Chapter Five: Darkness Within

The girl was crying again. It seemed she always cried. The sessions had been of little help to her recovering psychosis. Harleen touched her gently on the arm. A calming gesture that sometimes dried the tears. Peyton looked to her doctor, puffy, red, eyes and nodded, pitifully. Times like this Harleen wished it was appropriate to hug a patient. The poor girl had such a difficult time adjusting, terror sweeping through her constantly.

"Peyton, it's alright," Harleen said, a soothing tone. "You're safe here now."

The wet streaks continued down her gaunt cheeks. "I want to believe you. I really do."

"If you like, we can just sit in silence."

"No, I want to talk. It's just hard," Peyton said, breathing deep. She was calming down.

Peyton Riley was a hard case to have in her lineup. The case file filled with her arrest record, notes from both reliable and unreliable sources. The story the notes told was one of despair. The girl often reminded Harleen of her own past in minor ways. An abusive relationship, scars lining her body from gunshot wounds, knife wounds, beatings. Losing the love of her life. Driven into psychosis. Harleen sympathized more than she could admit. Often times, she wondered if she would have been trapped behind the bars of an Arkham cell had her situation differed slightly.

It was their third session together. Always hard to switch psychiatrists, but in Peyton's case, it was a necessary change, having been one of Crane's patients. She showed no signs of having been inflicted with his toxin as many of his other patients had, but he certainly didn't work on her condition. There were no videos of their sessions to study, just half-assed notes that made Harleen question whether Crane was writing real observations or just making stuff up for the board. So the sessions were vital to understand the troubled woman and to find the best course of treatment.

"Why don't we focus on what makes you happy, today." Harleen said. "See if we can find a way to smile through the pain."

Peyton nodded, the miserable look almost chiseled on her face. "I love my dolls. They make me happy."

"And how do they do that?"

"When they talk to me, they can make me laugh. They tell me jokes and remind me that life isn't so bad."

"That's good," Harleen said, taking notes. The talking dolls were a delusion of her schizophrenia, a comfort zone for the girl. "Any specific doll you like the most?"

"Scarface." Peyton smiled at last. Harleen assumed she was referring to her Al Capone doll. "He was a gift from Uncle Andrew before he died. Scarface is always reminding me of how we have to treat each day as if it were our last."

"A good philosophy." Harleen chose not to contradict the delusion. A trust had to be built first and foremost before the barriers could be broken down. "Anything else that makes you happy?"

"I like you, Dr. Quinzel," Peyton's smile turned to her doctor. "You're nice and you don't treat me like a freak just because I'm going through some rough times. That makes me happy."

Harleen smiled back, carefully choosing her next words. "Thank you, Peyton. I like you, too. And I'm here for you, to help you get past this rough patch." She scribbled down a note before saying, "Anything else?"

"There was Matthew before he died." Her late fiance. "Nothing made me happier than being in his arms."

"Why don't you tell me more about him?"

"I...I can't. Not yet."

Harleen understood. Hard memories to touch. "Alright, then. What else?"

The girl bit her lower lip, thinking. "I guess, Tommy. He made me happy."

Harleen became interested at the new name. "Tommy. You haven't mentioned him before. Who was he?"

Peyton brushed a piece of blond hair out of her eyes. "He was supposed to be my escape."

Minutes passed, Thomas paying close attention to change the fluid bag for her I.V. He wasn't ignoring her query. No. He was assessing the best way to address it. Harley watched him carefully for the quickening of breath, the flicker of his eyes back and forth. He was lost inside himself, the debate raging on. His mask was not good enough to fool her. Cool, aloof, strategizing. Not after Mr. J. Masks meant nothing to her anymore. A tool to use or be picked apart.

Inside herself, she battled against the rage. The memory of the little lost girl that got too close. And she was confused at her sudden anger. She had barely thought of Peyton since she left Arkham. Even before, when she first met Mr. J. The girl was nothing but another basket case to her, despite what happened. Her temper wasn't unusual but it was burning hot at the mention of her name. It made her itch inside.

"Peyton was a sweet girl but too clingy," Thomas finally spoke. "Desperate to run away from her life. I think she saw me as her chance. It wasn't."

"You dated her."

"She was married," he looked to Harley. "And I was a horny undergrad. It didn't work for very long."

"You don't actually expect me to buy that load of bullshit," Harley said. "I'm not an idiot."

"What do you expect me to say, Harleen?" A tiny bit of anger in his eyes.

She didn't bother to correct him on her name. "How about the truth? That you used her and manipulated her to get what you wanted." The wheels turned. She made the connections. At the time, she hadn't known that the Tommy in Peyton's story was Thomas Elliot. It became clear now and she kicked herself for not seeing the similarities. But how could she believe the tall tales of a paranoid schizophrenic?

The anger grew. "People use each other sometimes. That's the way the world works. She was lonely and I was a good listener. So, I used it to get in her pants. Is that a crime?"

Harley grinned, slowly needling her way into his head. "No. It's not. But it's not the truth I'm talking about."

"What are you referring to, then?" He was guarded. Body becoming rigid. Secrets. She knew the signs all too well. His posture was so close to the perfected control she had once. His wasn't as good. Or as practiced.

Harley leaned back into the stack of pillows behind her, enjoying this turn around. She felt like Mr. J for a moment, analyzing the movements, playing the game as it once was in her old office. "I was Peyton's psychiatrist for a couple of months. We talked about a lot of things. Her father, her husband, her first love." She paused for a moment for emphasis. "You."

Silence fell again as he assessed the direction of the conversation. His curiosity got the better of him. "And what did she say about me?"

Oh, Thomas. Exposing the truth was always such a treat. These were the moments she lived for. The surprise, the anger, the fear, the sadness. Usually, she saw them in the eyes of her victims, but Thomas wasn't a victim. He was a project, something to change and mold. A beautiful disaster waiting to crash in front of her. She wanted to see all those emotions cross her friend's face.

"That she helped you get your inheritance." Harley gave him a knowing smile, watching the horror spread over his face.

In their fifth session, Peyton finally felt comfortable enough with Dr. Quinzel to open up.

"I fell in love at an early age to a man named Matthew Atkins. I told you this before, right?" Peyton looked up to see her doctor nod. "He was amazing and wanted nothing more than to dote on me. He proposed and I said yes. But my father didn't approve. No, he had other plans for my life. Daddy was the leader of the Irish mafia in Gotham, at the time. You may have even heard his name. Sean Riley. And when daddy didn't approve, bad things tended to happen."

"You mentioned that your fiance had died," Harleen said. "Was he murdered?"

"Yes," Peyton nodded. "I was ruining my father's big plans. He wanted to solidify a truce between the Irish and the Italians, to stop all the fighting. Peace meant more profit. So daddy had Matthew killed and I was forced to marry Johnny Sabatino, some big wig with the Italians. I was just an olive branch, nothing more." She sounded so casual about the death of her fiance, the change in her life. Harleen had to wonder if the story had any validity or if it was another of her delusions. "It's hard, you know, to be trapped in a loveless relationship. Especially when your husband views you as little more than a slave, useless except as a punching bag."

Peyton was unusually lucid. Harleen made a note to keep with the same medications. "So where does Tommy come in?" She knew better than to press her about the marriage. It wasn't time yet.

"About a year into my marriage, I met Tommy. He hated his life as much as I did. I guess the reason he made me so happy was because he understood me. He made me feel special. Important. Everything that Johnny never would." Peyton pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Every chance I got, I'd escape to his arms so he could make me forget the beatings. He'd kiss each bruise and tell me how beautiful I was."

"Sounds like he was good for you," Harley said.

"Oh, he was. He wanted to take me with him, when he left this wretched town behind. But he had to wait until his mother died so he could collect his inheritance. She was sick with cancer." She blew another piece of hair out of her eyes before biting her lower lip. "Uh, Dr. Quinzel, if I tell you about something, is it just between us?"

Harleen nodded. "Medical confidentiality is in effect here. Anything you divulge to me is between us. However, please understand that I will have to report any instance of imminent harm to yourself or to others."

"What about past..." The girl seemed to search for the right word.

"Crimes?" Harleen offered, leading Peyton to nod. "As long as the crime is in the past and there are no current safety issues, then it is still covered by confidentiality."

Peyton looked relieved. "Oh good. I've been wanting to talk about this for awhile but I was scared what would happen."

"This is a safe place."

"So, I don't know all the details on exactly what happened but his mother, I guess, heard about me. Told Tommy that I was trash and not worthy of him. She disowned him, completely, not even giving him a chance to explain. Changing her will and all. What a bitch. And he called me. I could hear the anger over the phone. He wanted it over with. Just get rid of the bitch and be done with it. But the problem was that she was changing her will. How did we get around that problem so he got his money."

Harleen wanted to interrupt, to ask questions, to flesh the details out. See if the story was fiction or reality, but truth be told, she was too compelled by the tale. Wanting to know where it led, which dark path it twisted down. The answer wasn't surprising as Peyton continued.

"I waited outside his house when the lawyer was there for the will change. We planned meticulously. I used some of daddy's guys to clean up the mess. Ran the bastard off the road and set his car on fire, thus preventing the new will from being filed. Meanwhile, Tommy was supposed to kill his mom, making it look like she just died from the cancer. Probably smothered her, I suppose."

Brutal, though nowhere near the massacres Harleen herself had committed. Before her, Peyton's eyes had filled with tears again. Guilt? No, loss. Maybe both. Hard to tell.

"Worse part is, as soon as he got the money, he dumped me. Left me to fend for myself." Peyton's head dropped into her knees, sobbing. Her words choked out. "Because of his selfishness, my dad was killed by Johnny right in front of me. And then he shot me three times. And I got sent here."

"You blame him, this Tommy, for your current situation?" A good start. Even if the story was false, the person was likely real. Tommy. Someone she could focus on, begin to repair the damaged mind of Ms. Riley. Repress those horrible memories to find some control over her condition.

"Every single day," Peyton said, the words muffled by her knees. Then after a moment, she began to laugh. Unsettling. "I guess I lied last week. In the end, Tommy didn't really make me happy."

"You killed your mother, Thomas. Congratulations. You're no better than I am." Harley clapped her hands, slow, sarcastic. "You're one of us."

Visibly, Thomas shook. All those tiny emotions flooding through his body, his face growing red. Anger was winning out over the rest. Typical with men. She saw his fists ball up and became excited, hoping he would beat her for the revelation. Very few men got the honor of laying hands on her but for him, she'd let it happen. Let him rage all over her and bloody her body. And she would enjoy every moment, missing Mr. J's harsh touch but enjoying the feel of something new. Thomas' eyes glared at her, a rage fueled from something dark within. A true delight. Harley didn't need to corrupt Thomas. He was already there, just begging for that final push over the edge.

"Come on, Thomas," she taunted. "You know you want to do it. Don't I remind you of your mother? Laying here, all helpless? Relying on you to care for me?" She licked her lips, watching him twitch, an internal struggle that she was all too familiar with. "How did you kill her, I wonder. Smother your poor mom with a pillow? Inject her with a lethal dose? Or did you want to be more hands on? Wrapping your hands around her throat, choking the life out of her?" Harley laughed. "It must have beautiful to watch the life drain out of her. And here I am, in the same position as she once was. Does it turn you on to see your past coming to life in your present?"

A scream of rage emerged from his mouth as he scrambled towards her, wrapping his hands around her throat, thumbs cutting off her air, pressing into the scar the ran across her neck. Familiar and stimulating. Memories of her lover doing the same, over and over, before and after her change. And she smiled up at the internal destruction she wrought. The anger, the hate, in his eyes. Thomas was cracking and it was magnificent to witness.

She would have laughed if she had the breath to do so.

"I just feel so lonely sometimes, like no one understands me." Peyton's tears fell. "I miss intimacy. I miss the touch of another human being."

"Arkham does offer animal therapy," Harleen said. "An hour a week with an animal. Cat, dog, hamster, and others. Obviously, you have to work for that privilege but it's worthwhile. Many of the patients here have benefited from the program. Would you be interested?"

She shook her head. "It won't help. I just...I don't know."

"You'll get past this, Peyton. I know you will." Harleen glanced at the time. "I'm sorry, we're out of time for today. Why don't we talk more about this next time? And I'll see what I can do about increasing your recreation time with the other patients."

Fifteen sessions so far. Two months. A lot of progress with the disturbed girl. And her heart went out to Peyton, really feeling sympathy for her. A girl caught up in her family's mafia life, forced into situations where the easier choice was the criminal choice. No wonder her mind couldn't handle it, the trauma. Too close to home, Harleen knew. Her inner demons saw the weakness inside Peyton, but the controlled side only saw someone who needed help.

With fluid grace, she stood. Peyton didn't, staying in her seat, as if she wanted something. "Is there something else you need?" Harleen asked.

Peyton nodded. "A hug?"

She looked so miserable. So pathetic that Harleen couldn't say no, despite the professional boundaries and ethics involved. She nodded to the girl and went to her, wrapping her arms around her, hoping one day, the wounds would heal. Peyton sobbed into her shoulder, created wet spots on her turtleneck. "It'll be okay, Peyton."

"I know it will."

A change in tone. The sudden even breathing. Warning bells went off in Harleen's head a second before Peyton punched her in the gut. Harleen went down, the air whooshing from her lungs. She had no time to recover before Peyton was on her, slamming the back of her head into the carpeted floor. Delicious pain rushed through her system as she struggled to breath and stay conscious. Her control was beginning to fail, the demons inside crawling at her mind, wanting to shred her attacker to pieces. No breath to focus on, no object to connect her mind to. She was losing the war of her instinctual id state.

Peyton crawled off Harleen's prone form, walking over to the desk. "You know too much, Dr. Quinzel." The paranoia side of her schizophrenia was coming to the front, her voice shaky and shrill. "He said I couldn't trust you. He told me you'd betray me, tell my secrets and I can't have that!" She was practically screaming. "Only person I can trust is Scarface. He'll protect me and keep me safe. Not you!"

Harleen twitched, bleeding but trying to move, trying to catch her breath enough to call out for help. Fighting to keep her control in check. She felt like an idiot. Trusting the poor, sick girl to be just that. But she had forgotten that no one came to Arkham without a history of violence of some sort. A rookie mistake and foolish of her to believe that this girl even wanted her help.

Peyton returned, clutching Harleen's laptop in her hands, a dangerous look in her eyes. Just as she was about to bring it down in a deadly blow, the door crashed open. The two guards were on the girl in an instant, pulling her away, the laptop falling harmlessly to the floor. Peyton screamed as they pushed her down to the floor, struggling harshly against their grip. The adrenalin kicked in and Harleen sat up, ignoring the lightheaded feeling that threatened to put her back down again. A nurse came running in, needle in hand, injecting the girl with a sedative as Harleen watched, stunned, recovering.

The anger, the hate, in Peyton's eyes before they closed. It was the most heartbreaking thing Harleen had ever witnessed.

Two hands pulled Thomas off her. Harley sucked in a deep breath, gasping, coughing. The pain abandoning her, much to her sorrow. The darkness around her vision began to clear and she saw Geoffrey, the butler, tossing Thomas into the armoire. The dignified man stood between her and Thomas, making sure he didn't make another attempt on her life. But she could see the rage fading from her friend, a lightning temper. A flash, one last glare, and it was gone, leaving nothing but a cold, clinical stare behind.

Thomas nodded to the butler, saying nothing, before stalking from the room. Geoffrey monitored his exit before turning to Harley. "Are you alright, miss?"

"Never better," Harley rasped, her own voice sounding like Mr. J's, her smile never leaving her face.

Geoffrey shook his head in disbelief at her reaction, a sigh, before leaving the room, no doubt to chase after his employer. Thomas was a ticking time bomb of repressed emotions, hidden beneath his cool mask. His mask was better than she originally thought. Harley hadn't suspected a thing. Another person who hit close to home, and she remembered the lessons of Peyton. On the nightstand, her phone beeped, a text message from Mr. J.

P. R. suicide Friday post-visit from T.E. Wednesday.

Peyton Riley was dead. The inner fire that had been burning since the mention of the name began to die. While not her first case, Peyton was the first to affect her emotionally. She would normally chalk up the mistakes to inexperience and youth, but it was the only case she ever had reassigned to another doctor. No. It was the look in her eyes. The same look she saw in Thomas' eyes. The same look she used to see in her own, before she became free. The darkness within.

Hidden, little nuggets of destruction implanted in the mind. Peyton gave in to hers through a deranged hatred and rage. Harley gave in to hers through despair, love, and years of pain. Thomas, though, was still holding on. Even without the butler's interference, she suspected he would have let go on his own. Rage and hate weren't his path, not entirely. Neither was love. No, he would need something more. Harley just needed to discover what.

A/N: Thank you all for continuing to follow this story or review it. I had a lot of issues writing this chapter so I hope it came across well. For those curious, it follows some of the DC comic book history of Peyton Riley and Thomas Elliot. Questions, comments, feedback? Please review!