Hey guys! Notice the new image cover? It's better than what it was before at least, I think. I have a poll on my profile (it's at the very top) where you can vote on whether you want this image, or the old one (in case you don't remember, it was just a simple picture of Cillian Murphy in glasses) :D
Elena never hated taking showers until she moved to Arkham. Everything about the showering rooms was run down and filthy. The walls of the room were painted a deathly yellow color, marred with numerous water stains and areas of chipping paint. The pipes, visible on the ceiling of the large room, were rusting and the tepid water that ran from the shower heads smelled distinctly musty and earthy, the way only stale water could. The smell lingered in her hair and on her clothing, until eventually she began accustomed to the stink. However, she would never become used to the occasional cockroaches that scurried across the shower floors. Patients were not given any shoes besides the worn out old sneakers they wore every day, so she tiptoed everywhere to lessen the chance of contracting any fungus or stray parasite from the floor.
Worst of all, though, wasn't the smell or the bugs; it was the lack of privacy. The sides of the shower stalls were five feet tall and covered with opaque dirty yellow linoleum-squares, but there were no shower curtains or coverings of any kind at the entrance. Elena always chose the stall at the very end of the room where it was unlikely for anyone to walk by, but there was still the random female perv who came by for the free show.
"Buzz off," she told Gwyneth from Ward B, the creep, sending her scampering away to find another patient to spy on. Finished undressing, she began to tug at the shower handle. Turned to the hottest setting, the water still came out cold. She shivered as she stepped into the harsh, cold spray of the shower-head and began to wash herself with the bar of soap the hospital provided. It was some cheap drugstore brand and left her squeaky clean, and covered in soap residue. The bar of soap was the only thing the hospital provided too- how the hell was she supposed to wash her hair with a bar of soap?
She wondered if Crane would get her a bottle of shampoo if she asked- maybe conditioner if she was really lucky. She doubted it though; the best she could hope from him was not killing her at this point. But still, the thought of Crane in some supermarket somewhere in his little navy suit, trying to puzzle out the difference between voluminous and texturizing shampoo was amusing. He did seem to know his way around hair gel though, that's what seemed to be in his hair every time they met… and it worked for him.
Oh my god, what am I doing? Thinking about Crane's hair while in the shower? Not acceptable. There must be something in the water, she reasoned.
"Meretti! We need to talk," she heard Ivy say.
"It's Moretti," she murmured annoyed, before she turned around and was temporarily blinded by the image of a naked Ivy. "Ohmigod," she gasped, and turned away. "Ivy! There are these things called towels-"
"I heard from Jason that Dr. Crane gave a lecture yesterday about the importance of preventing the use of contraband items. As an example, he showed a lighter that a patient got ahold of. That wouldn't be our lighter, now would it?"
"I'm sorry, I can't- could you please cover yourself?"
"Not until you answer my question," she said menacingly, taking a step forward with her hands on her hips. Her skin seemed to be tinted green under the florescent lights of Arkham, but Elena was too busy averting her eyes to notice.
"Seriously, this is assault-"
"Elena!"
"Yes! Okay, that was my lighter! Crane just lifted it off me, there was nothing I could do!"
"So, what, he gives strip searches before his appointments with patients now?"
Oh god, how am I going to explain that? she wondered, remembering how he had lifted the lighter from her shirt pocket while her eyes were closed, light fingers tugging at her clothing. She flushed, remembering how close he had been to her, and the way he had oddly smelled of evergreen in a place devoid of forests. Her face grew hot just thinking about it. You are such a hormonal idiot, she told herself. Elena edged around Ivy, all the while staring fixedly at a distant egg-shaped water stain on the ceiling, and snatched her towel off the hook outside the stall. "The only one stripping right now is you."
"Remind me again what you have contributed to this?" Ivy asked. "I've wrapped Jason around my finger, and he would do anything for me now, including let us out of our cells."
"I am the mastermind of this escape team, remember?" Elena answered as she tied the towel around herself, her eyes never straying from the water stain. "Anyways, we didn't even need the lighter, setting a fire and everything would be too risky. Besides, I have a much better idea. It involves much less loss of plant life." Harley had told her about Ivy's eco-terrorist aspirations.
"Mm hmm," Ivy said skeptically, crossing her arms across her chest and looking at Elena with suspicion. "What is this idea?"
"Oh, I can't tell you yet," Elena bluffed, "Gotta make sure it will pan out. But don't worry, I'm 99.9% sure it will."
Ivy sensed she was bullshitting. "Figure it out, Meretti, or Harley and I are out," she threatened. She made to leave, but turned around to utter one last insult, as if pronouncing her last name wrong wasn't enough. "By the way, nice stretch marks," she sneered.
"Time for Group!" shouted a guard a moment, sticking her head through the shower room door. "Get dressed ladies!"
Bitch, she thought savagely as she pulled on her uniform grey dress. She wished there were some other psychotic maniacs in her ward that could help her pull the escape plan off, but Ivy and Harley were what she had to work with. Harley would have been manageable if not for her utter loyalty and devotion to the Joker, and Ivy, well, hated anything that didn't photosynthesize. Elena watched Ivy curiously as she flirted with Correctional Officer Jason as she dressed, and couldn't believe that she was the same woman that had just threatened and insulted her. She seemed to radiate beauty. Not only did her hair fall in natural curls along her back, but it was the vibrant red-orange color of a ripe nectarine. And as often as they did flash with anger, her leafy green eyes were certainly something. Jason didn't stand a chance against her.
"Hey," said Harley, nudging her with her elbow as they lined up and were marched off to Group Therapy. "Don't mind her, she gets real touchy when she's away from her plants. It's been rough on her, being here." It seemed Harley had forgiven Ivy for her earlier outburst. Well, Elena hadn't. She nodded in what she hoped was a semi-sympathetic way, but didn't speak. Harley babbled on happily about her dinner plans with the Joker once they got out, etc. etc. until they reached the Group Therapy room.
"Ick," Harley whispered in her ear as they walked inside, "It's Doc Kellerman."
An old, balding man in his mid-50s was sitting in a metal, folding chair at the back of the room, and had arranged a dozen or so chairs in a semicircle in front of him. He did not look as officious as Crane had, opting for an off-white lab coat over a blue shirt and suspenders, but still gave the impression that he was well off. "Have a seat," he said, his eyes not leaving the clipboard he held in his hands.
Looking around, Elena saw about half of the seats were already occupied by patients from another ward. It took another glance to realize there was only one chair left, at the end of the semicircle next to the orange haired man she had seen her first day at Arkham. He was the one that had called her "Alice." Warily, she sat down next to the man and was disturbed when she realized his wild brown eyes were locked on her face. Why the hell is he wearing a hat? she wondered. The dress code at Arkham was pretty strict: wear what is given to you and nothing else. However, this man was wearing a tattered, dumpster green top hat that barely concealed his crazy orange hair that stuck out in random places, giving him the look of a mad scientist. He grinned at her, revealing yellowing, buck toothed teeth that would make a rabbit jealous.
"Hello everyone, my name is Doctor Kellerman and I will be leading Group Therapy this morning. Today we will be discussing parental figures- how have they influenced who you are today?" He spoke in a continuous monotone, and sounded as though he were reading a textbook on psychiatry verbatim. She caught Harley's eye, and stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes, as though Kellerman had killed her from boredom.
Harley snickered and mock hanged herself from across the room, but Kellerman's voice did not waver. "-and play an essential part in a child's development. Studies have shown that children under the age of nine who have not received proper-" Elena ceased paying attention and attempted to block out his toneless voice.
"Yes, yes! 'One, two, one, two, through and through. And then the rope went snicker-snack. He left it dead and with its head, he went galumping back!'" said the man beside her animatedly.
The fuck? she thought, eyeing him cautiously after he had finished spouting nonsense. Is it too late to change seats?
"Ivy," Doctor Kellerman droned, "Would you care to be the first to share?"
Ivy looked at him sullenly. Kellerman's owlish brown eyes faltered beneath her withering stare, and moved on to the next patient on the list. "Magpie?" he continued, peering around the room through his thick lensed glasses.
"Alice, I knew you would return to me, I simply knew," he said earnestly, turning towards her, still wearing his ridiculous hat.
"I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else." She edged her chair away from him, uncomfortable with how close he was to her. "My name is Elena."
"Oh Alice, must you remain so coy? Both of us know who you truly are."
"My name is Elena, for the twentieth time." Honestly, it was like reasoning with a wooden bed post. An insane, hat wearing, wooden bed post.
"Alice, perhaps you will let me show you Wonderland sometime. This wonderful, wonderful Wonderland."
"I have no desire to see your Wonderland." He really could not take a hint.
"Miss Moretti, have you anything to add?" asked Kellerman.
"Excuse me, Tweedledee is speaking," she said to the hat-wearing basket case, gesturing at the Doctor. "Yes Doctor Kellerman?" She smiled brightly, as though she were not currently locked in a room with a dozen different mental cases.
"Have you anything to add to our discussion of parental figures?"
"Nope."
"You grew up with your uncle, is that correct?" he said, squinting at the notes written on his clipboard. "A Mr. Carmine-"
"Watch it Doc," she said maliciously. The doctor paused, unsure how to proceed.
"'Scuse me Mister Kellerman?" asked a guard, peering in. "Dr. Crane wants a word with this one," he said, nodding at Elena.
A loud "ooooOOOOO!" came from Harley's side of the room as Elena got up to leave with the guard.
"Real mature," she murmured at her, but Harley wasn't wrong. She had wondered how long it would take Crane to find her little note to him. He hadn't shown up to their appointment the day before, Jason said he was out on "business," so her life had been prolonged a little. She knew when she was messing with Crane, she was playing with fire disguised as ice, but she needed to get under his skin if her plan to escape were to succeed.
She was led to the all too familiar office of Jonathan Crane and shoved inside, the door shut behind her. Crane was sitting at his desk, glasses on, hands folded severely in front of his face. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat in the chair in front of him and folded her hands in front of her face too. It was apparent he did not take kindly to being imitated, and immediately took his hands off the desk.
"Could you explain to me the meaning of this, Miss Moretti?" he inquired, pushing a ripped piece of paper towards her. Holding it up, she quickly read aloud,
Jonathan Crane: The Doc appears very cranky today- looks like someone didn't get enough of their beauty sleep. Probably due to nightmares from all the souls he's crushed...
Occupation: Hypocritical, corrupt asshole
Allergies: Happiness, sunshine, a wide spectrum of human emotion
Hobbies include feeding patients to alligators, kicking puppies, and snacking on children while they dream.
Diagnosis: Is an egotistical misanthrope suffering from a severe superiority complex. Abuses his position as a doctor by using patients as his own personal lab rats, though he vowed to "do no harm." Demands respect when he has done nothing to earn it, and cares nothing for his patients. And appears to have an unhealthy obsession with sweater vests…
Treatment: Observer suggests he see a psychiatrist (and no, a mirror does not count)
P.S. Your observations of me are frighteningly inaccurate. I do, in fact, possess above average intelligence. And yes, I may be irritating at times, but vexatious? A little harsh, don't you think? Have fun figuring out how I got in your desk.
Love,
Your favorite patient
She clutched the piece of paper to her heart. "Aww, you read "favorite patient" and automatically thought of me?"
"It was more due to the fact that you quoted lines from my accurate observations of yourself," he said icily, making sure to emphasize the word "accurate."
"So what's the problem, Doc? You ripped my entry out of your creepy stalker journal, no harm done. Unless," she said, with a mischievous glint in her eye, "You haven't figured out how I got into your desk yet? Is it possible? A puzzle the brilliant minded Doctor Crane can't figure out?"
"Of course I know!" he snapped. "You aren't half as clever as you believe yourself to be."
"Really?" she said, bemused. "Then how'd I do it?"
She's toying with you, hissed Scarecrow impatiently. And what's worse, you're letting her toy with you. Man up.
"You had security officer Jason open it for you. Don't worry, the matter will be resolved shortly. I will relieve him of his position when this appointment is over," he said. It wasn't hard to figure out a young, beautiful girl like Elena; they flirted and charmed their way through life, much as she was attempting to do now.
She snorted. "Guess again, Doctor."
"I don't guess Miss Moretti; I observe, hypothesize and deduce."
"Seriously no. Don't fire Jason, he had nothing to do with it." Ivy would kill her if she found out Elena was the reason Jason, their key out of their cells, was fired.
"Is this love, Miss Moretti? Have you developed feelings for this halfwit you have manipulated into helping you, who cannot pass a simple police examination?"
She frowned at the word "halfwit." Sure, Jason wasn't the brightest crayon in the coloring box, but he tried his best. "No," she said slowly. "Unlike you, my life does not revolve around the constant manipulation of people. Jason had nothing to do with it."
"I don't honestly expect me to believe you, do you?" He smirked. "You may leave, and send C.O. Jason in on your way out." He had ignored her and dismissed her, and Scarecrow muttered his approval.
She stood up reluctantly, a mutinous look in her eyes. Jonathan bend back over his lab notebook, scribbling complex chemistry formulas and attempting to perfect his Fear Toxin, when he felt his rolling chair pushed aside. "Move," she said imperiously, and dumped the contents of his paper clip jar onto his desk. Grabbing a pair of silver paperclips, she bent down and began to fiddle with the lock of his desk. Stunned by her audacity, he sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do. She tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulder, and continued intently picking the lock. However, he wasn't looking at the drawer, but at her delicate fingers, flexing and un-flexing. Her left arm was dotted with the black stitches he had sewn into her skin that night after Scarecrow had shown her Killer Croc, and he could see thin red lines snaking their way up her arm, towards her heart.
Are you just going to let her get away with that? chided Scarecrow.
Quiet, he responded. I want to see...
"Well, would ya look at that," she said triumphantly, standing up and yanking the drawer open, which had moments before been locked. She pulled his journal out of the desk and tossed it at him. He caught it, while still staring at her arm.
She was walking towards the door and about to leave when he ordered her in a low voice to, "Sit."
Elena huffed, but did as she was told and sat back down in front of his desk. "Tell me, Miss Moretti," he demanded in a dangerously low tone, "Have you been taking your medications."
"'Course Doc," she replied nonchalantly.
"Really," he answered, eyebrows raised. "Place your arms on the desk, forearms up."
"Why?" she challenged. His blue eyes gave her a biting glare.
She put her left arm on the desk.
"I believe I said both arms."
She glared at him, and for a moment there was a silent struggle for dominance. Finally, she placed her other arm on the table as well, fist clenched, with a look on her face that told him she would like nothing better than to punch him. He first studied her left arm, and the red, vein-like lines that traveled up her shoulder confirmed his suspicions. "You have an infection from your scratches," he commented, "Which would have been avoided had you only taken your medicine."
"I'm not taking that crap you prescribe, especially when I don't need it."
"So you are saying you don't have an infection?"
"I'm saying I don't have schizophrenia, or whatever the hell you said I had at my trial, so I won't take any of that mind fogging crap."
Crane was well-versed in psycho-pharmacology, and the complaint that the drugs dulled the senses was nothing new to him. He wondered why he was surprised that Moretti had not taken her medication, he should have expected nothing less from the girl.
"You can either take your medication, or let the infection go untreated. If you chose the latter, your arm will swell painfully, and you will experience fatigue, loss of appetite, fevers, night chills, along with other various aches and pains. Eventually, the infection will spread to your blood stream, and then it is only a matter of time before your death. Or, you could take these pills," he said, holding out two white capsules in his hand. He watched her chew on her bottom lip, her eyebrows knit in thought. "You don't have a choice," he said unsympathetically. She stopped chewing on her lip, and snatched the pills from his hand. His hand burned from where her fingertips had brushed his skin, and his eyes were fixed on her bottom lip, swollen and red from its earlier treatment. He wondered what it would feel like, to brush his lips against hers.
She dry swallowed her pills and glared at him. "Satisfied?" she asked.
You have nooo idea, jeered Scarecrow.
"And your other arm," he said, glancing to the right. She tried to jerk her arm away, but he caught her wrist in his hand and held tightly. "What have we here?" he asked.
"A tattoo," she answered shortly, but it was anything but. Jonathan was very well aware of the practice some degenerates chose to partake in, where they would inject ink into their skin. An idiotic practice, in his opinion, and just another way one could contract HIV. However, the sign on her wrist was not black, or any other color for that matter. This particular patch of skin was faintly red, resembling scar tissue, and looked distinctly like a falcon perched upon a tree branch- a gang symbol, no doubt. It seemed to be some sort of burn, as if someone had taken a cattle brand to her skin. Not only more idiotic that a tattoo but queerly sickening.
"What possessed you to brand yourself?"
She smiled bitterly, her fascinatingly grey eyes tempestuous. "Tattoos are removable," she said quietly, without any elaboration. He had a feeling that those were not her words that she spoke.
"Anyways Doc, I need you to get something for me." He could tell she was purposefully changing the subject, but he let her. He would find out soon enough what she was hiding.
"What, Miss Moretti?"
"Shampoo. Oh, and conditioner, and nail polish remover too. I'm sure you haven't noticed, but Arkham doesn't exactly provide the best hair care products."
"What, no demands for weapons, or lighters for that matter?"
"I see no point," she replied, surprisingly reasonable. "I know you won't get them for me."
When has that ever stopped you? he remarked silently. She was up to something, he was sure, but he didn't know what yet.
"I will think about it."
Might as well get her some lingerie while you're at it, Johnny boy-toy.
Hush, Scarecrow, we need to find out what she is up to.
What we need, Scarecrow hissed irritably, is a perfected form of the Fear Toxin. Forget the girl.
Jonathan ignored him.
"I think you should get some for the crazy hat guy as well, his hair kind of reeks," she suggested.
"You've met Mr. Jervis Tetch," he said, ignoring Scarecrow's inappropriate comments on Moretti's appearance. "Or, as most know him, the Mad Hatter."
"What did he do?" Her wide grey eyes stared at him expectantly, and he noticed she was biting her lip again.
"Mr. Tetch is here because he was found by a judge to be not guilty due to mental illness or defect. In his case, he believes he is the incarnation of the Mad Hatter from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland."
"Yes, but what did he do?"
"He was charged with the kidnapping, rapes, and murders of 8 schoolgirls, committed over a period of three years." A look of absolute revulsion crossed her face. "Each of them was blonde haired and blue eyed, and he believed them to be a reincarnation of 'Alice.' When the girls did not admit to being Alice, he murdered them to prevent them from shattering his delusion; his goal in life being to find his one true 'Alice' to complete his fantasy. Even on medication though, he refuses to make any progress, because his delusion buries any guilt he may feel for committing those crimes."
"How come he wasn't put on death row? What he did is disgusting."
"He is schizophrenic. Can you hold him criminally responsible when he lacked the mental capacity to appreciate what he did was wrong?"
"Sounds like a load of BS. He isn't some five year old who accidentally set fire to his grandmother's house, he's a middle aged man that likes to prey on young girls."
"Then what would you call a man that pretends he is a storybook character?"
"A pedophile," she said simply.
"New evidence has come to light that indicates Mr. Tetch may have himself been abused as a child. Do you feel no sympathy for him?"
"Being abused as a child doesn't give you the right to become an abuser yourself."
"Really?" he asked, a hardened expression on his face. "None at all?"
"None." The room was silent for a long while, both of them mulling over what the other had said.
"You may go," he said suddenly. He would pay no attention to what she had just said. Morals and ethics- those were for richer men.
"You'll have to let go of my wrist," she said softly, and he realized he was still gripping her hand. He let go of her hand as if he had been burned, and began to scribble away again in his notebook as to avoid looking at her. He heard her chair scrape across the floor as she stood up, and he felt her pause for a moment and stare at him with her perceptive grey eyes before heading towards the door.
Holding hands- you're almost at first base! Scarecrow whispered, snickering
Elena stomped back to her cell having already missed all of Group, her heart racing furiously. Jervis Tetch, that was the creep's name. Jervis Tetch who murdered little blonde girls. Jervis Tetch who called her Alice. She didn't care if he was really ill, or faking his illness to shirk prison time, all she knew was that a man like that didn't deserve to be breathing while all those girls were cold and dead. It frightened her to know sickos like that existed. And he had gotten away with it for three years, that's what Crane had told her. Jonathan Crane, who had stared at her with his unsettling blue eyes the entire time they had been talking. She knew he had just been observing her, like she was his personal lab rat or some shit, but a little part of her thought that maybe, just maybe, he was capable of feeling some sort of human emotion. And what, he feels something for you? the rational part of her brain sneered. That man is made of ice, he doesn't feel anything for anyone. As soon he gets what he wants from you, he'll hand you right back to Falcone. But what did Crane want from her? Information? Amusement? Something more? He had given her antibiotics... They could be poison for all you know. He had fired Red... Because you tricked him into it. She pushed these confusing thoughts from her mind; she needed to focus on escaping, that was her priority. Crane was a coldhearted scientist, who would never care about anything besides his experiments.
That night she dreamed about the day she had gotten the falcon marking on her wrist.
All of Falcone's children had it, why should she be any different? She had seen the black tattoo on Sofia's wrist, and had cried nonstop when they said she had to get one too. They had to drag her ten-year-old self down to the basement, and even then she had put up quite a fuss. She had only stopped crying when Falcone came home- he hated tears. "Why do you not want the mark, little dove?" he had asked. "Are you ashamed of mia famiglia?" She shook her head, unable to speak because she was so terrified. "Do you know what this mark means, Elena? It means no matter how far you run, where you hide, your family will always find you." The words were not meant to comfort her. "I will give you the mark myself." Alberto had handed his father the tattoo machine, but her uncle had waved it away. "Tattoos are removable. Let's give her something she can't remove, eh?" They held her down, and all she could do was watch as he heated the wire hanger in the furnace until it was glowing red hot. Her nose filled with the smell of burning flesh. When it was over, she was left with scarred flesh on her wrist, in the shape of a falcon.
She woke up, a scream caught in her throat, before she realized where she was. Arkham Asylum. She was safe, for now at least. Her bare feet hit the cold cement floor as she padded her way to the sink, and splashed cold water on her face. Staring in the mirror, a spot of color at the entrance of her cell caught her attention. Turning around, she saw bright pink bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and nail polish remover sitting on the floor of her cell.
She couldn't help smiling.
Whoot! Another long (ish) chapter. For all of you who know Crane's back story, you know why he was so ticked by Elena's answer ;O Don't worry, both of their histories will be revealed in later chapters. Thank you to ShyxSkater, Megushie, Shannon, Taylor Snape13, and takara410 for reviewing, and everyone else for fav/following! And vote on the poll on my profile, por favor? I apologize in advance for the predicted lack of updates. I will be at summer camp next week, so there won't be any new chapters for a while, but don't give up on this story! Just continue reviewing, etc. and nagging me until I update.