Jonathan's eyes burned with hot tears as he sprinted down the cracked sidewalk, tripping over his feet as he ran. His shoelaces were undone, making the simple task of running more complicated as they leapt up and bit into his legs like small stinging whips.

A dull pain shocked his body as a rather large rock hit his shoulder squarely, causing the wiry youngster to stumble forward. He threw his thin white hands out before him, breaking his fall only slightly as he hit the concrete with such a force that his glasses were thrown from his face, landing a few feet away with a sickening crack! The warm tears now streaming down his dirty cheeks seemed to just add to the hatred he already felt for himself for falling. Now there was no way to escape.

"Hey guys! The Freak tripped over his big stupid feet and fell!"

"Maybe if his parents bought him better shoes, he wouldn't fall like a sack of flour!"

"Or like a sack of hay. SCARECROW!"

Jonathan gritted his teeth as he felt a rough hand latch onto his collar and yank him up from the ground. The boys behind him cawed loudly as he winced and tried to focus on their faces.

"Hey, scarecrow…aww, what'smatter? Did you hurt yourself with that fall?" A sneering blonde boy cooed mockingly. Though he was half Jonathan's height, he was better built and stronger than Jonathan, the lanky bookworm. Jonathan realized this as soon as he felt a hard fist connect with his face and was flung back to the ground with a yelp, like a kicked dog.

"Guess he's not made of straw like we thought."

"He's still fun to punch."

Jonathan tasted the copper tang of blood in his mouth and sputtered out a soft plea for mercy. The boys behind him laughed and the blonde one grabbed Jonathan's hair, twisting his head in order to see his face bruised face.

"What was that, Jon-boy? Talk a little louder…"

"P-please let…let me g-go," Jonathan mumbled through his bloodied lips, trembling. "P-please…"

The blonde boy smirked boyishly, a devilish look crossing his face. "How about I give you a head-start instead, Scarecrow? One…"

Jonathan didn't have to be told twice. He didn't care about picking up his glasses now. They were broken anyways. His twiggy arms managed to push him off the ground and he took off at a sprint once again, making sure he didn't trip. Not this time.

He could hear the peals of laughter from his classmates growing softer and softer until there was no sound of them behind him. This is where Jonathan fell to all fours, his body racking with dry heaves and suffering from the pain emanating from the welts and scrapes everywhere. He hated them, he hated all of them. It wasn't his fault his mother didn't spend money on his clothes or appearance. That didn't mean he had to suffer because of her poverty. Jonathan sniffed, wiping his lips on his sleeve and taking in his blurry surroundings. The suburbs of Gotham City were just a slight upgrade from the Narrows. Lawns were just plots of dirt with patches of yellowed grass and weeds here and there. White homes were dirty and unkempt, growing brown with time. Fences were either non-existent or so dilapidated that they served no purpose.

This was Jonathan's neighborhood, where he called home.

The youth shuffled down the sidewalk, dragging his sore, worn feet through the trash and dirt of the street. He reached the crumbling cement walkway leading to his house and paused, staring up at the door. With a deep breath, he started up the creaky brown porch steps and threw open the rusted screen door.

Usually he would have run up the stairs and to the safety of his room, but he could barely see and took too long as he blindly stumbled around, groping along the wall to find his way. His mother spotted him from the small living-room and gave a cry.

"Jonathan Crane! You stop right there!"

The boy cringed and looked over at her, squinting in order to focus. He could see her figure rise from the couch and start towards him. She wore a white dress with salmon-colored polka dots. Her clothes were nice.

Jonathan was truly his mother's son. The two shared a pale complexion, ice blue eyes, and dark brown hair. But that is where the similarities ended.

Jonathan's mother, Susanne, could care less for the son she lived with. She was pregnant at the age of 16, and she blamed Jonathan when her boyfriend left her (it just so happened he wasn't the father of the child, adding more hatred towards Jonathan. He was an inconvenience, and because of him, it was his fault that she was caught.)

"Jonathan Crane, what happened this time?" She barked, placing a rough hand on his shoulder, practically digging her newly manicured nails into his skin. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything…" Jonathan murmured and winced as the sharp sting of a slap jolted through his face, startling him.

"Don't you lie to me, boy. I told you…if you came back home with one more cut or bruise…" Her voice drifted off and her eyes narrowed. "Where are your glasses?" She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "Did you lose them? What did you do with them?"

"They knocked them off my face." Jonathan hissed, his eyes narrowing. He could practically feel her hatred for him radiating into his body.

"You know we can't afford glasses each time you lose them."

"You can afford paying for Dave if he lost his glasses—" Jonathan received another hard slap to the face and bit his tongue. He was never to mention his mother's boyfriends. Especially in a critical way. But he couldn't help hating every single one.

"Don't you dare speak to me about him like that again, Jonathan Crane. He's a good man. You'd be lucky to ever grow up to be HALF the man he is!" She pointed a thin finger up the worn wooden stairs and shoved the boy up. "Don't bother comin' for dinner. You stay up there and eat your books if you get hungry. Learn to appreciate your mother more…"

Jonathan's face was livid as he hurried up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door behind him. The boy fell back on his cot-like bed and felt his chest bob up and down with shallow, quick breaths. "She hates me. She hates me…" he breathed over and over again, each word bringing a bitter taste to his mouth. "And I hate you…you and everything about you, mother. I hate you…"

Jonathan looked at his window as he heard a soft flutter and glared. A small songbird had perched on the sill and stared into the room. It twittered at the young boy, as if trying to console him. Jonathan growled loudly and slammed his bony fists on the glass. The startled bird squalled and took off into the air, chirping in annoyance. Jonathan smiled grimly to himself and licked his swollen, split lip. Birds…the only things in this world that were afraid of him.

Jonathan's gait was slow and uneven, his steps drawn out at one interval, and rushed at the other. Twin blue eyes darted every-which-way, searching the crumbling, towering apartment-buildings around him for the one he needed…the one he needed to find.

Jonathan stopped in his tracks, peering up at a black stone building before him. Lifting his hand to his eyes, he saw an address scrawled messily on his palm and smiled thinly. This was the place. It had taken long enough to find…he needed to ask quite a few vagabonds and other "street people" for his information…but it would be soon worth it.

Jonathan looked around carefully before walking to the entrance. A small call-box was the only real form of technology in the building, save for the flickering bulb illuminating the doorway. Obviously it was one of the more "pricey" buildings in the Narrows. Jonathan pressed his finger to a buzzer on the box and waited patiently, continuously looking behind him.

Finally a voice came over the crackling intercom. "Yeah? Who is it?"

Jonathan licked his chapped lips and swallowed back his nervous voice. "Hello, Mother."

There was silence for a moment before the voice returned. "I said, who is this?"

"It's me…it's Jonathan."

More silence. Suddenly the voice shouted over the speakers, "Just what do you think you're doing here? What do you want?"

"I want to…to talk. Mother, please…it's cold out here. Let me come up and talk with you," Jonathan pleaded, staring at the call box. He cast a nervous glance behind him, and was satisfied when he saw no one had heard the woman's outburst. He waited, and waited…it felt like an eternity until he heard the buzz of the door being unlocked and quickly held it open. Slowly, ever so slowly, a slight grin crept over his face as he looked at the box and chuckled to himself. "Thank you, mother…"

Jonathan limped up a flight of stairs, peering suspiciously at the dark hallways or doorways, and finally reached the level he was looking for. He started down the old, moth-eaten hallway and paused as he noticed one door open with a dim light casting a shadowy human figure across the floor. He gathered himself as best he could and walked towards it, carefully avoiding the limping. As he neared, he could vaguely make out the figure of a woman standing in the doorway. Her dark brown hair was showing one or two white hairs, and was drawn up in a messy bun. Her face was starting to show the process of aging and hinted at fine forehead lines and crow's feet. The only thing that distinguished her from others like her was the look in her eyes. The same cold look she had passed to her son. A hateful, spiteful look that the devil himself shuddered at.

Jonathan stopped before the doorway and smiled down at the woman. "Hello mother…"

"What do you want?" She snapped immediately, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Jonathan chuckled and held up a bouquet of flowers—red and blue roses. She stared at them, trying to discern the meaning of this gesture, but hesitantly accepted them. "Get in."

"Of course," said the young man politely as he ducked into her tiny shack of an apartment. She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, but soon returned without the flowers, perhaps leaving them in a vase of water. Or in the trash.

She looked surprised, if not a little peeved at the impromptu visit of her son, but she was still civil by offering him a seat.

Jonathan slumped onto the old couch, springs poking through the fabric and into his back, and folded his hands, resting them on his knee. "So, mother, how are you?"

"How the hell do you think I am? I'm worn out…tired, and I'm only 46," she barked, grabbing a pack of cigarettes off her rickety coffee table and sticking one in her mouth. Jonathan grimaced. She still hadn't broken that habit. The woman looked up at her son while she lit the cigarette and frowned at him. "Jonathan, what do you think you're doing here?"

Jonathan cocked his head, his smile fading as he stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"I haven't hide nor hair of you seen you since you left for college. That was eleven years ago. Eleven years where I got no word from you, let alone a visit. Are you in trouble with the law or something?"

Jonathan stared through his glasses and smirked. "Now what makes you say that?"

"Well just look at you!" She motioned to him with the cigarette's glowing red tip and grimaced. "You look like you've been living off the street for years! Your clothes are ratty, your hair is a mess…at least you learned to keep your glasses on your face." She scowled at him.

"Mother, times are hard and I just—"

"Ah, so that's it…" She leaned forward, still glaring at him. "You want money. Is that it? Well tough luck, but you aren't getting a penny. Not a penny, you hear me?"

Jonathan didn't flinch, but kept his stone cold gaze on her, unwavering. "I don't want your filthy money, mother. I wasn't here for that. I was here to see you."

"Yeah right. That's what the landlord says too." The woman took a long drag on her addiction and put it out by smashing the tip on the table. "Don't pretend with me, boy. You've gotten into some kind of trouble, and now you need to be bailed out. You'll never change, Jonathan. You'll never be something in life but a no good lazy son…" She gave him a once over and snorted. "And stop slouching, Jonathan…"

Jonathan clenched his fingers tighter as he stared at her. "You still can't help but criticize, can you, Mother?" Jonathan said calmly and evenly, but in a deadly quiet tone. "I come to spend time with you and you have to scold me."

"I'm not scolding. I'm just stating a fact!" She shouted, rising from her seat.

Jonathan was out of his seat too, but not from anger. He was grinning, his hair falling into his mad eyes. "Well here's a fact for you…"

The woman's eyebrows furrowed with confusion. Something stopped her from yelling at her son. Something she didn't see, nor did she react to, until it was too late. The metallic glint caught her eye first, followed by the stinging pain on her neck. She clutched her throat as a warm liquid ran down through her fingers, and she stared at Jonathan in horror as her vision grew fuzzy around the corners.

"You see, mother…as your son, it hurts me to see you suffer. You suffer because of me." He placed a hand on his chest and sighed. "Unfortunately I am not going anywhere…so, why not be a good boy and put mother out of her misery?" He cocked his head again, watching her with his bewitching smile. "Oh…and…I don't slouch."

Jonathan looked on as the woman reached up, begging for her son to help with a silent terror in her eyes. He took in a deep breath and held up a sickle, smattered with burgundy blood. A little crude and harder to control than something more conventional…but it was all he had in the barn with him that he could conceal, and it had done its job. He proceeded to wipe the weapon on the couch. His eyes caught hers and, with a smile on his face, watched as the flame of life was snuffed from her body. Jonathan gave a chuckle, leaning down to kiss the cheek of the woman on the floor, and threw out his arms as if to encompass the room. "Sweet dreams, Mother. And sleep well Gotham. Tonight, you will suffer the reign…the reign only the Master of Fear can bring." He reached into his worn pocket and pulled out a handful of dry straw, then proceeded to scatter it over the body.

"It won't be hard for them to know…" He looked at the pool of blood around the woman and then at the wall. "They will know who I am."

-------------------

"Gotham City Police Department awoke today to the task of solving a grisly murder in the Narrows. Susanne Crane, 46, found dead in her home today.

Usually a common event in this area, this particular case seemed much more calculated, and much more sinister. Police won't admit to the possibility of a serial killer, but the finding of straw on the body resembles a sort of calling card seen by another strange prankster of Gotham…The Joker.

The most disturbing portion of this story is the message scrawled across the wall of the apartment of the victim, seemingly made from the victim's own blood. It read Happy Mother's Day, and, ironically, this murder did in fact take place on Mother's Day."

"Truly, this killer has a very sick, sick sense of humor…we can only hope this is the last murder of this type that we see."

Author's Note: Mwahaha...more action. And a little darker side to Scarecrow than you may have expected...always expect the unexpected because if you expect the expected...well then...uh. Nevermind.

Anywho...I forgot to put this in my first chapter, so I'll do it now. I do not, nor have I ever, owned any Batman characters. Though I wish I did so I could have lots of money and fans and stuff. Thank you.

Amazon.