkness of the alley. Jonathan gazed at the bag of drugs in his hand. CliMax – could induce nightmares at a high enough dosage. Why had he asked that? Already he could feel his legs trembling. He was on the verge of a breakdown.
Not here. You're not safe. Please help.
That "help" was the same help he had received just moments before when that strange calm came over him and that feeling of power and control. In that cold, dank alley the frail teenage boy straightened, brushed off the filth from his clothing and walked out of the alley. He feared no one – not even if Stan should meet up with him again. This small part of him – it hungered for Fear, fed off of it and desired more. All his emotions poured into it, drained into its ravening depths and that cool emotionless, that fearless power – it was intoxicating.
Jonathan stepped into the apartment and carefully hid the CliMax bag in his closet, just wondering what he would do with it.
Great things, came the small voice.
Jonathan sat in front of the mirror, gazing at his cold, emotionless eyes, a face that seemed to register no fear, pain or love. Slowly, he "let go" of the "help" deep inside his mind. At first it was reluctant to relinquish control, but then it crept back into the corner of the mind it came from and a wave of emotion flooded back. Jonathan almost regretted what he had done, for he felt fear and pain once again. Before he knew what was happening, he was trembling uncontrollably and tears were streaming down his face.
Information and quotes from Carl Jung found on Web site www.kirjasto.sci.fi/cjung.htm