this is a girl who died in her mind
with a warm thick scream
and a keen cold groan
while the gadgets purred
and the gangsters dined
-from this is a rubbish of human rind by e.e. cummings
…
They sat opposite each other in the silent office. The fine dark wood of the table between them was cut across by slashes of sunlight and shadow that trailed from the half-drawn blinds of a nearby window. Both of them were motionless, expressionless, as if they had forgotten what their faces were for.
He was the first to break the static tableau. Looking down, he regarded the sheaf of paper before him with a delicate but tangible apathy, then steepled his frail-boned fingers across the meticulously typed ranks of credentials and waited.
Tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth behind a close-lipped smile, she concentrated on the steady ticking of the clock on the desk. Every nerve of her seemed inebriated by fear, freakishly attuned to every oblivious passing second.
He cleared his throat with the same careful delicacy with which he'd looked at the portfolio. It was a quiet, almost effeminate sound, but her heart nearly stopped regardless. "Ms. Crandell, perhaps I was mistaken in assuming this question would be a straightforward one requiring a simple answer. If so—"
"I—I believe that my perseverance is my best quality," she blurted, probably loud enough for everyone on the block to hear. She wouldn't tingle with humiliation over her audacity until later. "I'll be presented with a problem, and I will work until I either have the means to find a solution or the solution itself."
His smile was vacant, dry. She could almost hear the despairing sobs of her professors. Nice one, idiot.
"Perseverance," he repeated musingly, maliciously, after another excruciating lull. "Indeed."
Smug little bastard. She wanted to punch him. All gawky elbows and knees as he seemed to be, it was doubtful he'd put up much of a fight, even for a coltish girl like her. There was a half-grown look about him that suggested he was younger and physically weaker than he'd like others to know.
It had been that self-conscious but irrefutable youth that had startled her first when she'd walked in the door, expecting a stuffy, graying doctor. Definitely an intern, she'd decided immediately, even though his eyes seemed old. A listless intern with a tape recorder secreted away in his pocket, filling in for a preoccupied doctor who was on call at the Asylum. Hell, he looked young enough to be a fellow student. Maybe even a close relative of her irresistibly geeky, tongue-tied senior prom date from six years ago.
But the resemblance to Rufus Church was merely superficial at best; it didn't look like this man had a tendency to spill punch or make sporadic references to obscure science fiction films. In fact, judging by his flat expression, he probably had every intention of barring her from any opportunity of getting the job. The fierce blue gaze was cold, frozen behind a pair of steely glasses. The bizarrely statuesque features were aloof.
Yes, he'd clearly established himself as her enemy for the moment.
"What experience—if any" amusement escaped his tight control for an instant, disappearing before she could truly register the disclosure "—do you have to qualify for this position?"
"Well—as I've said, my primary goal is a career in psychiatry. My studies of the last seven years reflect that desire. While in high school, I studied psychology and sociology over the summers of my junior and senior year at the local college. As a student at Dartmouth College, I took courses in general and organic chemistry, physics, biology, and mathematics. I also studied social and psychological sciences and psychobiology. Most recently, I worked for a year as a guidance counselor at a New Hampshire remedial school for teenagers. Before I attend medical school next year, I plan to complete another year of internship, whether here or elsewhere, to further qualify myself for the profession."
The urge to cough scornfully at her own relentless self-promotion prickled in her throat, but she managed to fend it off without embarrassment.
"Arkham Asylum is a far cry from a high school in New Hampshire, you must realize." She could practically smell the disdain in his lazy, cutting words.
"I am quite aware of the contrast," she assured him with angelic reserve. In her mind, her cold metal chair made a resounding connection with his head. Again. And again.
Between two fleeting ticks of the clock, he smiled at her.
Really smiled, flashing even white teeth for the briefest of instants. He seemed to have a habit of letting an emotion brush the surface for a second, then suppressing it again, and this was the first time she'd really noticed the short-lived manifestation. Though there was something guarded and asymmetric about the smile, she realized what it was and softened momentarily, unthinkingly, in return. Maybe she wasn't doing as abysmally as she had originally thought.
Then again, maybe he was just imagining something similar to her own recent, violent thought. Either way, the moment was soon lost, vanished in human suspicion and one merciless sweep of the clock's second hand.
He glanced down at his interlocked fingers, as if the next question were written on his knuckles. "How did you find out about this opportunity?"
She paused before speaking, waiting for that rare smile to reappear, to mirror her own.
It didn't.
Suddenly ashamed, she hurried to continue, ruing her credulity. "A-actually, Mike Laramie told me to apply when he heard I was out of school and looking for a pre-med school internship. You might know him. 'Dr. Laramie?'"
He nodded without warmth, eyes glancing at a spot just over her shoulder, as if speaking to the man she'd mentioned. "Yes. I know Dr. Laramie. A very bright man." The compliment sounded forced, almost puked.
She returned the nod vaguely, the knots in her belly loosening in instinctive sympathy. She could easily see Mike picking on this tall, lean knife-blade of a young man. Alternately choosing to either cosset or persecute an underdog had always been one of his odder quirks. She'd been lucky, strange as it seemed now, to have been selected for the former.
"And finally, Ms. Crandell, I must add a question of my own. Given the position you are applying for, you will understand." He leaned forward slightly, reminding her of a starved crow.
"I-I'm sure I will," she forced out, feeling her insides buck and heave with mistrust. What was he up to? She soon got her answer.
"What are your thoughts on the nature of evil and its place in the human psyche?"
This was definitely not the question of some favor-currying intern. It had a sound of experience, of calculation, an edge that made her heart thud as if in its last throes.
"Well," she began shakily, grasping frenetically for words in the expectant stillness, "We're all told as children that there's good in everyone. And—I suppose there is some truth to that. I believe ethics and conscience are pivotal factors in defining humanity. To, um, lose one's ethics, to lose one's conscience, is to give up a part of one's humanity. Which leads me to my point: that—what I just said isn't true in the least." Oh God, she was babbling like an idiot. "The human mind contains various elements, some of which may deviate in varying degrees from what we consider 'proper.' We are all—um, to use your word—evil, in some way." And you graduated from the Big Green last June, you say?
The eyes behind the odd-rimmed glasses were implacable. "I see." He sat back in his seat, already bored with her.
"No, no," she said quietly, wanting to bury herself alive as she made the admission she knew she had to make. "That can't be it. I—I'm sorry. I don't know; I truthfully can't answer the question."
She realized that she was gripping the arms of her chair with a painful white rigidity, and did her best to relax.
Well, she had done it; she had just successfully and completely blown the interview. Somehow, she remembered to breathe. A multitude of eloquent, intelligent alternatives to her ungainly response were welling up in her head, but it was a little late now.
Remembering that she was still in the taciturn office, she straightened as best she could and tried to smile. The expression felt like a rigid grimace of pain. "Thank you."
"Thank you, Ms. Crandell. We will contact you in about a week or so. Have a nice afternoon."
He stood to his feet as she made a hasty exit, all six gangling feet of him. Darcy couldn't even think of a witty prod at the belated arrival of his manners.
…
Sheila was waiting for her outside the office building, car droning patiently as she lazily paged through an old paperback.
"How'd it go?" She asked out the open window, tossing the book into the backseat as the other woman hurried to clamber into the passenger seat.
"Terrible," Darcy answered at once, fumbling with the seatbelt, fingers blunted and clumsy with frustration.
"Need to talk about it?"
The second response was as immediate and pained as the first. "Hell no."
"Fine," Sheila murmured long-sufferingly as she pulled out onto the street. "Want to go get a drink and a bite to take your mind off it, or should I drop you off at your place?"
"The apartment, please. I'll just be miserable; don't punish yourself."
"Believe me, I don't intend to. You can gripe like a woman twice your age when you're in the mood. And if—" The car hit an unseen pothole, and Sheila swore, forgetting her light, wry mood. "Why can't they clean this damn city up?"
Darcy looked out at the shapes that moved in the gathering autumn twilight. Sheila's crescendo of a tirade faded in her ears and she looked at dirty streets and skies.
Try as she might to direct its attention elsewhere, her feverish mind kept returning to her interviewer. He'd been nothing but the fount of her anxiety and confusion from the minute he'd initiated the interview, with neither introduction nor compassion.
Everything about him had seemed frigid, mechanical, inhuman. As precise and chill as the clock that had sat not far from his right hand. But every time she would begin to settle into his icy cadence, there had been a slight arrhythmic flutter of life in him. A lash of sophisticated sarcasm. A glimmer of a smirk in that lulling voice. A wary glint in his blue eyes like the beady gleam of an untamed bird's.
And the smile. The thought of his greatest open display of humanity should have brought her only relief, relief that the man wasn't the magically preserved cadaver he seemed. But instead the memory only stirred up an unsettled bewilderment. The smile was one of the most telling expressions in a human being's grasp. She'd done a study on it in her third year at Dartmouth. The arch of a brow, a falsity in the eyes, a flush in the cheek—all of these small nuances were nothing on their own. But when accompanied by a smile, they could speak volumes about the person who wore them.
His smile had been like a closed, unmarked door.
"—and don't even get me started on that madhouse you want to work for. That nice little business office the interview was held at isn't even the beginning. Arkham proper is in the Narrows, Darce. Have you seen the Asylum yet since you got back? Or heard anything? The patients… God, you'd have to be insane yourself to work there. –You listening?"
"Thanks," Darcy put in vacantly.
"You're very welcome. What makes you want to work there?"
"I'm curious."
"About what? How many sizes straitjackets come in? I'm sure you could find out…"
"No." She leaned her head against the chilling glass of the car window as gray buildings slid past, thinking. "The criminally insane are—different."
"Damn right they are."
"You know what I mean. They're like us, they're people. But they're dissimilar at the same time. They've made decisions we haven't. Decisions we're too—too scared to make or even think about. They've been through things we can't begin to understand."
Sheila rolled her eyes. "Always the hero, Darce." Her amusement came to a stop when she saw a homeless man huddled with a slat-ribbed dog under a ragged blanket on the corner as they made a left turn.
"Darce… I wasn't kidding about the city. Things have changed since you went to New Hampshire. You've been gone—what, six years almost? This place is going downhill, and it's not looking good. Seems like no one cares anymore." She forced out a sigh in a quick, short gust. "Are you sure right now is the best time to look for a job here?"
"Why not? This place is home."
"Well, for starters, 'this place' is completely corrupt. People are sitting back and—and letting this happen." She took her eyes off the darkening road and looked over, hard, at the other woman.
"I'm not 'sitting back' by looking for a job. I'm trying to help," Darcy murmured heavily, avoiding Sheila's hefty gaze.
"Point taken. But I didn't mean that you should do something to help. I meant that it's dangerous to be here. Everyone has an ulterior motive. Everyone's selling each other out. I've been thinking about moving lately. Problems are getting too big to fix.
"I—oh, here's your stop. We can talk more later, I promise. Sorry to boot you out, but if we're not going somewhere, I have to pick up some food for dinner and work on my column. Good luck with the job."
"Thanks. Thanks for the ride, too. –I promise I'll get a car soon." Darcy unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car, shouldering her purse and waving goodbye over her shoulder.
She entered her apartment building just before night swallowed the city whole. Sheila waited until her friend was safely within the lobby, then drove off into the darkness. The oily, yellowing moon glistened in a sky too polluted for stars to shine.
…
Author's Note
Words cannot begin to express how humbled and flattered I am to receive so many kind and encouraging reviews. All of you have definitely set a high standard for this story, and (while I'm terrified about what it's going to do to my already-hectic sleep schedule) I appreciate the challenge. I only hope I won't lose all of you by going off in another one of my famous rambling author's notes…
Amazon Wolf – Thanks! Do you have any posting dates set for your new Cranefics yet? After Sweet Insanity, I can't wait.
Azina Zelle – Please continue to impress me with your gorgeous work and I'll try to do the same for you:-)
Bimefl – You hit the nail on the head when you were wondering if my next OC would be reminiscent of Amy. Hang in there for a few more chapters and hopefully I'll be able to make an effective connection.
E Kelly – You were curious as to the age of Jonathan in Chapter 1. Well, it's something I haven't directly confronted, but seeing as I like to think of him as thirty or thirty-one in Batman Begins, that would make him about ten or eleven in the first chapter. I agree with you that the taunts of his peers are a little juvenile for fourth-graders, but the idea of simple, niggling insults pushing him over the edge as a child was just too appealing. By the way, I concur, Bruce Wayne is fascinating—anyone who can survive the humiliating ordeal of flying in a moronic contraption dubbed the 'Whirly-Bat' in the 1950s, and still come off as terrifying, is a hero worthy of our worship for that alone. :-)
Haloration – Thank you. As I'm sure I've mentioned in a recent review, it's an honor to have a gifted writer like you reading this story. When will Nichols be updated? I'm positively dying to read the next chapter. And if you've received my latest review, yes, I realize I've accidentally put your story on my Story Alert twice as of now, if that's possible. The second time I did it, I totally forgot that I had done it before, and so now I suppose it's ready to doubly alert me when you post. The fic makes me a little distracted, what can I say? (If those last three sentences make no sense, just know that I appreciate your feedback and my lack of sleep is starting to slowly drive me insane.)
Hikyaku and Mizamour – Both of you suggested publication as a valid option for this story. I'm honored, but I'm fairly certain the chain of events following Dark My Light's release would go like so: I'd enjoy a brief time in the spotlight and squeal with delight every time I saw found a copy in a bookstore, but my happiness would be brought to a grinding halt by the combined forces of Warner Bros. and DC Comics. A fiery legal battle would ensue shortly thereafter, the only memorable highlight of which being the defendant (yours truly) consistently swooning at the sight of prosecution witness Cillian Murphy. Hmmm…much as I'd die to finally meet Cillian in my local courthouse, I'd rather have your lovely feedback than an unending lawsuit on my hands. :-) It was a thought anyway. Thank you.
Lily1186 – I will definitely keep things up for an author like you. Thanks.
mirandatheGIANT – Yes, Gotham City was an absolute pleasure to write. "She'll" be taking a backseat in the next few chapters, but I hope you'll stay involved.
Morgan – your review made me laugh out loud—you couldn't be any more correct. Yes, Jonathan Crane needs to get laid as soon as is humanly possible. And I have no intention of letting him escape that fate in this fic.
SpadesJade – I am so delighted that my story has already touched you on such an immediate level. I've never had a reader respond with such enthusiasm, openness, and sincerity. My parents were both teachers early on in their careers, and I have nothing but respect for those who teach and inspire. I'm glad that my work was able to convey that respect. Thank you for sharing your feelings with me.
The Logical Ghost – I'm glad you liked Amy (while she lasted). Now that she's dead and (sort of) gone, I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story regardless. Please keep the splendid Cranefics coming! I loved Be Afraid.
Winged Seraph – You wondered if Dark My Light should be modified to Darken My Light. I completely understand where you're coming from, and, yes, it would be true, if the 'dark' of the title were a verb. However, in this case it is an adjective and is correct as is. It really should have been 'my light is dark' or 'dark is my light'; I don't blame you in the least. There is no real way to have known this unless you happen to be familiar with the poetry of Theodore Roethke. The full poem will preface a later chapter, and I hope your confusion will be cleared up. I'm really sorry. Thank you so much for your review.
And, in closing, my apologies to any and all of you who have taken a dislike to Darcy Crandell or the twist this story has taken, for I know there will always be such people out there and I'd really hate to lose you after the first chapter. I have done my best to shy away from the pitfalls and traps of cliché and Mary-Sueism in the preparation of this manuscript, but nothing is ever totally watertight. I can only offer my disgruntled readers my heartfelt regrets and the small solace that Dr. Crane will be back in Chapter 4, if you can wait that long. This story is truly about Jonathan Crane at heart and, despite the shifting viewpoints from which it is told, is intended to chronicle his Faustian descent into Hell—with maybe a little failed love on the side. If you positively can't abide this chapter—or even if you can—drop me a line. Either way, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Thanks! Je vous adore!
Blodeuedd