But everything is all askew to-night,—
As if the time were come, or almost come,
For their untenanted mirage of me
To lose itself and crumble out of sight,
Like a tall ship that floats above the foam
A little while, and then breaks utterly.
-from On the Night of a Friend's Wedding by Edwin Arlington Robinson
…
The light began to falter at around four o'clock for most parts of Gotham City, as the sun sank into the west and painted the buildings with runnels of gold. Streetlights buzzed to life and burned their false, electric bronze into the night, aloof to the scenes of misery beneath. But since the sun never truly rose in the Narrows, the decline was twice as swift and twice as tangible. Blank-eyed residents struggled through the gathering gray and cold, heading home to their untended apartments and broken homes. Sunlight was alien to them; they could not miss what they had never felt.
Jonathan Crane ate the hours like a starving animal. Tonight.
The idea of what he was about to do was too terrible and beautiful to look at in its full. It was the final nail in the coffin of his sanity, something he both looked toward and feared. But, alternately delighted and horrified as he was, he still couldn't look directly at it either way. Like an eclipse, he could only watch from the corner of his eye and be content to wait.
He went through the remainder of his day like an automaton, suddenly numb. Even the cowering and cringing of his patients did little to amuse or move him. In compare with what was to come, their fear was only a tormenting promise. Not enough. Once it had been enough, but not now. Not tonight.
When a lull came, in the five-minute intervals between appointments, he wondered why he was doing this. For himself, or for her.
For me. I do this for me. Once he was through with Laramie, he could surmount anything. The symbolic victory would return his mind to the affairs at hand, continue him on his way. The tasteless idea of sating his nagging memories, the idea that had come so inconveniently in his derelict childhood home, seemed vastly unnecessary now. He was going to execute this one extravagance and he would never want for another again.
At a quarter to eight, Jonathan returned to his office.
She was still curved over the desk, pencil dancing furiously across the piece of paper before her. He watched her for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"It's nearly closing time, Ms. Crandell," he remarked, "If you are not going to be of any practical use to the Asylum at this point, I advise you take your work home."
She did, packing hurriedly and leaving, murmuring a goodbye that went unanswered as she shut the office door behind her, locking him into the silence alone.
He moved with the slow, gentle precision of a dying man towards the window, looking into the hellish mass of daily pain and ugly hate below him like a mirror. Someday, someday soon, it would all be gone. And there would be only him, only one, laughing at the dead faces that had once laughed at him.
He sighed—infinite patience masking insatiable hunger—and went to the cabinet where he'd stowed his supplies earlier that day. He took the briefcase out, but didn't open it; he liked the promise it had while unopened. The smooth leather was like cold flesh beneath his trailing finger as he set it on the desk.
The seconds ticked by. He sat and waited.
Jonathan Crane was accustomed to waiting. He remembered one day, in his youth, when he had come home with a bloody nose and knees. The tears had stung his eyes as his mother tended his wounds with unusually lucid attention.
"Tomorrow I'll wait outside the school and walk you home," she'd promised him over the overture to La Traviata, stifling a racking cough with the back of her arm.
Later that night, he had overheard her talking with the man he thought of as his father after dinner.
"—the other children," his mother was saying, voice muffled through the cheap wallpaper, "I'll finish cleaning the bathroom early and go pick him up. It's not far—"
"Don't be stupid, Eleanor," the man mumbled. His voice had always been slurred in the evenings; Jonathan had thought it normal for men to speak like that after dinner until he had finally left home. "He's a grown boy—can take care of himself. Besides, you belong here."
She'd muttered something back and then they were silent again, as if they had never spoken at all.
Jonathan refused to believe his mother had been dissuaded from the idea; the thought of walking home with her had been so inconceivably exciting. He'd remembered every time he'd envied the other children, the children with their mothers in the pretty floral-print dresses who would gather outside the schoolyard and chat together as they waited for the last bell of the day to ring.
So he had bounded out to the front of the school that afternoon. His classmates, with their teases and taunts, seemed miles behind. They would never catch up. He was safe. His mother would be there, under the scraggly trees, wearing a bright and beautiful dress she'd never worn before—
But when he had examined the mass of women assembling in the weak shade, she was nowhere to be found.
He had waited in the schoolyard for nearly two hours before he decided it was time to go home.
Yes, waiting was no particular effort or oddity for him.
Eight o'clock.
"Dr. Crane? You wanted to see me?"
Jonathan almost didn't want to look up and see Mike Laramie standing there, for fear that the other man would disappear and this would all be some desperate imagining.
"Yes. Please have a seat."
The flame-haired doctor slowly obeyed, glaring at his hands as he waited for Jonathan to speak. "It's late," he grumbled, "This could have waited until tomorrow, Crane."
What audacity. The man really had no respect for atmosphere. But Jonathan was too drunk on expectations to take significant offense.
"I believed that I should address your accusations," he replied in a saccharine voice that unnerved even himself. "It simply could not wait."
"I'm not in the mood. Tell me what you wanted to tell me about Zsasz and get it over with," Mike snapped, running a hand furiously through his hair, "You're not going to buy my silence on this."
His irritation was delectable. Jonathan felt himself smile and allowed it. This was worth grinning like a fool for. "Ah, good. I was beginning to worry that neither one of us had scruples left. But very well, I can cut directly to the chase, if you'd like." He took off his glasses and set them carefully on the folded newspaper from that morning, soundlessly pulling the briefcase towards him across the desk. "Truth be told, I'm a degenerate and dissolute man, just as you so perceptively speculated. I've entered into a deal with some very human devils—one Carmine Falcone among them. You may have heard of him; he was a pretty weighty person in this city before his run-in with 'the Batman.'
"Yes, I've been testifying on behalf of his entirely sane stooges and paying their way into Arkham's cells so that they need not face a lifetime in our nation's penitentiaries. All in return for a mess of extraordinarily complex payoffs on a number of levels. It's nothing, really."
Surprisingly, Laramie didn't flinch. "You're just screwing with me. Tell me the truth."
"I'm not fond of redundancy; I believe I just did." Jonathan stood to his feet and walked towards the light switch behind Laramie, slipping on the mask as he did so, disappearing behind the rough canvas and familiar sadism.
The other man tried not to convey his obvious unease, but finally whirled around in his chair to face Jonathan. He must have only caught a glimpse of his masked superior before the room was plunged into darkness.
"What sort of fucking game is this, Crane? Where the hell are you?"
In response, Jonathan only crept spiderlike into the shadows, cradling a canister of fear toxin by his side. Vanishing into the places where only his voice, coarse and chill with satisfaction, could be heard. Laramie stood roughly to his feet ands stumbled after him.
"Where'd you go, you bastard?"
"Name-calling. How unprofessional of you, Mr. Laramie. I'm being completely serious. Why else would I go to such obscene lengths to entertain your accusations? You wanted me to reveal myself as a corrupt, tormented individual, didn't you? You'll get your wish tonight. Here I am." He rose from his latent crouch in the nebulous dark, shoving Laramie's unoccupied chair aside with a careless, lovely crash.
The shadow of bigger man leapt back at the sudden sound, startled. "Turn the goddamn lights back on, Crane!"
"And now you respond to my admission of guilt with mere disbelief," Jonathan remarked dryly, shaking his masked head in despair, "I'm disappointed. Really, I am. I expected more of you."
"You're crazy, Crane. I'm calling the guards."
Jonathan heard the taller man heading in the general direction of the phone, awkward and staggering like a wounded animal.
"Don't be ridiculous," he called back, voice lilting with mockery, "They're all at my beck and call. Funny what a substantial increase to a man's otherwise minimal salary can do."
"Quit hiding, you coward. You damn coward."
Jonathan's heart only pounded faster to hear Laramie fumbling blindly about in the dark, trying vainly to find him.
"I'm no coward," he breathed softly, firmly, into his mask as he raised the atomizer and leveled it towards where the other man's vague outline stood. For a moment, the pale ghost of compassion in him trembled.
No. Don't—
But the trembling made his finger only press down all the harder. A short emission of fear toxin entered the air, thickening the darkness and slowly destroying everything he'd ever known.
Laramie coughed and choked, struggling to speak. "What the hell was that, Crane?" His voice was defiant, but Jonathan knew his own toxin well enough to know it was already in Laramie's system, singing in his weak blood.
"An excellent question. Where am I, Laramie?" He inched closer to the indefinite silhouette, giddy, daring, until he stood directly behind him. "I'm everywhere."
"Stay away! Get away from me!" The man lashed out instinctively with a fist, missing Jonathan by a hair. Jonathan stepped back, surprised for an instant. None of his patients had ever lashed back like this before.
But it was nothing he couldn't handle. He forgot his misgivings and continued to stalk his prey.
"Stay back!" The sound of his breathing was like wet cloth being ripped apart. Like raw, escalating panic.
"This discussion isn't over, Mr. Laramie. I don't intend to end this any earlier than I must."
"Go—get away!"
"Not quite yet. You see, I've harbored my own antipathy towards you for quite some time myself."
He saw Mike illuminated in the dim light from the window and slid towards him, appearing so suddenly from the nothingness that the other man cried out and fell back against the wall, shaking hands raised in piteous defense.
"No—no— oh God, it's awful—" The words dwindled into a sob.
"I must admit I rather detest you," Jonathan crowed, "Your favor-currying, your flattery, your snide superiority. And your attempts at stealing my patients—simply unforgivable. What I would give to see what you're seeing now, Laramie. Have you gone mad yet? Let me know when you do."
"Please—stop it—stop them—n-no—"
Jonathan felt the mirth and good humor in him disappear completely. "I'm not going to stop, Mike. Not until I wring your fears out of you and leave nothing left. The bright young future of Arkham interred...perhaps even at his own asylum, if I pull the right strings… I'm sure it will give our humble institution the publicity you're such a proponent of. Perhaps I'll even be the lucky one to have you for a patient."
"No!" The shout tore the pristine hush.
"Please, Mike. You'll wake the inmates with these hysterics. And since they shall soon be your peers and they are known to develop and hold grudges rather easily, I advise you to keep the extraneous noise to a minimum. Besides, this is far more painful for me than it is for you."
He thought of Ian Worth. He saw a knife. He heard the cries for help. He felt the cold wet earth, spinning obliviously beneath him. He saw childhood dying on a warm spring night.
"Yes," he said to himself over Laramie's swelling cries, "Far more painful indeed."
Author's Note
Argh, writing this at midnight on the deserted bottom story of my creaky old house was not exactly fun. I kept jumping and shivering like a complete ninny. But I suppose I really must start holding up to my readers' expectations. I did select 'Horror' as a genre for this and it's 'Horror' I shall try to give.
ACleverName – Yes, the reviews are quite fun to read through. My readers are sooo lovable. (hands out warm cookies and mugs of cocoa)
Arisa Mieko – Heh, you were one of the few to notice that Crane is finally calling Darcy by her first name like an—ordinary—human—being! YAY! (dances giddily, then notices everyone is staring) You're welcome to, er, join in the happy dance, by the way…
Dot – Maniacal spiel is a beautiful, underrated thing. :-)
Dr. E. Vance – You are definitely as good if not better than me. You even picked up on my chapter mix- up error! And I didn't even think of being Crane for Halloween. That's so unbelievably cool.
Eccentric Banshee – No kidding; my little brother just bought the Nimrod album. He's ten years old and this is his first CD. So cute. Isn't he, Jonathan?
Jonathan: He's noisy, I'll give him that.
Me: Well, little brothers are like that.
Jonathan: I wouldn't know. I was an only child. (returns to reading what appears to be a copy of The Importance of Being Earnest; there are a few beats of silence before he chuckles to himself)
Me: Did I just hear you laugh?
Jonathan: Er, no. No. I never laugh. It's a physical impossibility. You see, I have a special sort of a larynx which prohibits laughter or even miscellaneous giggles, guffaws, or, um—
Me: (increasingly suspicious) Are you really reading Oscar Wilde?
Jonathan: Of course! Why would I not be? It's recommended reading—
Me: I see. (creeps up silently behind Crane's massive armchair and snatches book away with practiced elder-sister ease; rips off fake Earnest cover, revealing a treasury of works by Edgar Allen Poe) Aha! So you were reading Poe! I knew that this copy of The Importance of Being Earnest looked unusually thick!
Jonathan: (uncomfortable) So?
Me: (triumphant) You were supposed to be reading happy stuff, like Banshee and I told you to!
Jonathan: (reasonable, regaining composure) But you forget that, in your twisted and utterly frivolous tale, my character is purportedly a troubled and tormented soul. To achieve the depths of complete depravity achieved by your vision of me—which is completely blown out of proportion, might I add—I must immerse myself in such dark poetry and prose at all hours of the day and night.
Me: (won over) Point. (realizes she's been hoodwinked) But—no! You're supposed to be reading good stuff! Here's your punishment. (hands him copy of Pride and Prejudice, he recoils as if it is made of poison) Read this after you finish The Importance of Being Earnest—the real one. (turns back to Eccentric Banshee) Yum! Grapefruit! I love it. And the Long Review Award goes to you (yet again, I believe) this week, by the way.
hornofgondor2 – Join the pathetic weepy filmgoers' club. :-D
Jonathansgirl18 – Yay! I got my splinter out! All is well. There, there, Harry. I'm sorry you were born with overactive hormones.
Harry: (sobs wordlessly and runs to cry in the corner)
Ugh. There is no talking to that boy.
Karina of Darkness – Um, yes. I think I achieved your wishes. :-D
Melismata Maiden – J'aime e.e. cummings and Rimbaud. I haven't read anything of yours yet, which is terrible of me, but I love your profile. It's quite humorous!
PhoenixFlame6 – Wow, thanks. And as for that tantalizing 'swan bed' image…don't give me ideas. ;-)
Valse De La Luna – Glad that you think Crane's still clinging to his character. (whew) I was worried for quite some time that he was gradually losing it, as most evil characters do in my hands…
VampireNaomi – Hmmm…you'll see how Darcy reacts to Crane's evil very soon. As in 'next-chapter' soon. :-)
Y'all go out and buy Batman on DVD this Tuesday! In my heart, I'm paying for each and every one of them…
Chapter 12…hmm, what to say. Let's just leave it at this: we learn why one should never ever reenter an insane asylum right before closing time.
Hugs, kisses, and general affection,
Blodeuedd