The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
-from Event by Sylvia Plath
…
In Darcy's opinion, Arkham Asylum lacked many things. Warmth and comfort came immediately to mind. But following not far after were safety and other women. It was the absence of safety that discouraged the latter from straying too near the institution's baroque, rusting gates. Female criminals who pled insanity were mostly relegated to Cinque Center, the women's reformatory across town. As for staff, there were only a few brave souls who had had the nerve to ascend to their posts.
Dr. Agnes Bannon was one of these rare women, the one that Darcy knew best. They had met when Crane had sent Darcy on an errand to his female colleague's office.
Agnes was soft-voiced and elfin, with ash-blond hair cropped close to her head. She worked with the lower-risk patients in the Asylum's lower levels on odd days, but mostly did the research and tedious tasks at which the other psychiatrists balked. Wispy as she was, her pale green eyes had always seemed to contain some odd, secret well of strength, tempered by experience and learning things the hard way. Darcy had come to admire the older woman over time, and had even harbored hopes of becoming something like her once she graduated from medical school.
Because of this, it terrified Darcy to see Dr. Bannon burst into the office early in November, gasping for breath. Fresh blood stained her white coat.
"Dr. Bannon?" Darcy blurted, standing shakily and setting aside the notes she'd been transcribing.
"Where is Jonathan?" The psychiatrist panted, voice raspy from her rush.
"He should be back from the courts in a minute or two—what happened? What's going on?" Going to the phone, poised to dial for help, she couldn't help but gape at the smears of blood. Agnes followed the younger woman's eyes and shook her head.
"Not—mine. It's Atherton—tried to commit suicide—"
"H-how? Is he one of Dr. Crane's patients?"
"Yes. Stole a fork from the dining hall—and stabbed himself. I saw from the surveillance room and—and went with some orderlies—he's bleeding all over—missed his heart but hit an artery—"
"Oh, God. Dr. Crane should be here soon," Darcy parroted blindly, the phone frozen in midair, halfway to her ear.
"What's going on, Ms. Crandell?"
One instant, he wasn't there—the next, he was. Crane had returned. Both women wheeled about to face him.
"Jonathan." Dr. Bannon had caught her breath now and her voice was low and collected. "Atherton just tried to stab himself. You should go up there and talk him through it before they take him to the hospital wing."
He looked at her blankly, almost as if he hadn't understood, but when he spoke again his voice was low and musing. "Kill himself—he's never tried that before. Unusual. –I want him put on suicide watch when he returns from the sickbay. Come with me, Dr. Bannon. Bring a tape recorder so I can analyze the discussion later. Ms. Crandell, dial Ingram Valencia's extension. He'll be in his office. Tell him the situation and have him attend Mr. Atherton's cell as soon as possible. "
Dr. Bannon's face was pale and downcast. "I'd rather not follow you this time, Jonathan—he's in an odd state, this one. Oddest state I've ever seen. I'll fetch Ingram for you, but I—" She trailed off helplessly, hands raising in an effort to explain and then falling just as quickly.
The other psychiatrist did not blink. "I see," he murmured. "Ms. Crandell, are you properly insured?"
"Last I checked, yes."
"Bring the tape recorder and come with me. You are to do exactly as I say."
"I—" Her body felt cold and numb with shock.
"Uncertainty is not an option at the moment. Get the recorder and come with me." His voice was as chillingly grave as it had been when they had met in his office on the first day.
Ears ringing, she grabbed the tape recorder from the desk and fished a blank tape out of a drawer. He was already out the door, seizing his stainless white coat from a hook as he went.
They walked without sound to the elevator; he pressed a button and they shot upwards with a speed that made her stomach lurch. The doors opened and they exited without missing a single beat. Lanky as Darcy was, she had to take two steps for every brisk stride of his long, spidery legs.
He stopped before a windowless cell, one of a long row, distinguished from the others in the hall only by a bleak line of numbers and letters emblazoned on its grayish metal door. He produced a key and unlocked a scene of nightmarish gore.
Three guards were struggling to restrain a wild-eyed man wearing the neon orange inmate's uniform. His clothes and hands were soaked with red, and he thrashed like a caught fish, limbs flailing, mouth gasping. A fork lay on the ground nearby. It would have seemed an innocent utensil caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the blood pooling about it bespoke its complicity in the patient's current disheveled state.
"Mr. Atherton," Dr. Crane breathed, exhaling the word in a sigh of amused, almost maternal disappointment.
The man heard his name and suddenly went still, sinking back against the guard, wheezing and pressing himself as far away from Crane as he could get.
"No—no—no," he mumbled, teeth clicking and grinding like a machine.
"Leave us," Dr. Crane ordered, turning from his patient to the guards.
"Doctor—" one of the husky men protested.
"I can handle this. Release him, please. Ms. Crandell, begin recording and take a seat on the bench near the door. If I tell you to leave, you are to exit and close the door behind you."
Darcy obeyed, eyes boring an incredulous hole into Crane's back as the guards left. What the hell was he doing?
The door shut with a screech of iron and the heavy click of an automatic lock. She felt as if she were being sealed in a tomb. The bloodstained patient standing weakly in the corner seemed to share her feeling—he sagged against the padded wall like a crippled animal and sank to the floor, his sickly gaze never leaving that of his psychiatrist. The silence thickened quickly, like something rotting in the water, slow and queasy.
"Mr. Atherton," Dr. Crane repeated in that same dangerously lulling voice, as if saying the name would bring him power. "Would you mind telling us what you have done?"
There was a painful silence as the man twisted and shifted under the heat of Crane's gaze, like a burning leaf, curling inwards with the slow honesty of death.
"Go—go away," he murmured at last, so quietly that Darcy could barely hear his voice even over the almost-soundless hiss of the recording, "Leave me—alone."
Ramrod-straight as his bearing had seemed before, Dr. Crane seemed to grow even taller, as if in pleasure. "Be reasonable, Mr. Atherton. There is nothing to fear."
"You," Atherton countered, raising a shaking hand to point at his doctor, "You."
"I'm only trying to help you. Now, tell us what you did." His voice was a purr, so cajoling and silky that even Darcy felt slightly hypnotized. The patient seemed to sense the mesmerizing effect as well; his rolling eyes slowed and his convulsions subsided.
"I didn't want it anymore." The words came slowly and with hesitation, rising from the inmate's rough throat.
"Want what, Mr. Atherton?"
The bloody man was silent as he wrung his hands, breath rattling in his ribs.
"Mr. Atherton?" Crane prompted gently, folding his hands patiently behind his back. Darcy stared at his long white fingers as if transfixed, trying not to let her eyes stray to the crimson stains that lay beyond her forcibly narrowed line of sight. If she focused hard enough on the nearly translucent skin and delicate boning, she could almost forget the gathering tension that twisted them all tighter, tighter with each ragged breath Atherton took.
"Mr. Atherton. Answer me, please."
There was an audible gulp before the man answered; Darcy could almost taste the nervous dryness of the patient's mouth in her own.
"The drugs you give. I don't want them."
"And what have my drugs done to you, Mr. Atherton?"
The other man seemed to have recovered himself. "No—I won't—not again—" Darcy's heart gave a soundless lurch as Atherton lunged for the bloodied fork, his eyes wild. His reddened fingers closed around it, yanking it off the floor with a whisper of metal, raising it between himself and his doctor.
"No."
"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Atherton. Put the fork down."
The fork clattered to the floor again, and the patient shrank back against the padded walls again, like a vampire recoiling from a crucifix—except he wasn't the one seeming like a vampire at the moment, Darcy realized with a shudder.
"Tell me," Dr. Crane commanded, taking a step forward, voice rising and growing tight, excited. "I give you your medicine, Joseph Atherton, because it is my intent to cure you and to make you a better man. I want to see you as a healthy and content member of our society. If you don't like the medicine I prescribe for you, there must be some reason. As your doctor, I must know. Do you not want to be happy? Tell me, Mr. Atherton. Because if you reject your doses, your life will not be happy, I can promise you that—"
Atherton flinched away from the other man's mounting lecture, shielding his face with a bloody hand, the whites of his eyes stark and glassy. "No," he sobbed, rebellion melting as he shrank away into the corner, "No—please—I want to be happy, Doctor—don't—"
"Then you must tell me, Mr. Atherton."
Darcy couldn't bear to watch anymore—the play of terror across the inmate's face was too repulsive. Her pre-med education was rudimentary, but all of her knew this wasn't therapy in the least. Stop it, Crane…
Before she could recover her senses, the tape recorder slid from her limp hands with a deafening clatter. The tape popped out and skittered across the floor. She watched it dance across the floor, helpless.
The lean psychiatrist wheeled about to face her. His expression was blank but his eyes were livid with a rage that hovered ominously over her like a surgeon's knife, the edge of its dangerous proximity keener than the actual blade itself.
The door opened again, and Ingram Valencia lumbered into the room with the three guards and a stretcher. Dr. Bannon hovered outside the door, face colorless.
"We need to get this man to the hospital ward right away," Ingram rumbled, sending a skeptical look at Crane before returning his gaze to the prone patient. The orderlies hurried to comply. Atherton let himself be carried to and strapped down on the stretcher without a word, eyes glazed and blind.
Dizzy with nausea, Darcy was afraid to bring herself to look at her employer again after seeing the venom in his eyes. But when she finally glanced sideways at him again, his face was vacant once more, bare of any emotion. She only just stopped herself from sighing aloud with noisy relief as she exited the cell.
"Turn off the lights," Ingram ordered over his shoulder to Crane. The doctor went to the panel outside the padded cubicle, inserted another of his keys, and flicked one of the many switches, plunging the narrow room into darkness.
For a moment, Darcy completely forgot that she'd left the tape recorder in the cell. As she began walking up the cramped hall, she remembered with an odd jolt of fear.
"Dr. Crane?" She stammered, looking anxiously between his departing figure and the still-open doorway leading into the lightless compartment. "Dr. Crane?"
He turned, the chiseled lines of his face still unreadable. "What is it, Ms. Crandell?"
"I need to get the tape recorder."
One dark eyebrow lifted in nonchalance. "Go fetch it then, by all means."
"I need you to turn the lights back on."
"It's on the floor by the entrance, Ms. Crandell."
Heart thudding with reluctance, she shakily declared, "Look—I—I can't."
"Why not?"
She steeled herself, waiting for the typical mocking response that always followed this admission. Even Mike had laughed over it for days when he'd found out, and her parents had chuckled about it at family reunions until her face couldn't get any redder from shame. Afraid—childishly afraid of such a stupid little thing—at her age—
"I can't go into the dark, Dr. Crane."
"'Can't'?" He repeated, voice tinged with a sudden, predatory interest that set her even more on edge than either his coldness or his wrath.
"No, I can't. I'm afraid of the dark. I've been afraid ever since my cousin locked me in a closet when I was three."
"Achluophobia." There was a subdued light in his hawkish blue eyes.
"Y-yes. Or scotophobia, myctophobia, whatever you want to call it." She tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat and nearly strangled her. "The psych teachers I've had who found out have repeated the terms enough for me to know them by heart."
He watched her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll turn on the light again."
"Thank you," she breathed in gratitude, forgiving him instantaneously for any and all wrongs.
Wordlessly, he followed her down the hall and repeated his work at the lighting panel. Glorious, fluorescent light filled the cell. Smiling apologetically, Darcy hurried in and fetched the tape recorder from the floor.
"The machine looks fine, but I think the tape's ruined," she said after a moment's silence, as they walked together up the now-empty hall of silent steel doors.
"There will be other tapes," he replied shortly.
It was the kindest thing he'd ever said to her.
Author's Note
Sorry, this is coming a little late, but today was exhausting. I'm surprised I managed to post before Saturday!
Last I checked, this story has received 103 reviews—more than I could ever have hoped for. I thank all of you for taking the time to voice your thoughts and hope you will continue to do so in the future.
Azina Zelle – I loved writing Chapter 7's opening—it was one that stuck in my mind for ages before I got it out on paper. Glad you enjoyed it just as much. When will we see more of Shadows of the Mind?
Dr. E. Vance2 – A spoon stabbing would require much more force, but it is therefore intriguingly symbolic…hmmm. Thanks for the tip. I love both of your accounts!
Eccentric Banshee – I'm sorry FanFiction cut your first review off! That's terrible. Heh, I saw Batman for a third time the other day at my local $3 theater…gotta love the cheapies! I have a scatterbrained strawberry blonde friend too—absentmindedness must be a trait they all have, a result of some bizarre genetic anomaly. :-D Mean Girls! I loved Mean Girls! It's my guilty pleasure. Lindsay Lohan's only good movie…and even so, any other teen actress could have done better. Anthony Hopkins, on the other hand, frikkin rocks.
Hikyaku – Geez, you guys hate Laramie so much! I love it! I live for strong reader response.
hornofgondor2 – I know, poor guy. Craney needs many hugs! (hugs him too, but since Crane has learned to be suspicious of me, he runs away screaming)
Jonathansgirl18 – I have no idea what 'IC' might stand for besides your suggestion of 'in character,' so I think you're right. Abbreviations always confuse me. ;-) Keep posting Love of Fear!
Jumana – I love Cillian so much…words cannot describe…brain…malfunctioning…ahhhh…
Kagerou-chan – I'm also sorry it wasn't Mike who got the wrong end of the fork. ;-D
Karina of Darkness – Heh. Spork. Not a spoon, not a fork. I am so sleep-deprived!
Liz – Heh, immature high schooler, that's me. I too was fascinated with Crane even before he was big…it's good to meet another die-hard, pre-Batman Begins fan. :-D
Mizamour – 30 AUTHOR ALERTS? That's insane, girl! I thought I had a lot:-)
SkylerMcAndrews – Heh—I had no idea of the parallel between forks and pens when I wrote this chapter back in late July, but now that everyone has pointed it out, it is rather humorous!
SpadesJade – Schmaltzschmaltzschmaltz! Yayyyyy!
Valse De La Luna – Ugh, AP! Which three classes are you taking?
VampireNaomi – You asked a lot of questions in your review. For story's sake, I can't answer them now, but let me just say that your perception of Crane's perception of Darcy is dead-on: she's fairly malleable…especially with her ex in the building. You'll see. ;-)
Sporks rule, guys! Chapter 9 is coming soon…and since that little 'sneak preview' thing worked so well for Chapter 8, here it is again. Chapter 9 will include a) an interesting front-page article and b) Crane's addiction (haha! Get it? Crane's addiction? No? Well…I thought it was funny.)
Love, love, nothing but love,
Blodeuedd