PSYCHO! Chapter 3: TWO, a batman begins/dark knight fanfic

THE GOOD DOCTOR

"dissociative amnesia"

(bruce wayne)

HE LAUGHED AT A JOKE that wasn't funny, out of courtesy —he tried to convince himself— but the truth was he laughed exactly because the joke wasn't funny, because the joke wasn't a joke but an statement —so tragic and yet so pathetic the only thing one could do was laugh.

As he was now, as she was.

Sara was wearing a red dress and she had had her nails done recently, he would have not noticed if not for the feeling of her nails scratching the back of his neck while kissing him. Now, in the public eye, they simply smiled and talked as if they were friends —and not almost lovers.

The restaurant was Sara's favourite —that's why he had chosen it— and the food was exquisite. They had just finished dessert, tartelettes au chocolat. When the bill arrived she slightly moved it towards him which made Bruce smirk. "I didn't know I was paying for lunch."

He had been spending much more time than usual with Sara— he had his night activities and the memory of Rachel still casted a shadow over his soul, but Sara was always understanding and he liked her. He really did. But sadly that was not the only reason why Bruce was spending so much time with her —he knew there was something off about her and he wanted to know what it was.

Sara drank what was left of white wine in her glass and teased him with a smile. "Well, after all you're the millionaire."

"Billionaire, actually." He corrected and she chuckled.

He payed the bill and they left together. The streets were drowned in dirt and police sirens and gunshots were the background music of that dreadful sight —Gotham was not a good place to live in, but it surely was a good place to die.

That's why Sara stayed, that's why everyone stayed.

"Susan? -Is that you?" They both stopped their tracks as when a stranger came closer to them, he flustered when he recalled his night with Sara and smiled sheepishly —Bruce left them space— They were not exclusive so he could have his fun with Selina and Sara with whoever she had chosen for the night, but now Sara was regretting having chosen that guy of all people, whenever she was uncomfortable she moved closer to Bruce, exactly as she was now. "I wanted to call you but I don't have your number, maybe we could hang out someti-"

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else -I'm not Susan." And technically she was not lying.

It had been two weeks since that one-night-stand but the stranger carrying a Starbucks coffee with the letter A badly written remembered perfectly her face, and the fact that she denied being the one he had fucked, annoyed him —making him rude. "Don't lie, you- I know it was you, I know it."

What a pig.

Bruce had kept his distance to see how Sara would react, just in case. But when the stranger grabbed her arm he stepped in forcing the stranger to let her go.

"The lady here said she's not who you think she is, let her be." Bruce said in a polite tone that was more like a warning, his voice was deep and there was an anger buried in his soul threatening to come out.

"Back off! This is none of your business." He hissed. "Why are you saying that Susan? -I'm a nice guy."

Then it happened.

A couple was walked besides them but the only thing Sara could see was the Golden Retriever they had —Sara stopped thinking, she stopped breathing and tried not to scream.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

"Sara? Sara are you alright?" Bruce asked worried but she could not answer, her neck was tight and words were abstract. He had seen her affected by a dog's presence before but not like that, she usually flinched or tried to maintain a distance but now she was having a panic attack.

bruce knew she was terrified of dogs— and it was not simply fear. Fear can be persuaded or rationalised, but a phobia cannot be discussed or cured because it is not as rational. Sara knew the Golden Retriever who moved its tale happily was most likely a good boy, but the only thing she could see was its sharp teeth and the possibility —even if it was small— that the dog attacked her.

Kill the dog before he kills you.

Once you see something as dangerous you cannot simply pretend it is not.

"What's wrong with her?" Asked the stranger.

"Leave. Now." Bruce ordered. He focused on Sara; She was hyperventilating, her eyes had darkened and her mind was imprisoned in a dark basement —A childhood memory it would be better to bury— Bruce held her face forcing her to stop looking at the dog. "Look at me Sara, Look at me. You're alright -you're safe. Nothing is going to hurt you, you're safe."

It took her a couple of minutes to calm down, minutes in which she stared at Bruce's brown eyes with fascination. It was then when Sara realised Bruce was the only thing she didn't hate about her life —quite the opposite— She hated her job, Gotham, Amazon, Ikea, her Slap Chop and her dead plastic plants. She hated everything except him, she could never hate him. "Thank you, Bruce. I'm sorry-"

THE GOOD DOCTOR

"dissociative amnesia"

(bruce wayne)

As he was now, as she was.

Sara drank what was left of white wine in her glass and teased him with a smile. "Well, after all you're the millionaire."

"Billionaire, actually." He corrected and she chuckled.

That's why Sara stayed, that's why everyone stayed.

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else -I'm not Susan." And technically she was not lying.

What a pig.

Bruce had kept his distance to see how Sara would react, just in case. But when the stranger grabbed her arm he stepped in forcing the stranger to let her go.

"Back off! This is none of your business." He hissed. "Why are you saying that Susan? -I'm a nice guy."

Then it happened.

A couple was walked besides them but the only thing Sara could see was the Golden Retriever they had —Sara stopped thinking, she stopped breathing and tried not to scream.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

Kill the dog before he kills you.

Once you see something as dangerous you cannot simply pretend it is not.

"What's wrong with her?" Asked the stranger.

Bruce stroked her cheek affectingly. He cared about her more than he dared to show, —Sara was falling for him— and unluckily he felt the same about her. Bruce didn't want to hurt her, he didn't want her to end up like Rachel but he couldn't help himself.

He would have told her the truth —abouth who he truly was— but he knew it was not the right time to say it out loud so he bit his tongue and kissed her forehead.

"Don't apologize, you've done nothing wrong." He was worried, when Sara had gotten her dog her panic attacks around those animals had been very few but since the Scarecrow incident every dog terrified her —every dog was a threat, every dog was dangerous. "Have you thought about what I told you?"

"Yes, Bruce, and I won't go to therapy again -not now, not ever." They kept walking and at some point Bruce put his coat over her shoulders, it wasn't freezing outside but she was still shaking because of the fear and Bruce had no idea of what else to do to make her feel better. Her next statement was a lie, and they both knew it. "I'm fine, I'm totally fine -I don't need help."

"Just do it for me, Sara. I will feel better knowing at least you tried therapy." He had those sad devastating puppy eyes no-one else knew how to do —the peaks of being an orphan.

"Fiiine. I'll go to ONE session, I don't promise you more." She held his coat closer trying to find comfort in it in a gesture Bruce found cute —it had whatever far too expensive cologne he had chosen for their date and she seemed to love the smell. "But you've to pay a price- you're coat, it's mine now.

"I wouldn't want it any other way." He said with a smile before kissing her sweetly.

The ride to her apartment was short and quiet —but not the uncomfortable type— they both enjoyed the silence. Bruce was tempted to ask her about Friedrich Hund but in the end he decided it was not the time or the place to do so —and also, it was just a matter without importance, maybe she had read somewhere Hund's family was originally from Germany and decided to pronounce it the right way.

Yes, that was probably it.

But he needed to ask something, he had to be sure. Sara was one of the few people he genuinely cared about and trusted, even if he had not told her everything about himself. He had already lost Dent to madness, he wanted be sure —without any kind of doubt— that Sara Laughterfield was on his side.

"Why did you attack the Scarecrow?" The question ledt his lips before he could stop it, the answer itself was simple —because she was under the effect of the drug— but what he wanted to know was why it had been him and not the dogs or the other victims.

Bruce looked at her conflicted eyes, her fingers were still touching his. When he let go Sara answered him. "Because he was a bad dog."

ii.

(sara laughterfield)

ONLY TWELVE MINUTES into the therapy session with Jane Decker and Sara already wanted to kill her.

She didn't, obviously —but she wanted to.

All that Chakra healing and guided meditation shit made her want to try her Slap Chop on Jane's face, but it was only a temporary feeling. Then, Jane smiled at her kindly and asked her about her week with honest concern —she was passionate about her job and that made her worry about her patients— she often rambled because of an hyperactivity disorder she had, Jane was against medication (something Sara was thankful for) therefore she couldn't control her nervous tic. When she shook her leg anxiously Jane reminded her of a rabbit —and she honestly kinda looked like one: teeth too long and eyes too wide to be pretty.

She had the frown of a prey who had just noticed its hunter —maybe that's why Sara liked her.

"This dog fear of yours the Scarecrow has intensified, do you remember when it started?" Jane murmured with her high pitched voice.

She cleaned unnecessarily her glasses because she thought the gesture made her look more professional. Her eyes were brown and her hair was blond, dyed. She had a circle shaped face and the blouse she was wearing matched one of the paintings hanging on the walls —some abstract shit that looked like vomit.

Doctor Decker had been her therapist for a couple of years now although Sara stopped going to their sessions after the Scarecrow incident. Sara sighed before answering. "You know perfectly I don't remember anything from that time..."

There was a void inside her mind, from 1992 to 2000, eight years of emptiness.

She didn't know exactly how she ended up in New York of all places, nor how she had survived alone during those eight years. —Sara had been a ghost— not a person, just an spectre of what she used to be.

The exact moment in which she had suddenly gained conscience of herself and her surroundings once again had been just before almost committing suicide.

Funny, right?

She had been on a rooftop, in front of her a breathtaking view and an inevitable death below her feet. But instead of jumping she had admired her surroundings noticing she was no longer in Gotham. The last day she could recall perfectly was when she had been twelve, and suddenly she had been nineteen on that rooftop.

After a deep study Jane had diagnosed her with Dissociative Amnesia after an unspecified traumatic experience —although she believed said experience to be associated with dogs.

The therapist often suggested Yoga or meditation or even essential oils to try to unbury all the memories from those eight years but Sara never acted upon her suggestions. It was not because she though them to be useless but because she knew they might work, and she truly didn't want to know what had happened to her.

Yes, she wanted to see what hid behind her perfect mask but she was also terrified of what could be found underneath.

Those memories were like a big box dripping blood in the middle of her living room, she knew one day she would have to open the box and see what was inside —but she also knew she wouldn't like what she would find.

"Sara? -Sara are you feeling well?" Jane asked worried.

"Mh? Ehm... Yes, I- I'm just tired." That was her answer.

"Are you having dissociative episodes again? You told me you haven't had one of those since you came back to Gotham." They both knew the Scarecrow was to blame for her currently delicate mental stability —he had slightly opened that box covered in blood and now Sara couldn't pretend anymore it didn't exist. "Look, Sara- I think it's time for you to come face-to-face with those traumatic experience you want to keep buried. I understand it's scary but the Scarecrow incident has clearly triggered that trauma."

Sara looked at anything but Jane. There were two paintings a poster and the picture of Jane's graduation from med school there. The poster had a cat with exaggerated big eyes that were almost disturbing and stars everywhere with the words BE POSITIVE written. Sara hated it even more than the vomit painting. "Uh- No. I don't want- I don't need to know what happened. I just- I don't want to know. Look, I'm afraid of dogs, alright? Just that, it's no big deal. Remembering what happened during those years will not help me deal my fears."

"Not with that attitude." Jane said.

Sara stared at her —she was feeling attacked by her words and that made her angry— maybe Mr Pig wasn't as bad after all, Miss rabbit-face there seemed not to know when to shut her mouth. "I'm sensing a lot of gray energy coming from you and that can be fixed -It will help you with your fears Sara."

There was a pencil right next to Jane, Sara could stab her with it —maybe that would shut her up. "Alright, fine, whatever. You're the good doctor here."

"Great." She fixed her glasses once again and grabbed a notepad. "Let's talk about your childhood. How would you describe it?"

She focused on the deformed cat poster while talking. "I don't- It's kind of blurry. I remember my brother being four years younger than me although I don't remember his name -to be honest I'm not even sure he had a name at all."

"Everybody has a name, Sara." Jane commented and Sara had to hold back her tongue.

Not everyone had a name —not in her household at least.

Her father —who Sara never ever called 'dad' or even 'father' since he found it disrespectful— had believed names to be stupid; he had a nickname and that was what people called him. But nicknames had to be earned and in his opinion neither Sara nor her small brother had done anything to earn the luxury of having an identity —Therefore, they had no names.

She had chosen her name when she was nineteen in that rooftop —Sara Laughterfield— and since then that had been her identity, she had at least earned that.

"Let's try to find the core of your traumatic experience, focus on what's the last thing from your childhood that you remember." Jane had already written some things down about her posture and the way she expressed herself, a shadow casted upon her eyes whenever her family or childhood were mentioned.

She tried not to lose herself to the demons from her past— her mind was a burning house and madness was the emergency exit. She could either stay and try to extinguish the fire or run away towards insanity, she stayed; her dog still needed to be fed and she had to water her plastic plants again.

She cleared her throat. "My brother, the last thing I remember is my brother's death. After that everything is blank."

"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss." There was a hint of regret in her voice but Sara wasn't affected by the mention of the kid's death, she just didn't like talking about him. Jane smiled apologetic. "At least we are actually making progress, such a tragic event is probably the center of your tra- wait a minute. Did you just say you remember it?"

"Uh, yes. It is the last day of my life I remember before the eight years gap, I was devastated." She remembered it perfectly, it was something so terrible it became unforgettable.

"If you remember it then it is not the cause of your trauma, something else must have happened afterwards, something even more terrible than what happened to your brother..." Jane was writting everything down while Sara wanted to poke, she felt dizzy and it was hard to maintain focus. She didn't want to keep talking about it, she didn't want to remember what had happened in the basement.

The basement —that was the dog's cave.

No, no, no. Don't think about it.

Their father had warned them, he had told them that was the dog's cave —where he brought its preys to slaughter them— but their father had left them alone long enough for them to forget his warnings. Her brother had been nowhere to be found, she had looked for him everywhere —except the basement.

She had grabbed a flashlight and walked down the stairs slowly, terrified. She had smelled the blood and seen the dismembered body—oh, God, no.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

iii.

(jonathan crane)

THERE WAS A SONG on the radio, soft but the voice echoed through the building, cracked walls and dirty floors —insanity could be breathed in that place—. The woman with the radio on, black skinned with messy hair, was the only one at the reception near the grey room where they had sat him down, she was singing badly. Sweet Dreams (are made of this), the original. He could hear her even through the slightly sound isolated walls and he wanted to make her shut up —If it wasn't for his straight jacket he would have already done so.

He didn't know why he was there, wether it was Doctor Strange wanting to try another kind of electroshock or Doctor Quinzel eager to discuss some of his work —an odd one she was— but the guard outside the door confirmed it was neither. "You have a visit, Crane."

He would have expected anyone to come through that door —anyone except her. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you Doctor Crane."

Subject 7OT4662. With a beautiful expensive suit and a small purse at her side, her hair was up. He analyzed her carefully, without the fear provoked by his drug Sara did not seem much of a threat —she was even polite with him— but it was specifically that politeness what made him tense on his seat.

She should be terrified, she should fear him like the others subject —why didn't she?

Sara was smiling— and there was something unsetting in seeing someone he had psychologically tortured smile at him.

He could feel her eyes on him: he was thinner than before and her bite-marks could be seen over his neck, his hair was greasier and he looked insane —he knew he was but the voice inside his head confirmed it— Sara made no comments about his appearance, she sat down in front of him and thought about the words she was going to say at least three times before actually saying them out loud. "You must be wondering what am I doing here. Well, uhm- the thing is- I've got some questions and I think you're the only one who can help me answer them."

The room was small, dirty and it smelled like blood and urine, there was a table and two chairs one at each side —Sara on the left, him on the right.

Sara was nervous, he could see as much. He remained quiet for a couple more minutes thinking about his options noticing Sara's choice to visit him had been meticulously meditated. "Why would we help you?"

The pronoun used made her notice she didn't only had to convince Doctor Crane but also the lurking beast living inside his head. In his eyes there was eagerness for blood —how charming.

"Because you seem like the perfectionist type and I am an anomaly in your little... experiment. You want to know why the drug didn't work on me, so do I." There was no hesitation in her voice.

He wanted to kill her but that would come later, now he wanted to dissect her brain. "Very well then, when do we start?"

"Now. I- My therapist, Doctor Jane Decker -you might know her-, has a theory on why the toxin made me violent towards you." She started explaining and he listened— if he closed his eyes he could picture himself back in his office, with a notepad and a pen on his hands and a cup of white tea next to him. Those had been the times when he was a psychiatrist, before insanity took the best of him. "And I- you already know I have a dog phobia obviously but the thing is I'm diagnosed with Dissociative Amnesia."

His curiosity was what kept him from trying to attack Sara or insulting her. She was right, he was too perfectionist to not take advantage of this opportunity. "Dissociative Amnesia... How long is the period of time of missing memories?"

"Eight years" She explained what she had discussed that very same day with Jane. Eight years was a long time —he wished he could be free of the straight jacket to have freedom to write down everything Sara was telling him to contrast it with his previously written notes.

"Then, if your current therapist has been doing their job well they must know the traumatic experience which caused the amnesia was probably also the one that caused the unusual behaviour under the effects of my new toxin." He explained like the professor he once had been.

"Yes- and I get it, it makes sense. But I don't understand why I am afraid of dogs, I can't recall any traumatic experience involving them." Her nervousness didn't make her any less intimidating, she had studied Law and for such career a strong characters was needed. A sharp-mind isn't something people are born with, it need to be sharpened and for that you need to find yourself in a situation where you're helpless enough to turn your mind into a weapon. "I can tell you for sure there something that doesn't make sense about my fear of dogs."

"You did allude to a dog during the experiment, also talked about a child. You mentioned killing the dog." Her eyes went wild and she stopped breathing for a brief second, as if she had just noticed something terrible.

"That... The kid, that is a memory from my childhood I remember perfectly. It is not- It cannot be, It doesn't make sense." There was a hint of fear in her voice he was delighted to hear —music to his ears— but there was something else, he had worked long enough on Arkham to notice when someone is on the edge between sanity and madness and Sara Laughterfield was walking like a drunk clown on that edge —it was only a matter of time before she fell.

"What doesn't make any sense?" He asked wetting his lips with his tongue —her answer was fascinating.

Sara glanced at his icy blue eyes which made him see the exact moment in which her pretty mask started to crack. "I remember seeing kid die, I could never forget it, but- there was no dog there. We never had a dog."

AUTHOR'S NOTE— (hi, I hope you liked this chapter. I only did one year of psychology in highschool so I don't really know much about it, according to Google Dissociative Amnesia happens after a traumatic experience and it is a defense mechanism to protect you from said experience. If her brother's death had been the origin od the trauma she wouldn't remember it, therefore, it isn't. In the next chapter Jason Todd will appear, maybe the Joker too)