A cicada sends
its sawing song
high into the empty air.
--"Ode to Enchanted Light" by Pablo Neruda--
It was five in the morning and Jonathan found himself staring half-heartedly from his bed. The sun hadn't begun peeking through his thin curtains yet, but he was fully awake. Scarecrow, however, was still sleeping. He'd probably fallen asleep only minutes ago, needing less sleep than Jon.
Jonathan wanted to do nothing more than close his eyes and fall back into his dreams which, despite his mindset before falling asleep, were perfectly void of any hot, tempting fantasies. He couldn't go back to sleep, though, and aware of this he finally sighed and left the bed.
He was used to days like these, getting little sleep but aroused at early hours. It was a trait he had possessed since childhood, a mechanism that had probably been kept because it kept him out of more trouble with his Granny then. Early to bed, early to rise, kept him safe and away from Granny's eyes and thus in her graces for a little while, he recited in his head as he stretched. He rubbed his face feeling stubble already gracing his jaw line and shook his head; he didn't feel like shaving.
He nimbly picked his way through his room, picking up clothes as he went. It was a morning routine, no matter the hour. As he passed the living area of his flat, he threw the pile of clothes in a gray basket to his side. The house was silent, but not eerily. Actually it was refreshing, as it always had been on the occasions he was woken without the hum of Scarecrow in his ears. He could think for himself without input, without his Id whining about its desires.
He liked peace and quiet. He liked his flat, a place of his own where it was always safe. He liked feeling secure and he relished in his early morning appreciation as he stepped into the kitchen yawning away the last visages of sleep. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a shiny pan, his reflection bouncing off another as he removed the cooking tool. His eyes caught on his image and like he was apt to do, he studied it.
It gave away no indication of his self-diagnosed Multiple Personality Disorder; one couldn't tell from the reflection that instead of one Jonathan Crane there was actually two. Perhaps not in appearance, but he could feel it.
It was the knowledge of missing a piece of yourself, something crucial, and it lied at your fingertips, but despite being so close that you can touch it and hold it, you had no idea how to put the pieces back together because you lost the tube of superglue.