"Hello? Cassandra, are you still there? Oh god... hello?!"
Steeling my resolve, I called out to whoever was on the other side of the door. "W-who is it?"
"Gotham Police Department, open up!"
My sigh of relief was loud enough to wake the entire apartment and I laughed to myself. Maybe I fancied my patient, but he certainly didn't even care about me—he'd broken out of the asylum and was probably long gone by now. If he were bent on contacting me, I reasoned, he'd have done it already.
"Cassandra? Oh please answer... My god. Who's there with you?"
I reached for the receiver and took a deep breath. "Dr. Hirsch-"
"Oh thank god! Are you alright, are you safe? And call me Nancy, please."
"Yes, I'm fine. There are police officers outside my door right now so I've got to go. I'll talk to you again as soon as I can, D-Nancy," I said.
"But Cass-"
"Really, Nancy, everything's fine," I assured her as more pounding came at the door. "I really need to go now, I'll call you once everything's in order. Bye." Before I could be guilted into a longer conversation, I clicked the end call button and set the phone in its cradle. I knew I'd hear the riot act later when we talked again, and all because I'd hung up on her when I was in supposed danger. But the odds of Waylon Jones showing up on my doorstep were nearly non-existent. If he'd really gotten free of the asylum he wouldn't be stupid enough to do something predictable that resulted in his recapture. At least I hoped.
"Gotham PD, open the door or we will!"
"Just a second!" I called as I made my way through the kitchen and over to the door. I sort of wondered why they were at my apartment in the first place. Dr. Hirsch—Nancy—told me I needed to head over to the asylum, but if they had called the cops to my apartment then that wouldn't be necessary... Especially since Jones had stolen my file. The file which had all of my contact information, including my home address; if it wasn't in Dr. Hirschs' possession then the officials at the asylum wouldn't know where to send the police even if they'd given them a call. Which meant anyone could be on the other side of the door.
As I neared the door I was shaking like a leaf, standing on my tip-toes to see out of the peep hole. Just as I went for to look out, my phone rang. I stepped back from the door with second thoughts to pick it up, but decided to let the call run over onto my answering machine. With a final ring, the machine beeped and Nancy's panic-stricken voice filled my apartment.
"Cassandra? Cassandra? Pick up! No one called the police to your address, don't open the door!"
"That bitch needs to keep her fucking mouth shut." I instantly froze in terror as I recognized the voice on the other side of the door. Waylon Jones. I double-checked the peep hole to verify his presence, screamed, and ran towards my living room to hide behind the couch. "Open the fucking door!" He bellowed from the hallway outside.
As scared as I was, I found comfort in the fact that other tenants of the building would hear Jones and call the police. Or security would hear the raucous and head up here to remedy the disturbance. Or maybe Jones had killed all the other people on my floor so no one could hear my screams as he tore me limb from limb. This was not happening. Something wasn't right. How did he get past security?
Jones was snarling on the other side of my front door and he continued to pound his fists in anger, the wood bending and snapping. As it gave way and the hall light flooded the room I stilled my movements hoping he wouldn't see me. My breathing came in quick, ragged sobs as they were muffled by my shirt sleeve. He stood in the door frame, breathing heavily, his blazing eyes fixed directly on me.
Faster than I could have anticipated, Waylon dodged across the room towards me and-
Screaming, someone was screaming. I shook awake and jumped straight out of my bed, frantically searching my apartment for intruders. I stood in a hunched position completely braced for attack and I was breathing so hard it was the only sound I could hear—I had been the one screaming. The obvious sounds of the city slowly brought me back to reality and I took several deep breaths. As I looked at the clock I discerned that it was seven in the morning.
Had it all been a dream? Cautiously, I searched my apartment for any signs of a break-in or struggle; there weren't any. All the rugs were in place, there were no claw marks on the floor boards, and the front door was in one piece. I frowned and looked down at myself—I was wearing my work clothes from yesterday.
"A dream," I sighed and sat on my bed to regain my breath. "My god Cassandra, what mess have you gotten yourself into? You should request a transfer to a more harmless patient," I mused, reviewing my options. "Just get through the day; you'll be alright." I realized I was talking to myself and got up to get ready, completely frustrated with myself.
"Where should we begin today, Mr. Jones?" I asked from across the room. He had been in the room no more than five minutes and I was already squirming in my chair and breaking out in cold sweats under his scrutiny.
"What the fuck is your problem?" He asked as I fidgeted with the hem of my skirt for the tenth time.
"Excuse me?" I stared at him, wide-eyed.
He rolled his eyes, "If you have better things to do, then go fucking do them. I don't even wanna sit through this shit in the first place."
"This 'shit' is necessary for your rehabilitation," I explained as I regarded Dr. Hirsch. She seemed in well enough sorts, which meant that the patient had obviously not broken out of the asylum. And both Ramirez and Smith stood watch outside the office; further proof that whatever I thought happened last night was merely a dream. "So, shall we start with why you were helping Mr. Cobblepot? What made you choose to spend your time as his hired muscle?"
"If you're interrogating me I want a fucking lawyer."
Of course, I didn't expect a straight answer and nor did I receive one. It wasn't as annoying this time around because I suspected he would be tight-lipped but that didn't really mean I was happy with the result. Bitterly, I wondered if that was his charming sarcasm surfacing again. For certain it was a tiring ordeal and I imagined that might have been Jones' game. The less he said, his doctors would lose patience with him, and the more he would be left alone. I had some unorthodox options left to choose from and I knew that with Waylon Jones one had to be unorthodox or they weren't going to get anywhere.
When he continued to remain silent, I tried a different, more direct approach. "Who was it? Your mother, your father, an older brother? Who beat you when you were younger?"
"The fuck?" His attention snapped right to my questions and he glared at me with such anger, unlike any look I had ever seen in his eyes. "Drop the subject," he warned in a low voice dripping with poison.
"So that's where it all began, early childhood abuse? Physical or verbal?" I took down a few brief notations in his file to provoke him further.
"Shut up."
"I will once you start to open up."
"Want to know how I'm feeling? I feel like squeezing the air out of your fucking lungs. I want to crush the life out of you and smile while I do it. I feel like eating you alive."
"Every time we meet you bring up the subject of killing me. Why? Are you trying to scare me?"
"I shouldn't have to try, if you even knew what was good for you, bitch, you'd watch your fucking mouth," he said, his voice still dangerous and low.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "Does this kind of thing make you happy?"
"You wouldn't understand, you don't give a shit."
"I don't? I would think that returning here every day to pester you would make you think otherwise but I must be mistaken. And of course I don't understand, you won't explain anything."
Just what the fuck did this bitch think she was doing? Her stubbornness pissed me off each and every time I came into this stupid office for another one of her interrogations. I didn't want to bring up my fucking past because I didn't care about it and, shit, it was over and done with. What was even more infuriating was the fact that it didn't matter whether I stared murder into her god damned ignorant face, she still fucking went at it.
"Fine, what about before you went to work for Mr. Cobblepot? What were you doing with your time then? You were flying a bit under the radar it seems because you hadn't been sighted for extended periods of time," she busied herself with my file again, but looked at me with interest and... disgust? Fucking figures.
"Murdering people, eating them. Moving contraband through the sewers," I said and glared at Harker. She was staring at me, the bitch always did, but today she didn't let up for even a second. "Take a fucking picture, it'll last longer."
"And did those illegal activities make you feel good? Did you obtain some kind of high, an adrenaline rush per se?" She didn't say anything about my taunt but she didn't stop staring.
"Yeah, I enjoyed it a lot. You'll never fucking understand what its like to rip someone to shreds," I smiled and leaned back in my chair.
"That's disgusting," she said, curling her precious little lip. Fucking bitch. "And cannibalism, do you enjoy that too?"
"Its not cannibalism. I'm not like you," I growled, offended. Yeah, I fucking knew I was different but that didn't mean I needed a comparison.
"Have you had this condition all your life?"
"That's a stupid fucking question. Of course I have, I was born with it. So, no, I've never been normal," I said with a sneer.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and cleared her throat. "Normal is a point of view. As far as my opinion of it? I think you're as normal as they come."
Before my eyes bugged out of their sockets I bridled my surprise with my anger. "You're not very good at lying, doc." I knew she was messing with me, just like yesterday when she paraded down the hallway the way she did. Her blouse was low cut today and it might have been modest, or what the fuck ever, but she was still showing some tit. And the flowery scent of her perfume was so strong it was the only thing I could smell in this hell hole.
I turned to look out the window and stared across the bay at the faint city lights of Arkham City and wished I was there. I was wasting away in this fucking asylum and no one cared. I wasn't sure I even did. As I looked at the more prominent searchlights coming from Gotham City, I noticed that Harker kept stealing glances at me while I wasn't looking. She was acting like some kind of school girl with a crush-. Fuck. That.
"Do you have anything else to say to me, or are we fucking done here?" I looked back at her and she blushed.
"I-uh," she cleared her throat, "You have somewhere better to be?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Not here."
She huffed and rolled her eyes, "Are you avoiding the real questions here, Mr. Jones, or are you just afraid?"
The fuck? I growled at her and toyed with the idea of jumping the hell out of my chair and breaking her damn neck. She looked back at me with a half smile and went back to jotting down some stupid notes. "I'm angry."
"Really?" She asked, raising her brows. "Why?"
"Why the fuck do you think?" It might've been a good god damned thing that those shitheads had the remote to my collar because I was pretty damn close to eating somebody.
"Mr. Jones, I know you don't feel like talking," her voice was soft and soothing, "but it'll help you deal with your anger-"
"And how the hell would you know? You have no fucking clue what my life is like. You think that just sitting here and bitching about my problems will take the edge off? You're deluded." I sat still in the chair and stared harshly at Harker, surveying her actions. I was breathing heavily from my outbursts and my breath pounded out of my nose with each exhale.
"I'm only here to help you Mr. Jones. I'm not interested in fighting with you on a daily basis," she let out a defeated sigh and she slumped in her chair. She looked exhausted. Good, served her fucking right. "Every morning I read your file and do you know what? There's a statement here written by your previous doctor that says you claimed you hate humanity. All I'm doing here is trying to figure out why." She threw my file on her desk with disinterest and looked out the window.
"Why do you care?"
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."
I would swear that as I voiced my retort, a brief flash of remorse passed over Mr. Jones' face. But that was crazy, right?
"I don't feel like talking about it. Ever."
"I imagine you wouldn't. Let me be completely honest here for a change, okay?" Even though I was asking his permission he made no attempt to acknowledge my request. I wasn't sure if he was just being dense or an asshole. "What's so bad about talking? I know I've asked you before but what could it hurt?"
"Me."
Shock—complete, unadulterated shock—washed over me and I was left momentarily speechless. All along I thought he was avoiding my questions because he deemed it no one's business but his own. Although it seemed hugely unprofessional of me, I had chosen to overlook the fact that his past was actually painful enough to still hurt him. It was stupid of me, and I regretted it.
I glanced at Nancy and she nodded eagerly for me to continue.
"We can take it easy, Mr. Jones, when you're ready," my voice was a soft whisper. He regarded me with a calm stare, his eyes vibrant with curiosity yet alert with predatory calculation.
"Don't hold your breath," he said, his eyes smiling at me.
I glanced at the clock and sighed. The session was over and I hadn't made much progress today; I wasn't even sure that I ever would. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones." I clicked the call button for Ramirez and Smith as I tried to clear my head of the rushing thoughts. He was tough and just as stubborn as all of the notes in his file said he was, perhaps even more so.
When Waylon was escorted from the office and well on his way down the hall, I glanced at Nancy and sighed, "He's tough to crack."
She laughed. "You really don't even know the half of it. I'm surprised though, you're making more progress than anyone else in this facility has. You should be proud."
"Strangely, I'm not. I feel as if the interviews are nothing more than a verbal fight. Every time I feel like I've made headway, he comes right back with a scathing reply and I'm left wondering what I'm doing here," I pinched the bridge of my nose and sat back in the chair.
"I've worked here for twenty years, and I think of myself as someone whose opinion matters a great deal. Cassandra," the use of my name got my attention and I looked up, "your methods are yielding results—small results, but result nonetheless. I know you're stressed because it doesn't take long for new doctors to feel the exhaustion of the job. Its lunchtime," she said in an attempt to change the subject, "so why don't you head down to the cafe and get something to eat?"
Her advice was logical, it made more than enough sense, but I wasn't willing to accept it. I wasn't stressed out or feeling any type of pressure—I was just bad at my job. Or Jones was resilient enough to last longer than myself. Whatever the case, I nodded at Nancy, "I suppose you're right." She smiled at me as I got up from the chair and grabbed my purse.
I was in a slightly better mood as I took the elevator down to the lobby. After all, I was done with Jones until tomorrow afternoon and the other patients I had scheduled for today were lively and talkative. I doubted the sessions would be a drag due to the fact that I wouldn't have to try too hard to get them to open up. It wouldn't be a taxing, exhausting drive just to get them to describe how they spent their afternoons as children.
As I entered the cafeteria, the smile that had previously adorned my face instantly vanished. This wasn't happening.
"No scuffles this time, shit head," Ramirez said as he jabbed my spine with his rifle. I stayed quiet and contented myself with imaging his disembowelment rather than the much-preferred reality of it. The walks back to the sewers were always the longest because I dreaded the confinement of being locked in that pit. Sometimes I wished the collar would just short out when I went under water.
"Yeah, you don't have your tight little doctor to keep us from beating your ugly mug," Smith chimed in, and they both shared a laugh. He kept it up, and I was going to blow a fucking gasket. I growled low in my chest, warning him.
"Oh, did we hit a nerve?" Ramirez chuckled again. "Fucker has feelings, Smith. Who'da thought?"
Smith whistled, "Not me, you?"
"Fuck no. But I bet that piece of ass doc of his knew," as Ramirez leered, I contemplated ripping his face off.
"Hirsch? That's nasty, Jay," Smith whistled again.
"No you numbskull, Harker, the young one. Man she's got a great rack."
"God, I know. If I had that in bed next to me every night, I'd never get any sleep."
As the two broke into a fight of laughter they barely noticed that I had stopped walking. The shorter one, Ramirez, collided with my back and instantly pointed his gun against the back of my skull. "Did we tell you to stop walking?"
"You didn't tell me to keep walking either," I kept my voice at a low growl and hoped to fuck shit-for-brains got the message before I had to eat his friend for measure.
"Ouch, he got you, Jay," Smith said, whistling again.
It might have been true that Smith had lucked out in the good-looks department, but he was one dumb motherfucker. And I was glad that I had him cornered for that simple fact alone. While Ramirez busied himself with scolding his partner, Smith walked around to stand in front of me. I looked down at him and waited for the right moment.
"Shut up, Ethan. Croc, I'm not going to play your stupid games. Keep walking," he ground the barrel into the base of my skull.
Smith switched his attention from me to Ramirez and while his posture relaxed so he could look around me to talk to Ramirez, I smirked and waited.
"Aw, what the fuck Jay? Lighten up man."
"Ethan, you stupid shit, shut up!" Ramirez's rifle slowly slide to the right, until it wasn't touching my neck. Bingo.
In a surge, I braced my neck backwards and when Smith looked up at me in confusion, I rammed my skull forward and headbutted the fucker so hard he fell backwards flat on his ass. While Ramirez stared in shock and processed what happened, I took advantage of his distraction and grabbed his gun, easily snapping it in half.
"I fucking told you not to cuff my hands in front of me, Ramirez," I growled at him, advancing. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that Smith was out cold—probably suffering a severe concussion. Ramirez backed away from me, wide-eyed and shaking.
"Oh fuck," his voice came out as a tiny whimper as he pivoted and bee-lined for the security door.
"I fucking warned you. And it doesn't matter whether you run because you'll never run far enough," I bellowed after him and then took off at a run as fast as the shackles on my ankles would allow. If I had my way, Ramirez was going to die tonight. Sure as shit, I was going to rip him to pieces, like I'd promised, and then eat those pieces, like my reputation fucking promised.
Let me know what you think! :)
-Soule