Was the room spinning? Why did the floor feel like it was sloshing around as if I were on a boat?

Groggily, I looked up from where I lie, scanning the room I was in. Maroon curtains, wooden floor, Ikea furniture, smell of roses, smoke, and alcohol. Right.

Taking a precious moment to grasp my surroundings I reached for my phone and checked the messages. A few calls from Nancy. One from Mr. Sharp. Three new voice-mails total. Sighing heavily I tossed the phone, as gently as I could, onto the coffee table. I wasn't nearly ready to deal with anything involving Arkham.

"Time to start reading the classifieds in the Gotham Globe," I mumbled as my eyes wandered over to the one empty wine bottle and the other mostly full one which had since warmed to room temperature. I hadn't even made a dent into it. But as I contemplated and scrutinized those inconsequential bottles, I couldn't help but reflect on my poor life choices.

God, what had I done.

Four days earlier...

"All things considered, Miss Harker, I think its best you went home," Warden Sharp said from behind his desk. "And stayed there."

I tried smiling politely, if only to help my case. "Of course," I replied in a small voice.

"I'll be calling you in a few days to discuss your future—whatever it may be—at Arkham. Until then, please remove your belongings from your office. Collins will escort you."

As if I were a common criminal. As if I would run wild through the halls, flipping the switch on the security gates and patients' cell doors. I nodded and offered a courteous 'thank you' to the Warden before I rose as graciously as possible from the seat across from his desk. I had done enough crying, and I'd be damned if I was going to tear up in front of him.

Collins' presence was a welcomed and comforting reprieve as he stood at the back of the office holding the door for me. He was different today. His expression was harsh, those pearl blue eyes of his looking straight ahead defiantly. And I instantly felt guilty. It had only been a single day since Waylon had tried to kill him and succeeded in killing his partner. The trainee whom he was supposed to protect. The trainee who died because of my actions. I walked past him, my eyes closed. I couldn't even look at him. But I felt his eyes on me. I didn't know whether it was a good thing or not. Probably not.

When I made it into the hall I didn't wait for Collins, I didn't want the awkward silence that would surely ensue. So, instead, I continued walking towards the office, thinking of all manner of things in a poor attempt to forget about the pain I had caused so many people.

"You don't have to be so solemn," he said gently when he'd caught up to me.

I laughed lightly. "Should I be a beam of sunshine instead?"

He looked at me sideways, opened his mouth, shut it. Gotcha, I thought to myself. There wasn't much he could say that would ease my thoughts. A sleepless night of twisting and turning from guilt had opened my eyes to the magnitude of what I had allowed to happen. I had trusted Waylon. I had trusted him. And people were injured. People died. It wasn't the same as when Ramirez had been murdered... He had instigated that himself, I hadn't done anything. Smith had since woken up from his coma, but he wasn't the same. Nothing had changed mentally, but I figured it was emotional—the man had finally grown up. Thanks to Waylon.

No, I said to myself, not thanks. Frowning, I thought of what lay ahead of me. Where did one go from here? Surely I would be fired.

Collins walked silently next to me, the only noise coming from the jangle of the ring of keys at his hip, the rustling of his uniform, the heavy falls of his boots. I timidly looked up to his face and saw the hard lines of his face, how they were set in a brooding, deep-in-thought kind of way. It wasn't a menacing expression, there was no hate or contempt. It seemed as if he were trying to reach a solution for some dire problem. Probably how to get out of my presence as soon as humanly possible.

When we approached the office, I waited while Collins opened the remains of the door for me, and it was smooth sailing from there. I all but ran into the room and in a mad dash I grabbed my small amount of things as quickly as possible. If I lingered I was afraid I'd take the time to look at the disarray of the bookshelf, the dried stains of blood, the claw marks all over the door frame. It would trigger the terror, the memories and emotions—ones I didn't want to feel for a long while. Or, at least, unless I was swimming in the drunken haze of alcohol.

But it was too late. I had let my gaze rest on the spot where Waylon had fallen after Collins' tranquilizer dart had worked its so-called magic. He'd lain there, breathing so calmly. It was too easy to watch his sleeping form in its innocent state. Too easy to sit and wonder how someone who knew the depth of true pain could so effortlessly inflict it on others. I'd been there when they'd dragged him out of the office. No sooner had I left the room for the EMTs to remove the boy's body than I was back in there, making sure the guards treated Waylon kindly. No beatings were going to happen under my watch. I didn't care what he had done.

It had taken four guards, two under each of his heavy arms, to drag him out of the office and down the hall to the elevator. I was there, squished into the back corner while the elevator took us down to the lobby just outside the sewer system. Collins was right next to me the entire time, enforcing my wishes. And I couldn't figure out why. The four men had dragged Waylon down the passage way and when we reached the entrance to his 'cell', the guards used all their might to throw him into the space before allowing the barred gate to slam shut and lock itself.

"Hey!" I had yelled in protest as the guards chuckled and made their way back to ground level. I had approached the cell and held onto the bars tightly, frantically checking to make sure they hadn't hurt him. As if he were a delicate piece of glass, I scoffed to myself. Right. While I watched him for a few moments, hoping he'd wake up, Collins told me gently that it was time to go.

And now here I was, packing up the scattered, meaningless trinkets from my desk, clearing out my office. I was finished with Arkham. Perhaps for good. As I pushed back tears, Collins sat quietly up against the wall behind me.

"Why do you care so much?" His deep voice snapped me out of my reverie.

"I don't know." And it was the truth. I was certainly not going to tell Collins that I was attracted to Waylon. So as far as he was concerned, I was crazy. And that was fine.

"I've never seen a doctor act like you. I've never seen it before."

I looked over at him briefly and put myself in his shoes. I must have appeared so confusingly odd. A plain-Jane twenty-something with her entire life ahead of her who willingly chose to work at Arkham Asylum. And then she threw it all away, killing and injuring people in the process, just to... Just to what? What was I trying to accomplish? Get myself committed? Add to the body count? Did I expect Waylon would fall at my feet whenever I foolishly ignored protocol to further my selfish intentions? I was disgusting.

"Yes you have."

"What?" Collins looked up at me from the floor, his brow furrowed.

"You've seen doctors like me. They just work at Gotham General and treat normal people... I don't know what to tell you other than that. I came here with compassion and the sympathy to rehabilitate hardened criminals and hardcore psychotics. These people need doctors who care, not sadists like Sharp. Waylon just needs.. kindness. That's something I don't like he's ever had," I could hear the gentle sadness in my voice and I knew Collins could too.

"He's a lost cause. Don't you see that?"

"No. I don't."

"Its because you refuse to. You've only known him a month; I've known him for years. Take my word for it, Cassandra."

"I can't and I won't. He needs someone to believe in him, even if he won't believe in himself. He's in there somewhere. He's lost inside of his own mind. And isn't that a terrifying prospect? Wouldn't you want someone to help you?"

"Yes, but the difference is I'd allow the person to help me. Croc doesn't. I doubt he ever will."

"You don't know that, you don't know if you'd allow someone to get inside your head if you were in Waylon's shoes. Waylon has been taught his entire life not to trust other people. Can't you see how fragile he really is? You think this is him? You think his tough-guy act is really him? The toughest people are usually the closest to breaking. You don't see how Waylon lives his life on the cusp, trying not to fall in completely? Why else would he want to hide alone in his sewer, away from people? Painful topics are painful for a reason, and its not his fault he doesn't want to talk about them."

"But you shouldn't have to badger him. That's evidence enough."

"Maybe it is, but he doesn't get to give up that easily. Its not fair."

"You're too good for him."

"Not really. He doesn't think so."

"Well, in your words, it doesn't really matter what he thinks. Does it?" I thought he was mocking me until I turned to look at him. A smile was creeping across his face and it was encouraging. He was trying to spread some kind of messed up cheer. But it was nothing more than a feigned pleasant moment in an otherwise terrible day, and I didn't feel Collins' warmth today. Whatever it was he was thinking about was reflected on his face.

"Do you think I could see him before I go?" I'd had to ask twice before he heard me and suddenly lifted his head.

He frowned. "Who, Croc?"

"Yes," I mumbled, looking down sheepishly. "This might be the last time I'm here. I might never get to see him again."

"That's not a good idea. And, besides, I don't think I could get authority to take you down there again."

I knew he was lying. Few guards occupied a higher station than him. I crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't believe you."

"Cassandra, look," he sighed, "its just not a good idea. I know you want to say goodbye, but don't you think its best that you didn't? He probably wouldn't even want to hear it."

"That's a chance I'd be willing to take." I wasn't about to budge.

"Well, I can't. I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I can't, okay? Croc is specifically on lock down. I can talk to him if you want me to. Just tell me what to say."

For the briefest moment I thought about dismissing his offer. In the end, I had no choice but to relent. "Just.. tell him bye. Tell him I tried to help and that I'm sorry."

"That's it?"

"I don't really know what else to say.. I just wanted to," tell him myself, look in his eyes one last time, feel his presence, hear his voice, "say goodbye."

"I'll make sure he knows."

"Oh, who are we kidding? It doesn't matter if you said anything to him, he doesn't care. And, in that case, neither do I." I tried to smile at Collins while I placed the last of my things into a small bag. "Ready to go?" I asked as cheerfully as I could when I was finished.

"Uh, yeah. I'll take you to the ferry." He was still brooding. It was distracting to the point where I wanted to ask him what was wrong. But the last thing I wanted to do was play psychologist again. I let him be and walked silently beside him to the docks. He helped me onto the boat and made sure I was safe and ready to go back to Gotham. We stood there awkwardly for a moment, neither of us making the move to say our goodbyes. I couldn't wait for the ferry to take off, couldn't wait for the comfort of my apartment, the comfort of a hefty bottle of Merlot. The silence lasted forever.

"Look, I... ah..." he scratched the back of his head as he floundered for the right words, "can I give you my number? I know this is difficult for you and I just wanted you to have a way to reach me in case you needed anything."

"Um, sure," I said as I handed him my phone. I watched as his gloved fingers found my contacts and it took a moment for him to type in his name and number.

"I put it in under my first name, I hope that's alright," he said, his eyes downcast as he returned the phone. "Its under 'Matthias'."

"No, that's fine. Thanks," I smiled at him for reassurance. He wasted no time in smiling back and, with an awkward handshake, he left the ferry.

Three more, rather large glasses later and the first bottle of Merlot was well and nearly gone. As I began to feel the effects of the alcohol I sighed and felt calm. It had only been two days since the incident at Arkham. The sting of the events from earlier on in the week didn't feel as potent and I was almost to the point where thinking about it didn't make me want to smash my head through a wall. But it highlighted my loneliness. And the silence. I checked my watch; eleven o' clock at night. That explained the silence since most of my neighbors got themselves into bed early. Since they had jobs. And I didn't.

"You haven't been fired yet, Cassandra," I said to myself as I grabbed the Merlot and nursed the last few gulps, savoring as much as I possibly could. "But you could use more wine."

Five minutes later I stood in the middle of the kitchen with the realization that I didn't have more than one bottle left. One bottle which already had a quarter of its contents missing. I couldn't even drive to the store to replenish my stock. What now? I made my way back to the living room, allowing my head to slosh around with the lightheaded feeling I was currently sporting. It wasted some time, but not much. I sat on the couch and watched the clock above the television click its hands, hoping that it would speed up. Or stop. I wasn't really in the mood to complain. Nothing seemed interesting. Not the television, my laptop, certainly not answering my voice mail. Nothing appealed to me.

"Fine," I said disinterestedly, "shower it is." I had hoped that after a good, long shower I would be tired and inebriated enough to fall asleep, pass out, I didn't care which. "But you haven't had that much to drink," I whined as I lathered my hair with shampoo.

Sure enough, half an hour later I was sitting back on that couch, staring at that clock, waiting for nothing. My eyes wandered the room as I sought some kind of distraction. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, closing my eyes as I inhaled deeply. On the exhale I thought about ordering some food, maybe a good movie from one of the film services on my television. I couldn't get my mind off the need for more wine and eventually gave in to my thirst, and retrieved the bottle from my kitchen counter. While I sat around my apartment slowly downing another glass of the Merlot's dry, but tasty and satisfying bitterness, it took my mind off of the fact that I still had the Arkham mess to deal with.

"The mess that you caused," I said to myself darkly. "Shut the fuck up." Damn it. I took a few more drags from the cigarette and picked up my phone, located the pizza place, called, and placed an order. It was a small order, just one large pizza. I didn't think it was going to take too long, so I flipped on the television and browsed channels. I was searching for anything remotely good, but in all 500 channels, there was absolutely nothing. I settled on some stupid chick flick that I'd hoped would take my mind off of, well, my mind.

It succeeded in keeping me occupied until the delivery boy arrived twenty minutes later, but not long after. My gaze kept returning to my phone and those messages that were on there, sitting pretty in my voice mail. I listened to the first, heard Nancy's voice and skipped it. Listened to the next, Nancy again. I kept listening to the end, picking up on the annoyance in her voice. She didn't outwardly say anything regarding whether or not the annoyance was aimed at me, but I knew it was. I scoffed and deleted it, not daring to listen to what I assumed was Sharp's message.

Its not that I didn't expect to get fired; I knew that would be the result. I just didn't feel like confronting it yet. I didn't feel up to the task of hearing Warden Sharp's voice tell me that my dream career was over. Even while intoxicated. And Waylon...

As the grief and regret hit I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. He was going to end up dead. I was never going to see him again. And I didn't even get to say goodbye. My last moment with him had been while he lay on the cold floor of that sewer, sleeping so peacefully. I desperately wondered how he was doing, what he was thinking. I wondered, if he didn't end up dead, who his next doctor would be. Would they be kind? Mean? Would it be that dreadful Whistler woman?

I didn't even get to say goodbye... Collins had done that for me-

In a panicked surge I reached for my phone and all but broke the buttons off of it in my attempt to retrieve Collins' number from the contacts. Once I found it I hit 'send' without a moment's hesitation.

"Hello?" A male's voice answered.

"Collins?"

"Yes."

"Um... Its Cassandra... I um- I wanted to ask you," I was trying so hard not to shake, or stumble over the words, "did you-"

The brief hesitation then, "Yes."

My heart jumped nearly out of my chest. "And?"

"He didn't say anything. I don't know if he heard me.. he wouldn't answer when I called for him."

And, just as quickly as my hopes had sprung, they were crushed. I felt the acute feeling of dread and disappointment wash over me, numbing what little feelings I still had. "Oh..."

We sat on the phone together for some time in silence, the only noise coming from our breathing. I had to go, I had to go now or I was going to break down. And I didn't want Collins to listen to it.

"Look-"

"Collins-"

I heard his laughter from the other end as we both started speaking at the same time. "Go ahead," I told him.

"How are you holding up?"

How exactly should I have answered that question. Tell him the truth? Tell him that I was mentally drained, I couldn't stop drinking, I was mourning the end of my career? I missed Waylon? Just take a deep breath and tell him that, hey, so I don't know how to tell you this, but I really like Waylon. He's just the greatest. I know he's a blood-thirsty killer and he tried to kill us both, but something about that 'I-could-kill-you-all-in-seconds' gets me weak in the knees. All in two months' time, isn't that the darnedest? And, you know, I don't think I'd mind if he killed me, ha-ha!

Yeah.

Right.

"I'm fine," I said in between puffs on my almost-finished cigarette, "just taking it easy."

"Are you smoking?"

"Yes, and drinking the loveliest bottle of Merlot that I," my voice trailed as I leaned forward and smashed the cigarette butt into an ashtray, "seem to have finished. Its been quite a night. But, I do wish I had more." Just blame it on the alcohol, I told myself. "I was actually feeling really lonesome. And I... I just wanted to check in."

"Really?" I could hear surprise in his voice.

"Of course, I almost got you killed, didn't I? I figured it was only reasonable..." I heard my voice trail off sadly as I remembered the consequences of my actions.

"It wasn't entirely your fault, you know." He said sternly and I slumped back into the couch, knowing full well he was only trying to make me feel better.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I should probably go-"

"Wait. Don't hang up on me," he said authoritatively. "What's on your mind."

Not a question. But he demanded an answer nonetheless. "Look, I don't know. Never mind that I called. I'm sorry. I've most likely been fired, and I got someone killed. I'm just having trouble dealing with it and I-"

"Where do you live?"

Silence. More silence. "What?"

"Where do you live?" My heart began pounding.

"I-uh, um, Gotham Tower Apartments, j-just outside of Central."

"Room number?"

"317... There's a cheesy welcome mat on the floor."

"Good to know, I'll be there soon." He hung up before I could say goodbye. I was in a state of panic, then, as I ran around my apartment and rushed to tidy it up. The last thing I wanted was Collins to come in a see how far I'd let myself go in the past few days. Then again, he had never seen my apartment before so it didn't matter whether it was clean or not because he had nothing to compare it to. But my dignity wouldn't allow me to leave it in such a messy state. I straightened up the living room, putting the couch pillows back in their place, fixing the blanket that draped over the back of it, neatened the chaos on the coffee table. I grabbed a few plates and some napkins from the kitchen in case Collins—Matthias?—wanted to eat something.

"What are you doing, Cassandra?" I asked myself as I surveyed the living room, one hand on my forehead. "Are you signing yourself up for a date." What? "Absolutely not. You're having a friend over to commiserate over a horrible week that you started, a horrible week that was all your fault. A friend whose life you put in danger. That's all." I sighed to myself and shook my head as I traveled down the hall to straighten the bathroom. "Excellent, just excellent. You're talking to yourself."

I sighed when I reached the doorway to guest bathroom, its lemon-colored walls cheery despite the gloomy fog that had rolled in from Gotham Bay. I flipped the light switch and got to work putting out fresh hand towels, wiping up the sink and counter—even though it was already spotless—and decided it would be a good idea to give the toilet bowl a good scrubbing. Lifting the closed lid, I discovered the indisputable shine of the pure white porcelain and decided to forgo cleaning it. Although, I hadn't yet finished my sweep of the bathroom and resigned myself to giving the shower a once-over, examining the floors for any sign of dirt, and double-checking that the towels I had recently hung were, in fact, fresh-from-the-laundry clean.

"You're mental, Cassandra," I sighed to myself as I turned off the light and headed down the hall towards my bedroom. It was a mess. "Well," I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the room for a damage assessment, "if he wants a tour, you'll be caught by surprise. You might as well tidy it up in here too."

While I gathered clothes from the floor and made my bed, my mind got to work telling me all the ways that I was completely in over my head. Here I was, fired from a job—you don't know that— inviting a man I hardly knew over to my silly little apartment, half-drunk. And I was cleaning up my bedroom so it would be presentable for him. If only I could take a step back and see what had become of myself. I almost wished I had been cleaning the apartment for Waylon-

"Ok, no, you can shut the fuck up," I said to myself as I finished in the master bath and returned to the kitchen. "I'll give you leeway to talk to yourself, but fantasizing about Waylon is completely out."

I shook my head and leaned against the counter, sighing. Now, all I could do was wait for Collins to arrive and see what fucked up choices I made next.

Fantastic.

Long time no see! (or update!) Sort of a low-key chapter seeing as the previous ones have been so crazy.

Let me know what you think!

-Soule Rellim