© Ellie Goodson 2016

Chapter Twenty Four-Welcome back to Arkham

~Arabella Jones~

I was being cruelly dragged to my new cell in cuffed wrists and ankles. I'd been stripped of everything, even my clothing. The sick perverts were making me wander the halls of Arkham in my black underclothing. My hair had been shoved into a ponytail, tied so tight that I felt strands of hair tear loose whenever I moved. They really didn't trust me, after tricking the lot of them into believing I was actually...well, sane before leaving to take a life of crime and love with the Joker. According to the whispers I'd heard around me, Batman had confirmed that I'd killed or seriously injured every man and woman that I had recently attacked. I guess you could say that I was now a serial killer.

I kept my head low, not that I had anything to shade my face. My eyes constantly scanned for any sight of the Joker, but all I could see were other criminals. Some licked their lips and glared hungrily at my bared body while I passed their cells, other ignored me and acted like I was no one new. One cell contained a man in a green suit, with a purple question marks stamped all over his body. He clapped his hands slowly as I passed, eyes hiding all emotion. I kept my eyes trained on him until I could no longer turn my head, wondering who the crazed man was, and why he got to keep his own clothes.

I had tried several times to question the guards that boarded my body while guiding me to my cell. With every attempt, I was left with more unanswered questions, and anger the bubbled and boiled at the pit of my stomach. I gave up in the end, grunting and groaning at every cruel thought that built in my brain. The walk to my new home (or my glass cell) was long and leg aching, and by time the guards stopped me from moving, I found myself grateful to them. All I wanted was to get inside my cell and cover my body, when covered; I'd find something to do. Find a way out, because I could only contain my fury for so long.

A cold, large hand placed itself between my shoulder blades, sending shockwaves of ice down my back, before shoving hard so that I tumbled into the cell. I landed on my hands and knees, feeling skin split and blood trickle out from the open wounds. I gasped in a deep breath, and quickly twisted so that I rested on my feet. Slowly, I rose up, never removing my death glare from the bastard that had shoved me to the ground. "I may be a criminal, but I am still a woman. If you were a man at all, you'd treat me with just an ounce of respect." My fists clenched themselves into tight balls, which trembled with anger. I felt hot liquid flow down my legs, but simply walked over to the white sheets of the bed instead.

I'd been inside cells in Arkham many times before, and they never changed. There was a small, wooden bed which rested at the far corner of the cell. Everything that was on it was white, the sheets, the pillows, the mattress, everything. Resting on the bed was a pair of black trousers and tight fitting black top. Ah, so they didn't want me to be able to hide anything. At least they gave me something black; it'd hide the black underwear very well. I slid the clothes over my body, ignoring the blood that smeared over my knees. They'd heal, soon enough.

In the centre of the room, a wooden table laid with two chairs on opposite ends. There was a stack of paper and a pencil which rested on top of the table, completely untouched. Apart from that, the cell was bare and transparent. There was no hiding myself, and the guards could watch me while I slept. An image flashed through my mind, of the men with guns circling my bare body like predators, while I, the prey, slept soundly, unaware of their deadly presence. I knew then, that there wasn't a chance of me sleeping tonight. Who could sleep in Arkham anyway?

I'd been told that I'd have a psychiatrist within minutes of arriving at my cell, and so I waited patiently for the Doctor to appear. I sat on the bed, a clear contrast against the pristine sheets. I had blood and dirt smeared on my face and stuck in my hair. There was dirt stuck under my nails, which could've done with being trimmed. My hands shook, and it was then that I realised that my body was in need of food and hydration. The battle took a lot out of me. With my legs crossed and hands folded neatly, I prayed silently that someone would bring me refreshments. It was human rights after all.

Although, technically, I was a criminal, and I had no right to humans rights anymore. It looked like I was going to be treated like an animal in here. Beginning to understand why the other criminals resented this place so much, it also struck me as to why my patients always seemed to have a bad temper and an awful attitude. The thought of some patronising doctor who thought he or she knew me, sat down talking to me and asking me questions, made me want to slam my head against the glass wall several times.

My knees continued to gush blood, my eyes began to ache as I felt a headache spring to life and my patience grew thin while I waited for my psychiatrist to show his or her pretty little face. I didn't know how I was going to get myself out of the cell, let alone get the Joker out as well and then leave Arkham without being dragged back in. All I knew was that it had to be subtle. Which meant dealing with the cell and its four walls for a couple days, I couldn't allow the guards to know that I was already planning an escape.

When, at last, I saw a male at the door, wearing a familiar lab coat and holding similar things as I once held, I got up from the bed and took a seat on the plastic chair, opposite a fabric chair that was stuffed with foam. Of course the psychiatrist got the comfortable chair. I was rapidly beginning to understand as to why my patients despised me so much, well a few of them didn't but most did. Or maybe they didn't. My memory was blurring, it all seemed like a life time ago that I was working for Arkham. Ironically, I was now a patient in Arkham. Like Harley, but I was so different compared to her.

The glass door slid shut behind the male who appeared to be my psychiatrist. He was broad shouldered, his body shape fitting the type of an upside down triangle. His hair was such a light blonde, that it appeared white in certain lighting. When he took a seat, I observed that his eyes were a pale, shining blue and his skin was sun kissed. It was obvious that every part of his body was well worked and perfectly structured. Overall, he was quite attractive, but he was nothing compared to my Joker.

When he spoke, his voice was liquid gold. It made me feel sick to the stomach, for it was close to how the Joker sounded when it was just me and him, just me and Jack. "Good morning, Miss Jones. I am Doctor Morgan, you're new psychiatrist." It was morning already? Well, time really did fly in the Asylum. I remained silent for a moment, before crossing my arms over my chest and slouching back in my chair.

"You ever call me anything other than Miss Jones, and I'll slit your neck with my finger nail." I watched as the blood drained from the Doctors face, and some part of me, locked far away, was howling with laughter.

"Very well, Miss Jones. Let's look through your file." With slightly trembling hands, Doctor Morgan slid a few papers out of my very own file-I felt honoured, really.

Stacking the few papers up, I watched as the psychiatrist skimmed over the words, his skin whitening dramatically. "It says here that only a month and a half ago; you were working at Arkham yourself." I confirmed his words with a sharp nod. "It's also states that you were taken by the Joker when he broke out." I hummed a brief 'mhm' to him, silently daring him to say a word against my clown. "You and the Joker, you're a...thing, correct?"

"It's called love," I snapped, my eyes narrowing to slits. "And yes, you're correct." Seeming to be satisfied with his questions, Doctor Morgan shoved the papers back into the file and clicked his pen, leaving it hovering above the clean notepad.

I leaned forward, uncrossing my arms so that I could rest them on the table. With my palms lying flat against the wood, I spoke with a soothing voice of ease, twisting every word like a knife to the stomach. I almost saw pain contort the Doctors face as I uttered my first words. "Not so long ago, I sat exactly where you were. Treating the Joker, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Two Face and Scarecrow." I lifted a finger with each name, before slamming my hand back down on the table. "The only two which remain enemies are Two Face and Scarecrow, and that's only because they tried to kill me. Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Catwoman and I, we're very close. We commit crimes together. It's most amusing. The Joker and I, we share this emotion called Love, and we also commit crimes together. I remember all of it, everything. I'm glad I became a psychiatrist, you see. I'm grateful to Doctor Black for assigning the Joker to me, because if he hadn't, if he hadn't given me the job, I would never have met the people who mean to most to me now. Really, this is all of Doctor Black's fault."

I finished my miniature speech, slouching back into the chair once more. Doctor Morgan had been taking notes while I spoke; he stopped now and slid the pen and pad into his pocket. "It was a delight to meet you, Miss Jones. I look forward to our next session." His words were pure and kind, but the look in his eyes showed two words. Fear and anger. What was it with Arkham and employing psychopaths?

I watched in silence as the psychiatrist got up from his seat and left, looking back once before the glass door slid closed behind him. The man was not to be trusted, and I decided there and then to keep what I said to him down to the minimum. There was something not...right about Doctor Morgan, and that had to mean something coming from a girl like me.

Finding the whole event comical, the whole being sent to Arkham and needing a psychiatrist thing hilarious, I got up from my seat and strolled over to the pure sheets. I would only be resting, for I needed to at least return some strength to my body. But images remained to flash in my brain, forbidding me of sleep. I needed a glass of water and something basic to eat, but I was well aware of the fact that I had gone longer without such nutrition.

At some point, well into the afternoon, a tray was slipped into my cell by a guard. The guard was thin and lanky; he looked young and had more of a kinder and softer face. He reminded me of the goon that had given me food on orders of the Joker, and so I took an immediate liking to the guard. I trailed over and picked up the tray, seeing it contained slices of bread and butter and a glass of fresh water. Rising from the crouch I was in, I looked right into the eyes of the guard. "Thank you." It was all I said before turning and returning to the bed. When sat once more, I bit into the bread and relaxed against the glass cell.

I didn't enjoy it here, in Arkham, but I could live and get used to it. Food and water was a necessity, but there were people like the kind guard that made the Asylum better for me, and the entertainment of teasing Doctor Morgan was enough to make my day-everyday. I didn't like it, but I didn't hate it. Maybe holding out would be easier than I'd originally expected.