Melody Ginger used to be a scared little girl before the car accident that permanently damaged her brain and rid her of all feelings of fear. Craving the experience of human emotion again, she seeks out a particular doctor to help mend her broken mind in an unconventional way.
Chapter 1
XXX
The doctor that's recommended to her is a balding, middle-aged man who Melody wants no business with. He's not a pill-pusher - which is exactly what she wanted. In fact, he's suggested that it would be far more efficient for her not to take any medication, as it may further damage the parts of her brain that have been injured. She holds her temper as long as she can muster, but by the second session, she's had enough of his "professional opinions."
"I can't feel," she snaps during their second useless session. "I can't feel. I can't be the only one that's experienced this before. There has to be something that stimulates the amygdala. Anything."
Doctor Meyers leans forward with his head tilted to the side, as though taking in her aggression. He sighs and informs her, "Melody, I cannot recommend you take medication under these circumstances. This is like nothing I've seen before."
"I can't fucking feel," Melody hisses. "Do you understand that? All I feel is anger, I'm so fucking angry all the time. I'm driving my fiancé up the wall." She feels tears of frustration well up in her eyes, and allows them to pour down her face with ease. In the past, she would've been embarrassed to cry in front of anyone other than those close to her, but due to her lack of embarrassment, she's able to make an easy exception. And the exception only increases her desperation. "Please, I need something."
Doctor Meyers sighs and peers into Melody's patient file with a frown. He takes a pen out of his desk drawer and marks something down. Melody strains her neck to see what he's writing.
Increased patient aggression.
"That's all you're going to write?" she snaps. She digs her finger nails into the chair she's sitting in until she feels enough pain to ease her distress, at least a little bit. "Any normal person would have anxiety about this whole situation. I was taking xanax before all this, now what use is it to me? I don't have anxiety. Which should be a good thing, right? No fear, no anxiety, nothing. I could do anything I wanted without fear of failure or rejection." Doctor Meyers offers her a tissue, as the flow of her tears has increased, and she takes it with hesitation and blows her nose. "You don't understand."
"I'm sure I don't," says Doctor Meyers calmly. "I suppose, if anything, I could prescribe an anti-depressant to ease your feelings of depression and anger. Zoloft is a good choice, I've found it very helpful with many of my other patients. It increases the release of serotonin-"
"I KNOW WHAT IT DOES!" roars Melody. She stands up in her chair and begins kicking at Doctor Meyer's desk, causing a flood of paperwork to flurry around the room. Doctor Meyers waits calmly for her episode to end, but his lack of reaction only further infuriates her. She comes toward him and presses her face inches from his, her eyes filled with tears and her forehead creased with frustration. "If you're not going to fucking help me, I'll find someone else," she threatens. "And that's one less patient to help fill your paycheck, Doctor."
Doctor Meyers adjusts his glasses and sighs. Melody thinks she sees him briefly roll his eyes. "Miss Ginger, I would greatly appreciate it if you would take a seat."
She abides reluctantly by his request and sits down with a huff, her arms crossed and her finger nails pressed into her skin with the intention of drawing blood.
"You can switch psychiatrists if you think that would suit your needs," he continues, "but I can almost guarantee you that you will never come across a doctor who has dealt with this kind of situation before."
"I like how you say almost," Melody responds. She smiles a tiny grin, more of a smirk really, sort of as a spiteful fuck you to the abomination of a doctor sitting before her.
Doctor Meyers says nothing, but instead glances up at the clock in relief. "Melody, my three-thirty will be here shortly. I'm afraid we'll have to continue our discussion of this topic next week." He spins in her chair to face his desk, takes out of small sheet of paper, and scribbles down a prescription. "This is a prescription for Zoloft," he explains, placing it in her hand. "If you feel you should need it, don't hesitate to have it filled."
Melody crumples up the paper throws it at him. It bounces off his bald head and falls to the floor.
"That won't be necessary," she says acidly, standing up. She stands by the doorway for a moment and says with deep sarcasm, "Have a lovely evening, doctor" before slamming the door behind her.
XXX
Melody arrives back at her apartment about an hour later, stumbling into the doorway before collapsing drunkenly on the sofa in the living room. She had stopped for a few beers beforehand, and when her fiance enters the room and immediately takes notice of her intoxicated state, he clicks his tongue in disappointed and sits beside her. "So I'm guessing therapy didn't go so well, huh? You think drinking will solve that?"
"I'm twenty-one, it's legal," grumbles Melody. "And it's not therapy," she continues, her face against a pillow. She tilts her head up to look at her fiancé and informs him, "It's more medication management than anything. Or at least, it should be, but this whack-job won't give me anything." She sighs, though it comes out as more of a broken-sounding whimper. "John, it's been three weeks since the accident, and nothing's improved. I was hoping something would improve. I was hoping the doctors were wrong."
"Well you can always be grateful for that, can't you? Having hope?" He leans forward to kiss her hair, then lifts her up from the couch so that's she facing him. "Babe, three weeks isn't a long time. Especially not for extensive trauma to the brain."
A tear makes its way down Melody's cheek. She doesn't bother to brush it away. "I feel like I'm in a nightmare. But the only difference is, I'm not afraid."
"I wish I could understand, Mel, I really do. The only thing I can say is - oh, hold up, you gotta watch this newscast." He reaches for the television remote and turns the volume up considerably, as though Melody's inability to feel fear has impacted her hearing in some way. "This nutcase got out of Arkham a few weeks ago. My supervisors have been pushing me for days to go after him-"
"You're a DEA agent, what does that nut have to do with your office?"
"Well, he's peddling drugs, isn't he? Although not much of a recreational value… unless you get off on being terrified." He chuckles bitterly before glancing at Melody, whose expression is stone-cold. His laughter ceases immediately. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking when I said that-"
"I know," says Melody softly. She shakes her head and replies playfully, "After all, do you ever think?"
"Fuck you," says John in response. He nudges her elbow teasingly, and Melody stares at him for a brief moment before leaning forward and kissing him full on the mouth. He kisses her back easily before she pulls away and wanders to his neck, planting light kisses along his collar bone. She brings her mouth to his ear and whispers,
"Even if I can't feel fear, I can still feel you."
She swings her leg up and positions herself on top of his lap, whilst also rubbing his thigh very gently.
"I like the way you think, babe," replies John. He has a glazed over expression of lust as he picks Melody up and holds her over his shoulder, heading toward the bedroom. "But let's not make a mess on our nice new couches."
"But making a mess his half the fun," says Melody as he rests her on the bed. She pouts seductively and reaches for her shirt, pulling it off with ease. "Kiss me, you little bitch."
John's lips curl into a smirk. "Your wish is my command."
XXX
Johnathan Crane. The man who escaped Arhkam. That was his name, wasn't it?
Long after John had fallen asleep, Melody lay curled up in bed, her knees pressed against her chest. She was experiencing the unpleasant feeling of a hole cut straight out of her throat and a burning in her stomach, as though the acid was leaking out through her skin. Even during the sex with her fiancé, she had not stopped thinking about the man with the scarecrow mask who got off on scaring the living hell out of his victims.
Couldn't scare me, she thinks, almost with relish, until she realizes that's exactly what is fueling her current nightmarish situation.
I wonder what they feel. She thinks of his victims, the way they must scream so loudly and beg so desperately that it must pierce his corrupt conscience in some way. Does he feel no regret, or does he simply ignore it? Do their screams haunt his nightmares, or does he think of them as pleasant dreams? She wonders what she would see - if she could see anything, what with her newfound disability…
Couldn't scare me, she thinks again, this time with a sense of curiosity lurking in the back of her mind. He couldn't scare her, that much was for sure… She was broken, her mind was broken and unfixable and as much as she hated every second of it, it was inevitable and there was nothing she could do. She was unfixable, irreversible; the doctors had even informed her of that. And after all, they were medical professionals. They obviously knew what they were talking about. Of course they did. He absolutely could not scare her, no matter how hard he tried… It was impossible, he could not scare her…
...
...
…or could he?