Dearest Freddie,
I just want to get that crow. It's ridiculous. I don't know what it is, yet I want it. It's slipping out of my fingers right when I catch it, I swear I can feel it's feathers on my skin inside my palm.
When a bird first learns how to fly, it cannot unlearn how to fly. When a shark first smells blood, it cannot forget how it smells. I got used to killing. Before it was a necessity, then it became desperation, for you guys it was protection, and now I don't know. I don't care. Life has its undeniable gems, but there's too much cracks in them to make life worth it, especially human life.
Heath blankly stared at the canned tomato sauce, then abruptly tossed it into the cart. He wheeled over to the next section. One after another, with either short or long intervals, a bushel of apples landed next to the sauce, followed by a pack of thin-stripped spaghetti, milk carton, sausages, cucumbers, napkins, and a couple of water bottles.
"Cash," Heath curtly answered before the adolescent, acne-ridden cashier asked. The teenager quickly glanced at him. What, am I that frightening?
Heath wordlessly gave over fifty dollars, patiently waiting for his five dollar change. The teenager stuttered over the green bills, frantically counting them over. Heath silently took them and walked out of the shaggy, local drug store. The morning was glummer than usual. Heath's feet automatically turned right without even forcing him to think. Everything became automatic after he killed Lucy, that cheery bargirl. Every second was a monotonous repetition of the previous one. Then he came back home and just the simple understanding of that fact pulsed intoxicating, agonizing juice into the blood. And now the grammaphone record was going for the second round. Heath's eyes flickered right and left across the street. He was about to take a step when he heard someone call something familiar.
"Hey, Joker-guy!" Was that to me? Heath wordlessly turned around, left hand in his pocket, right clutching the grocery bag, pale red scars smiling for him. A close-to-forty-year old woman with crude features walked over to him, a heavy sports bag dragging her shoulders down. Her lips were similarly twisted in a rough grin. She was holding a cup of coffee.
"Good morning, man," the woman smirked. It took Heath awhile to remember her name. Strange, her name should've been easy to remember.
"Lena."
"Yes," Lena mockingly confirmed, bringing the cup to her lips. "Took you a while."
"I already have enough useless information to remember," Heath commented, glancing at her bag,
"If you don't mind," he didn't wait for her approval and flung her bag over his shoulder. Lena smirked.
"You're quite a gentlemen despite you're appearance."
"Habit."
Heath quickly glanced back and forth and crossed the street, Lena silently crossing with him.
"So how did you end up working for Calavera?" Heath asked, not particularly interested. Lena shrugged.
"My previous employer was murdered by him. Calavera offered me a job as a compensation.
"Compensation?" Heath bemusedly lifted his eyebrows, turning the corner.
"I'm a good one, been a good one for twenty years. Five under Falcone, three under Starkson, twelve under Calavera."
"Impressive."
Lena nodded, examining the man next to him from the corners of her eyes.
"How do you go by? You never mentioned your name."
"Neither did you," Heath smirked, eyes scanning the street signs.
"Fuck you," Lena snorted. Her eyes strangely sparked. "Very well, Mister Joker. You don't mind taking a trip to a special place of mine since you're carrying my bag?" How quick are people to take advantage.
"Sure," Heath shrugged instead. Lena shortly grinned in gratitude, before falling silent. They continued walking in silence. Lena seemed to have lost the interest in Heath, while he was lost in thought; Lena was a reviving sip, no doubt. She was still part of the four Gotham walls closing in on Heath, but instead of having the same striped design, she was covered in polka-dots.
"Stop," Lena suddenly ordered. Heath obediently halted, looking around. The crumpled leaves trembled on the crumpled asphalt unevenly placed on the crooked road. A heavy, stinging stench pressed the air with its mallet. Heath's eyes slowly traveled at the building they were standing in front of.
"You wanted to come to Arkham Asylum?" He finally asked. Lena shot him a sideways glance.
"What, you never heard of old Arkham?" She sarcastically raised her eyebrows.
"No, I just never imagined that a person like you needs rehabilitation treatments. Morality maybe, but I don't think Arkham specializes on that."
"How quick you're to judge people," Lena retorted, walking up to the door.
"Questionable," Heath hid his grin. "You gave me a name before we even spoke."
Lena made a face and showed a middle finger to him. Then, she pushed the door open, not bothering to hold it for Heath. He quietly laughed under his breath, entering sideways. A change indeed.
Heath didn't feel any temperature change between the cold street and the room they entered. It was dimly illuminated, the walls smothering the faint light. The desk behind the glass counter was devoid of any receptionist.
"And?..." Heath dared to ask. "Is this your special place?"
Lena wordlessly scanned the walls and walked up to the counter. Her hand flatly landed on the ringer bell. A timid, barely audible jingle climbed up into the air before collapsing back down. Heath's gaze glided over the room again. He sighed and, lowering his bags, sat down in one of the ragged chairs, well aware of the torn cloth on the seat. There was a sound of cracking knuckles. Lena, awkwardly standing in the center of the room, bit her lip in impatience. A door opened. Heath glanced up and accidentally cracked his thumb too hard. Johnathan quickly glanced at him before looking at Lena.
"Your name, ma'am?"
"Are you an intern?" Lena coldly inquired.
"No, I'm the doctor." There was another sickening crack, followed by a series of quick cracks.
"So...Doctor Crane?" Lena waited for Johnathan to nod. "I need to see patient 768, Chloe Wagner."
Johnathan raised his eyebrows.
"Are you her relative, ma'am?" He sarcastically asked, confident in the negative answer.
"No, doctor, I'm her guardian."
"Guardian? Of a twenty-nine year old woman?"
"Every human being needs a guardian until they're thirty-five. Before that they're capable of accidentally walking under a train."
"I wonder where yours went," Heath quietly mumbled under his breath. Lena showed him a fist behind her back. Johnathan looked far from convinced.
"Written proof?"
Lena wordlessly took out a small tube with some yellowish, clumped powder in it.
"Bufotenin. Found in South American Bufu toad. Illegal to sell, posses, or buy."
She tossed the tube to Johnathan, who nimbly caught it. For a moment, he studied it, rotating it in his hand with his thumb. Johnathan looked back up.
"Follow me," he quietly ordered. Heath suddenly shivered. Johnathan's voice lacked emotion, only weariness strongly contradicting with the frightening passion in his eyes which ignited when he saw the hallucinogen. Johnathan opened the door for them, not looking back. The hallway painfully stretched in front of them, as if being torn by the slaughterer. Metal doors caged them from both sides. Heath felt unexplained sweat slipping down the back of his hair as he listening to their echoing footsteps. Johnathan led them to an elevator and quickly inserted the key to get it started. The smell of spilled chemicals on the rug crept up Heath's throat. Heath held his thoughts to himself, instead looking around the rambling, metal box. His eyes stopped at the light on the ceiling. The glass was cracked, exposing the square lightbulb. The elevator dinged and stopped. Johnathan wordlessly walked out. Lena and Heath followed him. It was eerily quiet in the hallway. Johnathan impatiently moved a creaking roller stretcher into an open room and out of their way. Heath, passing the unlocked room, slightly decreased his pace and followed the stretcher with his eyes. It continued rolling until it softly crashed into the wall and halted. Heath felt his scars slightly twinge and hastily looked away. Johnathan stopped next to one of the doors and began unlocking it. Heath sighed and leaned against the opposite wall. Suddenly, a loud, hysterical laugh stabbed through the door. Heath abruptly jolted forwards, almost choking on his own leaping heart. The laugh penetrated other doors, provoking a piercing shrill to rang out, followed by a wild holler, abusive swearing, unstopping screams, all cacophonously tuning in with the laughter. Heath felt the sweat freeze on his neck; the laughter ate his skin like an acid, burning right through the muscles and residing in his brain, causing for his entire situation to be painfully real. Heath shared a lost glance with Lena. The woman was pale, yet managed to keep her emotions from melting down her features.
"Excuse them," Johnathan calmly said, turning the key in the lock. "Now, ma'am, how are you planning to visit your ward?"
Lena tore her glance from the atmosphere and looked at the doctor's unmoved face.
"What are you offering?" She emptily inquired. Johnathan shrugged.
"Any type of strokes, poisonings, suicides aided by smashing their brains out, starvation..."
"What are you talking about?"
Johnathan shifted his glance on Heath, but didn't say anything.
"Poisoning will do," Lena nodded, ignoring Heath as well. Johnathan shrugged again and opened the door. The contrast between the poorly lit hallway and the brightly shining ward was so strong that Heath had to squint his eyes. When his sight adjusted to the light, Heath saw a thin woman in a straitjacket and bulging, savage green eyes. The uncombed, black strands of hair covered most of her face. Her thin, crumpling lips unhurriedly stretched into a wide grin.
"Missus Lena the hyena came to writhe in her arena," she deliberately seethed, purposely mispronouncing Lena's name. Lena slowly took out a cigarette from the pocket of her pants.
"Hello Chloe," Lena cupped her hands next to her mouth and lit up the cigarette. Chloe's unrestrained eyes flickered up to the cigarette before settling back at Lena's face.
"Came here to torture me with cigarettes?" She mockingly inquired. Lena smiled, taking out another cigarette from her breast pocket and turned to Heath and Johnathan.
"Can we have a moment?"
Heath readily stood up and left the room, Johnathan following him. The door heavily closed behind them. The screams and the laughter already stopped, only a quiet whimpering still reminded them of what has happened a few minutes earlier.
"Well," Johnathan sighed. "Good to see you. Did you get the scars before you killed the woman and the man in the gun store or was that after?"
"What?" Heath startled, barely believing what was going on. "Before."
"So it was Falcone."
"Yeah."
The whimpering increased. Johnathan wordlessly walked over to one of the doors and knocked three times. The whimpering stopped. Johnathan, leaning on the door, turned back around to Heath.
"I assume you need quite a few fillers," Heath bitterly grinned, tucking his hands in his pockets.
"I don't think so. The van crashed, Falcone's men nicely wrapped you like a Christmas present, you rented an old apartment from an old man, and paid for him with the money you received from the gun shop. While doing so, you've killed a woman and a man and thus ran away. Afterwards, you make a grand comeback in the Outskirts at Hallow's Eve, freezing Jack in the morgue which I so conveniently showed you. Then, you murdered all your classmates except for one for unknown reasons and now you're here, entering my asylum with one of the most acclaimed and wanted bounty hunter of the decade."
Heath silently stared at Johnathan. Uncertainty and doubt rose in him again, as they did every single night in every single dream with every single face. Heath gritted his teeth together. I had to do it. It was right. It was right. His brain slowly sucked in these words, reluctantly allowing to be deceived. Then he began speaking, wrinkles shredding his scars into uneven wounds.
"First of all, my reasons were quite clear. I killed them because they were going to get killed anyway, except more brutally. So it makes no difference."
Johnathan raised his eyebrows. Heath defiantly glared back at him, sensing terrifying clarity touch his brain. Johnathan wasn't buying it. Neither was his brain. Think about Robbie. Think about Robbie and how they murdered him. Think about Robbie.
"What about Winnifred?" Johnathan finally asked. "That's a difference." The clarity tripped and shattered into pieces, sharply hitting the flesh.
"What about her?" Heath turned around, folding his hands behind his back. Large blue eyes. Unspeakable terror. "I kept her alive, didn't I?"
"Questionable," Johnathan snorted. "I'd say you buried her alive if anything."
Heath's lips curled into a low growl.
"I will not acquit myself in front of anyone."
"If you're trying to fool a fool or a criminal, yes. For your bad luck, Winifred is not a fool or a criminal and she will not take some doubtful protection as a reason for extinguishing human life."
"Human life is as worth-full as a cockroach inside a sparrow's intestine," Heath quietly said. "For every unprincipled pig ten pigs are born. Especially in this city. Johnathan, I never regarded humans above animals. Place a dignified man in a suit in front of a train and we'll see how far dignity will help him."
For a moment, Johnathan studied Heath's twisted, aching face. The murders were a moment of impulse, results of some emotional shock which, just for a second, wiped out all common sense, planting a parasitic idea. Like the idea of murdering everyone to protect them. Except even the idea had a weak spot.
"You didn't answer my question," Johnathan finally said. "What about Winnifred?"
Heath looked away, ashamed of the words ripping out of his rib cage.
"I thought - I didn't- I thought I'd do it. And now she's reminding me about it." Johnathan didn't say anything. He knew that Heath didn't even think about killing Winnifred. The prospect wavered above him, yes, but that's all. He would never touch her.
The door opened, and Lena walked out. Her face looked tired, yet content.
"How did it go?" Johnathan asked, still looking at Heath and lacking any form of interest.
"Not bad. In the middle of our conversation, Chloe suffered a stroke."
"From?" Johnathan specified.
"Cyanide."
Heath's eyes abruptly cut back on Lena's face. A strange emotion, something mixed with disdain and disgust, formed in his eyes.
"We'll be going," he roughly lifted up his bags which he previously lowered on the floor. Heath glanced back at Johnathan, but didn't say anything and started down the hallway. Suddenly, he turned around.
"By the way, was it Freddie who told you about...the company and all?"
"Yes," Johnathan answered after a moment of hesitation.
"Is she in Gotham?"
"No."
Heath nodded, pressing his lips together, and turned back around.
"Freddie?" Lean repeated when they walked outside. "Who's that?"
"Never mind," Heath sighed. He handed over her sports bag to her and, sliding one hand into his pocket, quickly crossed the street, lettuce poking from his grocery bag.
The stack of papers collapsed on a similar one on the floor, the documents whirling into the air. Winnifred glanced over her shoulder, not too bothered by the mixing papers, and returned her attention back to the cabinet. Heaps of folders with loads of papers in between stared at it, all compacted with books and boxes on all sides. Winnifred bit down her irritation with her teeth and pulled out another folder. It burst in her hands as soon as it squeezed out of the two atlases. At loss, Winnifred observed the waterfall of papers. She peered; something colorful was stuck between the papers. Winnifred kneeled down and took out a small joker card. It was stiff and faded. Winnifred's face softened with grief as she gazed in the jester's primitive designs.
"Missis Lewly?" Old lady Haggard swaggered into the room.
"Yes?" Winnifred turned around, eyebrows raised. She frowned, noticing her matron's worried expression.
"What is it, Mrs. Haggard?"
"Come and look for thee selves, young miss," Mrs. Haggard retorted, face unreadable.
"Where?"
"Living room, miss."
Winnifred, anxiety beginning to drill a hole in her stomach, hurriedly walked out of her room and into the living. Nothing unusual. No stain on the rug, no broken windows.
"Well?" Winnifred turned to Mrs. Haggard. "What's wrong?"
The old woman simply took the remote control from the television and increased the volume. Winnifred whirled around. Erin Koehler, the Gotham reporter, stared to her with a calm face.
"...and Billy Hardy was stabbed to death. The last of the seven campers, Winnifred Lewly, has disappeared, presumably kidnapped unless she, of course, was the murderer. Until now, her traces were unknown; however, this morning, the local police has discovered her whereabouts in Gotham City. The consequent actions…."
Winnifred slowly sat down on the couch's handle, not hearing these 'consequent actions'. She blinked, gaze falling down on the crumpled card in her hand. There was a long silence.
"What do you think of this, Mrs. Haggard?" Winnifred quietly spoke, not tearing her eyes from the card.
"I thinkses young miss should wait."
Winnifred lifted her head up, looking at the old woman. Mrs. Haggard was stern.
"Wait? For what?"
"If young misses doesn't have anything to hide, then she shall waits."
Winnifred felt the drill bump into the rock under her stomach.
"Otherwise?"
"Otherwise she shall runs."
A/N: Thank you guys so much for the reading and reviews! See you next week, Friday/Saturday like usual!