The drive to Mercy Hospital was a blur as was the walk down the near-deserted hospital hallway as Crane approached the late hours of the morning. Time seemed to slow and a sickening feeling grew in his stomach the longer he stayed from the room where his mother was.
"Before you can visit your mother I need you to sign these forms," said the nurse.
I will see her now, screamed Scarecrow.
Crane clenched his teeth, writing so hard on the forms with the gold pen it nearly tore into the paper.
"Thank you, Dr. Crane. Right this way," said the nurse.
And that was what brought him here, now to this point. He sat on the cheap blue plastic chair, waiting to awake from this nightmarish hallucination. Maybe one of the mental patients finally got to him, beat him senseless and he couldn't remember it or he accidentally drugged himself with one of his own nameless concoctions. That must be it and this was some terrifying, sickening fever dream.
Oh, God. It had to be!
Momentarily he closed his eyes tight, half hoping the vision would be gone when he opened them again, but no, it was still there when he opened his pale blue eyes. Tentatively he reached out his hand and felt his hand trembling, a hand that never trembled even when gripped by the insane wielding a knife or slammed against the wall. Dr. Jonathan Crane, the doctor at Arkham Asylum who knew no fear, and he was trembling now.
Oh, mom.
His hand stopped short of touching her, hovering just short of her cheek, afraid to touch it, afraid he would hurt her. Her left eye was completely swollen shut with a black eye, her right cheek was cut and deeply bruised, her lip was split and bloody.
God, mom, who did this to you? Because whoever did – whoever did this will suffer forever – more pain than this! I will make him pay. He will scream, scream until he can no longer speak! I will rip him apart!
"Dr. Jonathan Crane?"
He turned toward the voice coming toward the door and saw it was a Gotham City Police Officer.
"May I have a word with you, please?"
Crane's eyes narrowed in suspicion and loathing.
Why weren't you around when she needed you? You sickening corrupt lap dog of Falcone!
Reluctantly he left his chair and followed the officer out of the room. Crane soon found himself wishing he was back in the hospital room with his mother. He was in a private room, obviously reserved for those insipid, pathetic guidance counselors and sappy hospital chaplains because on the maple table was a box of tissues with stars and smiling faces and on the wall was a cross and a banner saying "Smile. Jesus loves you!" The only consolation Crane could receive was thinking of all the ways he could make this young, fresh-faced officer scream back at the asylum if he was one of his patients.
"Dr. Crane, thank you for taking time during this very difficult period for you. My name is Officer Jeremy Meyers and I work with Gotham Precinct 59. I believe you are aware of that precinct. It is where your mother lived."
"I am aware of that precinct. I grew up in that precinct," said Dr. Crane. "Don't patronize me, Officer Meyers."
"Well, Crane –"
"Dr. Crane."
"Dr. Crane, at around 8:43 p.m., Sarah Anne Crane allegedly was assaulted –"
"Allegedly? How quaint of you Officer Meyers. My mother is lying bloody and unconscious in the next room and you call it alleged. Maybe she did it to herself?"
"Dr. Crane, it's all part of court proceedings, innocent until proven guilty."
The assh-le who did this is guilty and deserves to burn eternally in Hell as far as I'm concerned. Forget court proceedings!
"Anyway, Dr. Crane, she was allegedly assaulted and – I know this is difficult to hear – but most likely allegedly sexually assaulted. We have recovered DNA."
You pathetic, corrupt little lap dog sh-t! Where were you! Eating doughnuts and laughing with your pals when she needed help! I will make you scream! Feast on your Fear! I will make you pay! You sit there Mr. Police Officer just doing your pathetic job while she's beaten, bloody! You smug little sh-t!
"I know this is a huge shock to you, Dr. Crane. Please, take a deep breath. But I have good news. The DNA is confirmed and we have the man on file. His name is Chuck "a.k.a. Snake" Machiano. He's on the streets and our guys are out hunting for him right now. By morning he'll be booked and behind bars. Don't you worry about it."
Crane caught a glimpse of "Snake" Machiano's photo as Officer Meyers opened the file. From the looks of it the bastard had a long and extensive history. As Meyers was about the snap the file shut Crane put his hand in it.
"If you don't mind, Officer Meyers, I'll take this." Dr. Crane plucked out the black and white mug shot of Snake Machiano.
"Hey, that's police evidence, you're not allowed to!"
"You failed to protect my mother this night and you have failed to apprehend him yet. This is the least you can do for me," said Crane, his eyes fixed in an icy glare upon the young officer.
"Good day, Crane! I'll call you if we need further questioning when she wakes up."
As the door slammed shut Crane gazed at the photo of the Snake. He was not your typical thug, very handsome with fine chiseled features and slicked back crew cut hair. Crane had his suspicions he was one of Falcone's men too, but it would have to wait. He slid the photo neatly into his suit jacket and returned to the hospital bed. He had far more important things to address right now.
"Mom? Mom," he whispered, gently touching her hand.
It was the only thing that didn't seem bruised. Suddenly the hand sprung to life.
"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"
The hand struck him hard across the face with a stinging blow. His glasses clattered on to the sterile linoleum tile floor.
"Mom, it's me! It's okay! Jonathan! It's Jonathan!"
"Jonathan? Jonathan?"
Her pale brown eyes gazed at him from afar in a traumatized daze.
"Oh, Jonathan. Oh, my dear, Jonathan!"
Slowly, gently she sat up in pain and slid her arms around him. She began to tremble, then shook violently as she began to cry.
"Oh, Jonathan," she wept, clinging desperately to him.
"It's okay, mom," he whispered, closing his eyes. "I'll make everything okay."
Her footsteps paced back and forth, back and forth across the floor over and over again. Dr. Jonathan Crane looked upon it with unease. It had been several weeks since she had been released from the hospital and although her wounds were healing well, Crane knew better about the mind not healing so quickly or so easily.
"Mom, are you okay? I can prescribe you something?"
"Drugs? Oh, no, no. I'm okay, Jonathan. Really. I'm strong enough to handle this. Really, I am," she said, her arms folded tightly together while periodically rubbing them. "I'm glad you visited me. I get lonely sometimes in this empty apartment."
"I think you should consider moving. Move to my apartment until you get your own."
"Really, Jonathan, I'm not going to cramp your style! Have your mother move in with you! What will your girlfriends think?"
"Mom, I don't have any girlfriends right now."
"Well you should! You should have girlfriends! What did I tell you way back, someone with your looks and talent will have lots of girls! You should have girls!" Tears were forming in her eyes. "It's just not fair! Not fair!"
"Mom –"
"No! You should have a life of your own! And get out of that asylum. It's killing you! It'll drive you mad one day, mad! You'll end up in a straightjacket like one of your patients! Get out now, now Jonathan!"
"I'm prescribing a mild sedative for you –"
"I'm not taking anything!"
She collapsed on the green sofa, her cheeks wet with tears. Angrily she wiped them away.
"I'm sorry, Jonathan. I didn't mean to be like this. You'll hate visiting me. You'll never want to come here again – ever."
"No mom, not at all."
"I just, God I hate being alone now and you're at the asylum for so long."
"I'll always come and visit you mom. You won't ever be alone. I promise."
Crane sat in Room 204B of the Lost Causes Ward recording the behavior of Maggie, who seemed unusually active today. Maggie was a white-haired woman in her mid-60s with wide-staring hazel eyes and a round face. She also was perpetually smiling. At the moment she was obsessed with the letter A and was writing it over and over and over again on a chalkboard while muttering "Ahhh, Baaah, Maaah, Faaah, Waaah, Saaah."
"Okay, Maggie, that's enough for today," said Crane.
"Vaaah, Aaaah, Baaah, Saaah."
"Maggie, that's all –"
"Waaah, Laaah, Taaah."
Crane rolled his eyes and gazed out the bars of the window at the empty track a few blocks from the asylum. He checked his gold watch – 2:43 p.m. The Wayne Train normally whisked by at 2:40 p.m. – it was running late today.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," said Crane.
"Dr. Crane, phone call for you on Extension 55," said Judy Fischer, one of the newer daytime nurses.
"Thank you."
Dr. Crane picked up the phone right in the room. He didn't worry about Maggie overhearing. She was still stuck on the letter A without showing any signs of progress.
"Dr. Crane, this is Officer Steve Carlson at Precinct 59."
"Yes, what is the status of Machiano? Is he being prosecuted?"
"With all due respect, sir, that is not why I'm calling."
For the first time Crane was speechless.
"Your mother, she was found on Track 24 of the Wayne Train inbound for the 3:14 p.m. Gotham City Central Station."
"Is she – is she dead?"
"No, we took her off the track in time, Dr. Crane, but you best come down to the station."
"And why is that officer?"
"We're about to book her. Attempted suicide in Gotham City is a criminal offense, Dr. Crane."
Dr. Crane stared hard at Commissioner Steve O'Shannen with those icy blue eyes.
"Commissioner O'Shannen, a suicidal patient doesn't get well sitting in a prison cell. A suicidal patient is 90 percent more likely to attempt to take her life again if she does not receive immediate psychiatric treatment. Now I can provide that treatment, treatment she so desperately needs."
Crane was reciting what he learned by rote when committing patients to suicide watch at Arkham. He was relieved in a way he didn't have to think or concentrate too hard on just who the patient was – his mother – or else he wouldn't have the composure or even the concentration to frame a coherent sentence.
Keep it professional and be convincing and you'll be able to get her out of this.
"I don't know, Dr. Crane. The law states someone who tries to commits suicide – on public property no less –"
"I know commissioner, it is difficult and I am greatly appreciative of all the fine work you and your police officers have done in saving her life. I can't thank you enough."
"Well, just doing our job. All in a day's work, y'know."
"But you can help Mrs. Crane more, much more, if you release her to my care. As a doctor at Arkham, I can give her full psychiatric treatment."
"Whoa, wait a minute, buddy," said O'Shannen. "You're her son."
"That I may be, but I'm a fully licensed practicing doctor. I assure you I am well-qualified –"
"It's not just that, she committed a crime and she's gonna get locked up. Sorry, son."
"Actually, commissioner, there is a loop hole in the law you may not be aware of."
Crane slipped from his suit jacket some white papers and handed them to the wizened commissioner.
"According to section 84-14B of Law 74 Section A any Psychiatric Professional at a Psychiatric Institution may take full responsibility for a suicidal patient if said professional verifies said patient is indeed suicidal and is a danger to herself at the correctional facility."
O'Shannen quickly gazed at the microscopic print on the pages of law.
"This is madness," cried O'Shannen.
"Precisely, commissioner. Now let's start working on the paperwork for the release forms. I'd like to have my patient out of here by nightfall."
"I'm sorry, Jonathan. So sorry."
"You don't have to say a word, mom. We can talk about it once we get there."
She rubbed her tired eyes. Her hair hung lankly over her face. He kept his eyes fixed on the road as he drove, the windshield wipers flicking back the rain.
"You must be so disappointed in me, Jonathan. I've been strong up until now. I just – I can't stop thinking about that night. It keeps haunting me, every detail of it. I just wanted it to stop –"
He sighed, gripping the wheel.
"You're suffering from post-traumatic stress. Where we're going I can help you, but you have to trust me, mom. You must trust me."
The car stopped outside the foreboding thick metal gates. A guard reluctantly poked his head out of the shelter window.
"Welcome back to Arkham, Dr. Crane." the guard gazed at Crane's mother. "I hope that's not a patient. She's not properly restrained."
"No, she's a visitor – coming to see a patient of mine," said Crane.
"Visiting hours are over, Dr. Crane," said the guard.
"I'm sure you'll make an exception for me, George," said Crane, slipping some folded bills into the guard's hand.
"Have a nice visit, Ma'am," the guard said cheerfully.
As the guard disappeared back into shelter, Crane's mother turned to him.
"Jonathan, I thought we were going home? Why are we here?"
"Mom, you know you need help – this is the only place I know best to help you."
She looked at the asylum gates as though they were the entrance to Hell.
"Oh, please, Jonathan, no! Please, no! Please, don't make me go in there! I'm not that bad! Not so bad yet! Today, I don't know what came over me! I just was so sad and afraid."
"I can help you – more than anyone in Gotham can, please trust me on this."
The asylum gates slowly opened, revealing the old white brick structure of the asylum, half obscured, half-glowing in the darkness and the rain.
"Do you trust me?"
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
"I love you, mom. I'll help you. I promise."
She covered her eyes as he drove the rest of the way up the lonely road to the asylum.
"You know I won't leave here, not while you're here, mom."
"No, Jonathan, you must go home. This is an awful place."
Crane gazed downward at the word awful.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, Jonathan. It's just not like back home, you know."
She nervously rubbed her arms and gazed around at the sterile, cold room.
"I'm sorry it has to look like this," said Crane. "It's always like this for everyone in this ward – to prevent them from hurting themselves."
"I promise you, Jonathan, I won't hurt myself. Not ever, ever again. Please, let me go home! Please!"
Crane gazed around the room, perfect in its simplicity, built for one purpose: No patient could kill himself in this room. The sheets would break before it would bear anyone's weight. The mirror was cheap plastic; it couldn't shatter. The faucet and toilet were stainless steel – a definite improvement from its breakable counterpart porcelain and all the furniture was bolted down. Even the toothbrush was blunt and would be taken away from patients once it was used. No, it was next to impossible to kill yourself in this room unless you rammed yourself into the door until your crushed your skull in – no even that was impossible, the camera would catch you on tape and send the orderlies in before you even bruised your cranium.
Yes, Jonathan Crane, you are selfish. She would be happier back home, but there are knives, unlocked windows, medicines and countless poisons, and you wouldn't be there to stop her. Then she'd be dead and you'd be alone, all alone, wouldn't you, Jonathan Crane? Here you can not only treat her but monitor her 24-7. You can help her better than any so-called quack in Gotham any could. Oh, mom, if you only knew how much I loved you by doing this!
"Mom, I'm sorry, but you know that commissioner, he wanted to throw you in jail. This was the only way I could get you out of jail, at least temporarily."
"Oh, Jonathan, isn't there at least some other way?"
"Not that I know of. You'll stay at Arkham, say about a week. By that time he should be distracted by criminals, I imagine. Then you'll go home and forget about all of this."
"Really, Jonathan? Oh, thank you, thank you!"
She hugged him tightly. Crane had a sickening feeling in his stomach.
"And remember the time you pulled all the books down from the bookshelf? Oh, you made such a mess, Jonathan," his mother laughed.
"I was pretty young then. What was I, four?"
"I think four or five. You always were fascinated in learning."
Crane smiled. His notepad was empty and their therapy session went off on a tangent a long time ago, but he hadn't seen his mother this happy in a long time and he didn't want to ruin it by dredging up the recent painful memories of the attack. Even thinking about it himself brought to the forefront the sadistic viciousness of the Scarecrow and he didn't ever wish for his mother to see that side of him, not ever.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," said Crane.
Dr. Gooding entered.
"Ah, I thought I would find you in here – you always seem to be in here, nowadays Crane."
"Dr. Crane."
"A word with you, please," said Dr. Gooding.
"I'm sorry. I'll be right back," Crane said to his mother.
"Of, course," she said and turned to the window.
As they entered the hallway, Gooding pressed close to Crane. It was a trait Crane despised in the older man and Scarecrow always had a strong desire to rip Gooding's mustache out by the roots one by one with rusty tweezers.
"I don't know if you think it's amusing to flaunt your authority around here, Crane, but I am your superior and you never informed me of this new patient of yours."
"I had to admit her very quickly. You know suicidal patients are very prone to re-attempt –"
"Save me the spiel you dish out to your dim-witted police officers. I know this patient is very special to you. Let me see, she shares something – let me guess – a similar last name. I wonder why that is? You know Arkham has a strict policy against admitting family members of staff, Crane."
"Dr. Gooding, she was in need of help, surely an institution as fine as this one would not decline its services –"
"Also save me the sweet talk. I know what you're trying to do. You've been neglecting your other patients. I've checked on this one. She's your mother – even worse than just a mere relative. You know you are unable to reach any objectivity – you are too close – you know the patient too well, Crane."
"Dr. Gooding, you know I am more than capable from my previous dealings with patients here to –"
"No, you are far too close to her. If she is to be treated here, she needs fresh eyes and fresh ears, that is all. You want the best care, I'll give your mother the best care, Crane. I'll personally take her as my patient. What better care could you ask for for your mother? And that also will allow you the opportunity to get back to your job and your patients."
"I – I already have taken her as my patient – you – you can't do that!"
"I already have made the necessary paperwork, Crane, and as the superior of Arkham, I can do anything I wish, as you have already seen."
Gooding snapped his fingers and two orderlies ran to him.
"Anderson, Smith, have Mrs. Crane in a restraining chair. We will start the session immediately," said Gooding.
"A restraining chair! She is not violent," cried Crane.
"Crane! If you want to lose your job here and have your precious mother scheduled for some immediate shock therapy, you will do exactly as I say. And right now I say you have an appointment with Patient Taylor. Now I suggest you Go."
The door swung open and Gooding stepped in.
"Good morning, Mrs. Crane. How are you doing today," said Gooding in a sweet, soothing voice.
"Where's my son? Why isn't he here," Crane heard his mother ask.
"Unfortunately he had another patient to attend to. But I will treat you today."
"No! I want my son! I want out of this chair! I want out of this place! Please let me out! Please! Please!"
The door slammed shut. Crane gazed at the closed door, his heart beating fast, the Scarecrow spouting a litany of profanities and ways to flay and torture Gooding. Oh, how he wanted to do it so badly, but then his mother would see.
And she's here because of you. It's all your fault!
(No, hissed Scarecrow. She's here because of the Snake. Let's have some fun with him first, yesss?)
Crane slammed his fist hard into the wall and stalked down the white sterile corridor of the hallway.
Room 304. 304. Where is that damn room!
He rounded the corner and threw open the door that read 304. Mr. Taylor jumped at the sound of the swinging door and gazed up at Dr. Crane.
"Mr. Taylor, I believe it's time for our therapy session," whispered Crane.
"Oh, God, no," Mr. Taylor whimpered.
Mr. Taylor cringed, falling from his chair by the table and huddling against the cold, white wall.
A cruel, sadistic smile spread across Crane's lips.
The door of 304 slammed shut.
Crane gazed at a solitary hand banging against the unyielding wire-enforced glass of a metal door. It was a common occurrence at Arkham and normally it wouldn't faze Crane at all, but today each impact dug deeper into his heart. Slowly he moved away from the wall toward the raw hand beating against the glass and gently pressed his own hand against it. He closed his eyes.
"Jonathan, is that you," he heard the muffled voice inside. "Jonathan!"
"Hey, you," barked an orderly. "You're on strict orders from Dr. Gooding. No contact with the patient except during visiting hours. Understood?"
Dr. Crane turned and opened his eyes, gazing with cold loathing at the orderly. So now the illustrious and brilliant Dr. Crane was to take orders from this lowly and oafish orderly who couldn't tell psychosis from a celery.
"Very well, Mr. Smith. I will honor, Dr. Gooding's request," Crane said icily, before turning away.
Crane occupied himself with busy work, making the rounds, visiting patients, but all the while unable to concentrate until the hours ticked by until he was finally allowed to see her. As the minute hand hit 3 'o' clock – the beginning of visiting hours – the ever-punctual Dr. Crane filed away all the patient papers and returned to his mother's room. Thankfully Gooding and the orderlies were nowhere to be seen. As he opened the door, his heart sank as it always did when he saw her bound in that sickening restraint chair. It almost appeared she was asleep or drugged from the back, her head was drooping, her hair hanging about her face.
"Mom?"
Crane was almost hesitant to wake her, but at least he wanted to get her out of that accursed chair. As he turned the corner he heard her say:
"Damn you! Back for more so soon are you!"
He heard her straining against the leather restraints, her hands tensing into claws.
"If you were man enough to let me free I'd rip your face off!"
"Mom, it's me! Jonathan."
"J-Jonathan?"
Slowly he brushed the lank hair away from her eyes and he saw something strange in them. There was a wild and crazed look in those eyes he remembered always being so warm and gentle. She panted, straining against the chair.
"Oh, God Jonathan, he told me you were dead and that I'd be here forever! Forever! I – I wished I was dead, Jonathan. But first I wanted him dead! I wanted them all dead, Jonathan!"
"I know, mom."
(We want them dead too, whispered Scarecrow. Maybe mom would like to see us have fun with them first? She might enjoy it? She might want to help? Watch them scream and writhe?)
Crane winced and quickly unbuckled the clasps on the restraint chair. With a violence he had never seen as soon as the buckles were loosened slightly, she ripped free of the leather straps and fiercely hugged Jonathan tightly.
"I don't ever want to go back in that fiendish chair or stay in this hellish place! Give me a knife, Jonathan, a gun, anything! He won't stop, Jonathan! He won't stop giving me the drugs, the needles, he won't stop making me tell him about the monster who hurt me!"
"No, mom, if you hurt him you'll never get out of here, never." He pressed close to whisper into her ear, all too-conscious of the cameras. "Let me think of something, okay, mom. Promise me you won't hurt him as much as I wish you could. I will find a way out of here."
His mother slid out of his arms, an odd smile on her face.
"And then I can go home?"
"Yes, mom."
"And – and then we can be exactly as we were before?"
"Yes, exactly."
Crane smiled, but saw the strange, crazed look in her eyes he hadn't seen before.
Oh, God, I have to get her out of here and soon.
Crane made several notes as he left his mother's room, then sighed, disheartened.
(You are so pathetic, you know that. You have Fear, distilled Fear – make Gooding taste it. Make him Scream. He deserves it and your mother will be free and you will be able to help her.)
It's not ready yet, thought Crane.
(Always not ready! He tortures her and she grows worse every day all because you put her here! Now if you make him taste his own Fear you may save her yet! Think on it, Jonathan.)
Crane thought back to the Fear Toxin. It had long been in its preliminary stages and had failed numerous trial runs on his patients. He had dabbled with it back in his early days in biochemistry in college, testing it in mice. It had been derived off of the compounds from the CliMax drug, which had quite a simple chemical structure. The problem with the CliMax drug was it was designed to stimulate pleasure receptors in the brain, not create fear, that only occurred in the case of a severe overdose and the results were sketchy at best. So Crane had been designing a drug of stronger, more intense potency every since, but had had no trial run yet.
If I 'test' my Fear Toxin on Gooding I only have one shot at this. It will have to be maximum dosage and it must render him permanently insane. That way I will be in charge of Arkham and all its patients, and mom will finally be free of him.
(Now you're finally thinking, whispered Scarecrow.)