I signed myself in where a stranger
puts the inked-in X's—
for this is a mental hospital,
not a child's game.
…Today crows play black-jack on the stethoscope.
-from Flee On Your Donkey, by Anne Sexton
…
The alarm's strident trill jarred Darcy awake.
And for once, she was glad to hear it. Fully alert by the second ring, she hauled herself out of bed, promptly forgot whatever she'd been dreaming about, and went to the bedroom window. Outside, the streets were already purring and alive.
Padding into the kitchen, she paused to water the vase of fresh orchids on the counter. They were a congratulatory gift from Sheila, and easily the prettiest things in the apartment. Darcy considered their odd, lunatic beauty before putting a slice of bread in the shiny new toaster.
While she waited for the device's chime of completion, she washed the dishes that were lying forgotten in the sink from dinner with her parents the night before.
Dinner—that had certainly been quite a circus. Between her mother's shrill laughter and her father's quiet encouragement, Darcy had felt as if she would be torn in two by the competing extremes. Mrs. Crandell would have stayed until midnight chattering away about her latest fundraiser if she could, but Darcy had been fortunate enough to have the first day of her new internship as an excuse to get them out the door. She'd driven them home herself, incapable of keeping her nagging worries about the city at bay.
Finishing the dishes, she peeled and ate a bright tangerine. The lightly browned toast emerged after a minute and she practically inhaled the thing raw in her hurry to get to the shower. The conditioner was barely rinsed from her hair before she reluctantly left the steamy warmth for the comparatively cold bathroom. As her hair dried, she dressed in the simple gray pants and unfussy white blouse she'd purchased especially for the first day of her new job.
She gazed into the bedroom mirror, expression blank but carefully analyzing every corner of herself. A prim, plain twig of a girl looked back at her, her new façade unsoftened even by the loose dark hair that would have dried in disobedient ripples about her face, had she not tugged it back into a painfully tight bun only moments before. The outfit was severe beyond belief, but practical and professional.
After surveying her appearance yet again, she dragged herself away from the mirror, locking up the apartment before taking the persnickety old elevator down to the building's underground parking structure.
Her new baby—a used black four-door sedan, cheaply bought but still functioning—waited where she'd left it, gleaming dully under the buzzing, flickering lights. She was soon making her ungainly but swift way through the city, almost too excited to drive properly.
Despite the capricious motor, the trip was uneventful, save for when she paused at a stoplight in the Gotham financial district to wink at the enormous, seventy-eight-story Wayne Tower. It was an old family tradition that the Crandells had been doing since she was too young to remember, and today she felt as though the antique gesture might bring her luck.
This was what she'd studied for. This was why she'd endured monotonous, misogynistic professors and crammed for all those chemistry tests and spent all those beautiful Saturdays behind hundreds of textbooks and her laptop.
She was finally doing something. Finally going to help.
About her, the city deteriorated as her car crossed the bridge and entered the Narrows. Windows broke. Walls grayed. Hope died.
…
Sheila had been right, Darcy realized. The automated gates slid open with the slow precision of a ghostly machine, revealing a place that was in need of renovations that were easily fifty years overdue.
Arkham Asylum was a sprawling, ugly mess of sanitized, windowless asceticism. And right in the middle of the Narrows, too… A prime piece of real estate indeed. It was almost as if those eerie computerized gates and distrustful guards she'd had to squeeze by had been trying to ward her off rather than keep the Asylum's inhabitants in.
Following the directions of the last guard she'd passed, Darcy steered her car towards the mass of unlovely buildings before her. The buildings of the Narrows pressed in on all sides, like eerily nosy neighbors.
'If you're who you say you are, Dr. Crane should be expecting you up front.'
Darcy's gaze skimmed the dingy courtyard as she neared the main hall. The only beings that seemed to be waiting there were a murder of loitering crows who had staked out the unwelcoming place as their own, breaking the suffocating quiet with their pulsing black wingbeats and rattling croaks.
Darcy found a place to park and got out of the car. She was almost afraid to slam the door and startle the fierce dark denizens from their roost. The grayish, vile-smelling morning air was cold enough to make her wish she'd thought to bring a jacket; she hadn't been expecting to wait for her new employer, and her light, insubstantial blouse was an insignificant buffer against the chill.
Dr. Crane. The very name sounded severe. He was probably some stiff old man, worn down by years of brutal experience. The voice she'd spoken to briefly on the phone during the week before had been made ambiguous by the crackle of her faulty phone line and had lent her no clue to the man to which it belonged.
An indignant chorus of crows hushed her thoughts and made her lift her head.
A lanky figure was striding toward her across the dreary courtyard, a combination of dancing shadow and dark wings obscuring his face. Darcy squinted as he approached.
Young, judging by the light ease of his long strides. The upright strength of his posture. Don't be stupid—he's a doctor, he can't be young. He'll be forty, or fifty. It takes most people a fair amount of years to get through med school…
Hair was dark—
The glasses. Oh fuck.
Back by popular demand: the Snide Intern was making a cameo appearance, looking as skinny and underfed as ever. Resembling nothing more than a heroin addict in a black suit.
But now she had the upper hand, didn't she?
"Hello again," she said flippantly, once he was close enough, staring rebelliously up into his passionless eyes—as rebelliously as she could when he stood a good foot taller than she.
Bet you never guessed you'd see me again, did you? Well, now I'm your equal. I guess this Dr. Crane is a better judge of character than you are, you slimy, meddling—
"And a good morning to you, Ms. Crandell." He seemed mildly entertained by her chirpy greeting. "I believe I neglected to introduce myself at our first encounter, and you have my deepest apologies." He paused as if for effect, breath misting in the ashen air. "I am Dr. Jonathan Crane, the director of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane."
If he did say anything further during the agonizing ten minutes that followed, it was utterly lost in the hum of shock that paralyzed her in that crawling instant.
He was Crane? The man who had become her symbol for all that was evil and antagonistic in her grab for an internship? She noticed her jaw had dropped and hurried to remedy the moronic expression, even as a true sense of cold desolation set in.
She would be working under this—this fiend for an entire year.
"—and so, needless to say, I have a bit of a busy morning to attend to," he was saying placidly when her senses returned. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you on a concise tour of the grounds and then to the doctor's wing, where you'll receive all you need for your duties here. –If you'll follow, Ms. Crandell?"
She realized she'd rooted herself to the spot and shook herself loose. Swallowing her pride and shock, she shouldered her bag and hurried to keep up with him as he led her into the Asylum's open maw.
…
"And here is where you'll receive your ID and necessary accoutrements, Ms. Crandell."
Darcy yanked herself out of lethargy yet again, furious with her sudden inability to hear or comprehend clearly for the past forty-five minutes. Every time she even looked in his direction, she remembered her situation, tasting the awkwardness and unfairness with every nervous gulp.
So he's your superior here. An ass, but your superior. Get over it.
Despite the fact that her infuriatingly optimistic common sense would have her believe that he was just a chillier, scarier version of her harmlessly smart prom date, it was a bit of a bitter pill to swallow.
To Dr. Crane, she merely nodded. "Thank you, Doctor."
"The pleasure was entirely mine." His face was blank, empty of the phrase's usual warmth or meaning. "Ah—Ms. Crandell, this is Ingram Valencia, one of Arkham's deputy heads of security. He'll escort you through the process." His cold blue eyes glanced at the equally cold crystal of a costly watch face. "I'll be seeing you later." Without another word lavished upon her presence, he turned and headed purposefully up the lurid-lit hall, long shadow half-gleaming on the grubby linoleum tiles behind him.
"His new intern, huh?" A bass rumble inquired from behind.
Darcy turned to face one of the most gigantic men she'd ever seen. His startlingly soft eyes—kind and friendly as an old rag doll's—couldn't have been more out of place in the grizzled, bullish head. Managing a timid, quavering smile, she extended her hand.
"New intern—yes. I'm Darcy Crandell. Nice to meet you."
"Like Crane said: I'm Ingram." He glanced up and down the bleak hall, then gave her a wretched smile that quietly mocked the entire situation. "Welcome to hell, little girl."
She forced out a nervous laugh. His hand engulfed hers for a brief, tremor-like handshake, then released it and returned to hang at his side, lingering over the deadly, polished gleam of a handgun.
"So, need your ID?"
She nodded shyly, feeling like a tiny child again next to the colossal orderly.
"Well, all I'm saying now is, you'd better not lose it. It's the one thing that sets us apart from the inmates; it's worth more than your life here. It is your life, here. Understand?"
Darcy nodded again, more slowly this time. He studied her face carefully, testing the verity of her response, then began walking at a slow behemoth's pace. She followed without question, eager to avoid the chill that the Asylum's buzzing fluorescent lights seemed to adopt when she stood alone beneath their glare.
They left the narrow, ominously quiet corridor and entered a white-walled room where a man was working quietly at a desk. He mutely took the driver's license that Ingram indicated that she proffer, then began entering her information into the computer as Ingram led Darcy to where a camera on a tripod waited hungrily before a white screen.
The enormous deputy shook his head when Darcy put on a serious, doctorish face for the photo, laughing low in his throat.
"No, no. Smile," he urged, enormous hands threatening to swallow the tiny-seeming camera. "It'll probably be your last until you stop working here next summer. So, go on. Smile."
Puzzled, she obeyed, smiling as genuinely as she could. A flash of light took her breath away and brought neon spots to dance like moths before her eyes.
As they waited for her ID, Ingram presented her with pepper spray and a taser.
"Standard Asylum gear for staff. Bring them with you every day with your ID. You might be just an intern, but you have to be safe," he informed her, still frighteningly solemn as he extended the items to her.
She accepted the things and slipped them into her pocket, where they lay heavy and cold against her side. Having them made her even more apprehensive than before.
By the time she received her shiny, laminated color ID, attached to a silver clip and complete with personal information and a precise photo, the lemony veneer of her first day at Arkham had faded. Darcy clipped the tag to her blouse without a word. She felt as if she were in one of those nightmares where everything, even herself, was being pushed and forced and compelled to the inevitable, unimaginable end.
…
They walked to the row of psychiatrists' offices on the first floor, both hearing but pretending to be deaf to the mind-wrenching screams that had begun issuing coming from a cell somewhere overhead a few minutes earlier.
When they came to the door of a large corner office, Ingram halted and turned to face her. Thinking he was finally going to acknowledge the unearthly, rasping cries, Darcy managed a polite smile and prepared a quietly droll and professional response.
"Don't let Crane get to you, little girl," he advised her instead, taking her aback. His craggy face was solemn, and the already-present furrow between his bushy brows deepened. "Working at Arkham—sometimes it overwhelms these doctors. The way he is—it'll scare you. Make you feel like an idiot. But just be strong to him and he'll lay off soon."
"Oh. Okay," she murmured wittily.
"Have a nice time," he said with an unsmiling humor. Then he turned away, gone around the corner before she could even remember to thank him.
Darcy looked back at the soundless door before her, heart suddenly clawing a raw, frantic path up her throat. She could really use the confidence that Ingram's intimidating presence at her back had lent her right about now.
She knocked. Twice.
There was a dark pause. She felt as if she were already being examined for flaws, even through the thick flesh of the door.
"Come in," the voice called.
She took one last breath of the sterile air, then ignored her gut instinct to run and did as she'd been told.
He—she injected this word with all the mental venom she could consciously muster—was hunched at his computer, glasses reflecting the strident electric blue of the screen.
And—damn it—he still looked too young to have this job.
"Have a seat, Ms. Crandell. I have approximately eight to nine minutes to spare before my morning appointment with Mr. Innocenzo."
Meekly, she sat. He knit his fingers together as he had at the interview, looking at them to see all was in order before restoring that calculating gaze to her.
"I will not mince words or prevaricate with you. I am the head of this Asylum and accustomed to a certain degree of respect and vigilance. Above all else, I value punctuality, composure, and prudence in my interns. I do not tolerate anything less.
"You may and most likely will criticize me to my face at least once and perhaps a dozen times out of my earshot in the first six months alone—for my candor, my expectations, my demeanor.
"Understand now that your opinions are of no consequence to me; we will likely never coexist in the same institution again after this. During this year, I only ask that, in spite of your own preconceptions and beliefs concerning the field of psychiatry, you follow my orders to the letter and are prompt and efficient in doing so. This is not a classroom or a lecture hall; this is an institution for real sociopaths and deviants and I advise you watch your step. Do I make myself clear?"
All smug, audacious sarcasm had evaporated—the man was dead serious.
"Yes, Doctor," she replied automatically despite herself, as if expecting hesitation to be met with painful punishment.
"Good. Very good." He seemed pleased by her nervousness. Slowly, the self-satisfied arrogance bled back into him. "Now. You may have, in the course of your studies in psychiatry, learned that the crime rate of nearly any given city skyrockets inexplicably during the summer. This statistical phenomenon is woefully disregarded by most, but is nonetheless immediate to our work. My office is flooded each August by a sea of unfiled papers regarding Arkham's newest inmates. By September, it is an execrable mess.
"With that in mind, Ms. Crandell, my first task for you is a simple one. I ask only that you begin the process of restoring my office to the orderly state it was in during the spring of last year. It is an objective that I am, regretfully, unable to accomplish alone, due to my exacting schedule. But I have faith in your abilities to complete it in my stead."
Darcy stared blankly at him. Organize his office? Did he think she was his secretary?
He perceived her shock and made no effort to disguise his smile as he gathered his things, preparing to leave.
"Best of luck. I will return to the office at four-thirty this afternoon to monitor your progress. Rest assured that I have reserved your easiest assignment as an intern for first."
"Doctor Crane?" It was almost a whimper.
He was already halfway to the door. "Yes?" He asked, with an infuriatingly infinite, cool patience.
"What will my—uh—next assignment be?" Shining your shoes, perhaps? Scrubbing out the toilets? Trussing you up like an overgrown fowl and throwing you in the Gotham River?
"How competent of you to ask: organizing the Asylum's autumn charity event, with the cooperation of the G.C.P.D., over the next two weeks. It will be on the twenty-first of this month."
"Oh. I see. –Have a good day, Dr. Crane." She was already resorting to frantic, subconscious bootlicking. Damn.
He smiled again, in that serpentine way. "I will. Thank you, Ms. Crandell." And then he was gone, leaving Darcy to face the paper-strewn office alone.
As she set her jaw and got to work, she could already feel the beginnings of what would be a horrific headache stirring in her head.
Author's Note
Sitting on my rear watching the old Batman animated series…not the most productive or ideal way to spend a school night when I have an Algebra 3/Trig quiz tomorrow, but I love you (and Cillian) far too much to not post.
Azina Zelle – So glad you enjoyed Atherton. He shall figure prominently in an upcoming chapter, so it's good to hear. I love your story and will continue to r/r and until I catch up!
Codie – Computer dancing! Regardless of safety or practicality, I love the idea! What a thought! (considers trying it, then wisely decides to pass) Well, anyway, here's to psycho yet mildly amusing bad guys! (raises glass)
Dot – Now you know how Darcy reacted to her new employer! Muahaha. I don't envy her situation in the least. Crane in the workplace…a tantalizingly kinky prospect for us, but I can imagine that in reality it would be quite painful. This chapter was one of my favorites to write, simply because it deals with that gruesome reality. Red Eye was indeed far too short. But I've outlined this story and it clocks in at about 20 chapters, so I think that should suffice for both of us long-story lovers. :-D
Eccentric Banshee – I think you definitely win the "Long Review" award this week! (much confetti is thrown) I promise to always respond to reviewers individually…at least until I go insane or get Carpal Tunnel. :-) You're an awesome writer and reviewer and I can't wait to get another long review in the future!
Forensic Photographer711 – Yay! Another new reader! I encourage you to write your own Cranefic if you're considering one—they're a great exercise in writing about a highly unsympathetic (albeit very sexy) character, if nothing else. Plus, I'd love to see what you would do with the premise.
hornofgondor2 – Yes, penguins or Cillian…? A question to torment us for ages to come! Heehee.
Karina of Darkness – Yeah, I can't stand soppy Cranes either, and I can tell you now that he certainly shan't simper in this story if I have anything to say about it. Especially not in the ending…(shudder)…I shall only say it isn't a happy one. Please stay on board!
Mizamour – Thanks, darling! As ever, it's a delight and an honor to receive a review from you.
Phoenix Flame6 – "Who's Pretty Eyes?" indeed! When I first saw Cillian (aka My Love) in Batman, I leaned over to my friend and hissed, "OhmygodI'minlove!" He's got something about him that makes you do a little double-take. I'm delighted to hear you like my OCs. I hope they continue to impress.
Rachel – I'm happy that you continue to enjoy. Yes, ten-year-old Crane is a little difficult to part with, I must concur, but to chronicle his entire life would have steered the story in a different direction altogether, of course. Please continue to read, though—it's always, always a pleasure to hear from you.
Skyler McAndrews – Sorry to make you review twice in one night last time. I post each Friday, to warn you in advance. Hope you keep reading; we both share a love of writing and reading dark prose…
SpadesJade: You know, I would have accepted my mom's money too. ;-) No pride whatsoever. By the way, when will we have another Cranefic from you? I love your other stuff, but you do him justice.
This author's note, like all of my others, was written yesterday (I'm writing this on the Thursday night before my traditional Friday posting), so I apologize to those of you who have reviewed in the narrow window of time between when I write my reader responses and post my next chapter. You have been left out of my responses, but not my heart, I promise. After all, 'twas you that got me to 50+ reviews! (even more confetti is thrown)
You all come back now for Chapter 6, you hear:-) The first five lucky reviewers will receive a big hug and prolonged snog from Cillian Murphy in their dreams. If, er, that's what they want…I assume you'd want that, if you're reading this story…I know I would, I've already had a dream like that…erm, I'm rambling, just review anyway.
Love, Blodeuedd