Days at Arkham passed slowly. It was like time ceased to exist there because seconds blurred into hours and weeks blurred into months.
It was the same damn routine. You're woken up by an alarm blasting in your ear, given a tray with what could barely be considered food three times a day, taken outside for exercise but was really just walking around in a couple of laps, taken back inside for therapy, given a few hours of free time to either read, play a board game, or watch the carefully preprogrammed channels on the TV, and finally escorted back to your cell to begin the routine all over again the next day.
But once a week, they were allowed a few hours to make art. Of course, no scissors or sharp objects were present, not only for their safety but for Arkham's staff as well. They were only able to draw and color with crayons or paint with brushes or mold something out of clay. Because no one had ever been killed or shanked with a paintbrush.
These were the days Arthur looked forward to the most. Usually, he would draw pictures of the Bat, which was really just a vague blob shape with no anatomy except for the pointed ears at the top.
He never claimed he was a good artist. But he still enjoyed the activity nonetheless. Even if he wore all the black crayons down to stubs.
Now that his wrist had healed, he had done something different. Something more complicated than an outline of the Bat. It was something he had been working on for the past two weeks. He hadn't used solely black crayons for this. No, he had even thrown in a red and a white one, too. Colors that were unheard of to him previously when it came to drawing.
Though it was still messy and amateurish, it was clear what the drawing was supposed to be. A dancing harlequin.
Arthur was putting the finishing touches on his sketch when someone suddenly appeared in front of him. He ignored them, determined to complete the sketch before his next session with Dr. Quinzel.
"Arthur," the person demanded.
With an irritated sigh, Arthur looked up from his drawing and into the familiar glare of Pamela Isley.
"Pammy," he greeted her with his signature grin. She never spoke to him much and actually went out of her way to avoid him. So for her to approach him must've meant he did something really bad. "What can I do for you this fine morning?"
Pamela's glower only deepened, and her eyes narrowed into slits. "Back off."
Arthur leaned forward in his chair and giggled at her. "Back off? You're the one who came to me! If anything, you–"
"Back off with Dr. Quinzel!" she interrupted. "I know what you're doing. I know this drawing is for her."
This got Arthur's attention. He didn't think Pamela, infamous misanthrope and tree-hugger, would care about Dr. Quinzel. Dr. Quinzel did not produce her own food or release oxygen, so therefore, Pamela should think she was less than the dirt nestled in her pots.
The chair squeaked as Arthur leaned back, a satisfied smirk resting on his face. "I didn't think you'd care, Pammy. After all, Dr. Quinzel isn't one of your photosynthetic friends. She's a human. Meaning she's what you'd call a useless meat bag."
She let out a bitter scoff. "I'm surprised you even know the word 'photosynthetic.' You look like someone who still uses their fingers to count."
It was a sharp insult, but Arthur didn't feel the least bit insulted. In fact, he laughed out loud. "Was that a joke, Pammy? I didn't think you had it in you! I have to say, I'm so proud! It seems my habits are finally starting to rub off on you!"
He wiped a faux tear from his eye, continuing to chuckle softly. Pamela was clearly not impressed since she slammed her hands down on the table and said, "I'm serious, you stupid clown. Stay away from Dr. Quinzel."
"That's kinda hard to do. You know, since she's my therapist and I'm her patient." Arthur glanced up at her with a malicious glint in his eyes. "Why do you care so much about this, Pammy? It almost sounds like you're jealous."
It was obvious bait. Arthur knew Pamela couldn't ever be jealous or care about another human. But he was curious how she'd respond. If she would take the bait.
To his disappointment, she didn't take it.
"Even the best psychiatrist in the country couldn't help someone like you," she said. "I've seen men like you before. You sink your teeth into a strong, independent woman and drag her down with you."
The smile on his face didn't waver. He just inched closer and muttered, "The only one sinking their teeth into people is you, Pammy."
Pamela's lip curled up in clear disgust, and her hands clenched into fists. She inhaled a deep breath as if to calm herself, but kept her glare fixed on him. "Yeah, you're right. So unless you want me to do the same to you, you better stick to your creepy drawings of the Bat."
Arthur couldn't take her seriously and erupted into a fit of laughter. "Go ahead. But we both know you don't have it in you to try. So unless you want to swap spit, you can go back to your drawings of daisies and daffodils."
She took a step back as he pursed his lips at her, daring her to kiss him. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but if he couldn't live on the edge, then what was the point? Plus, pushing Pamela's buttons was just so much fun. She made it so easy, too. Just a couple of words to remind her she could easily kill him, and that was enough to get under her skin. Arthur knew she would never do it because if she did, she'd have to lock lips with him. And he was sure she'd rather chop down a tree than degrade herself like that.
Seeing as she wasn't going to do anything, Arthur returned back to his drawing. He had just picked up a crayon when Pamela's hand shot out and snatched the drawing from him.
With a loud tear, she ripped the drawing in two before crumbling it into her fists and tossing it to the floor.
Off to the side, Eddie, who had been watching the entire scene from his own station, gasped and held a hand over his open mouth. Even the staff who had been keeping a close eye on them looked startled, but they made no move to step in. Of course not. Unless this turned bloody, they didn't care about some petty drama.
Arthur didn't laugh this time. The previous grin on his face had been wiped off. A surge of rage rushed through him as he stared back at the woman, and he wished there was something sharp nearby. He hated the way she looked at him, her mouth twitching as if she wanted to smile.
As if she was proud of herself for destroying his drawing.
Pamela didn't say anything more. She simply brushed her curls behind her ear and turned on her heel, heading out of the room. On her way out, Eddie stopped her and said, "You just littered."
"Shut up, Eddie," she sneered back.
Arthur watched as she disappeared down the hall. Once she was completely out of view, he got out of his seat and slowly picked up what remained of his drawing. He tried to smooth out the wrinkles in the paper as best he could, but it was ruined beyond repair. Even when he taped the torn pieces together, they could not be saved.
"C'mon, Fleck," an orderly told him. "It's time for therapy."
He didn't protest. He didn't have the energy to. With his shoulders slumped and head hanging, Arthur followed the orderly to another room where Dr. Quinzel waited for him. He had recently stopped being forced into a straitjacket when he met with her, and she had made it known it was at her request.
"Hello, Mr. Fleck." The smile on her face instantly turned into a frown when she saw him. "What's the matter?"
Arthur handed her the drawing, unable to meet her gaze. "I made this for you. It's a harlequin. You know, because your name reminds me of a harlequin."
She blinked several times, glancing between him and the drawing. "Yes, I've heard that joke before. Um, this is very thoughtful of you, Mr. Fleck. Thank you."
Keeping his head down, Arthur stared at his clasped hands like a child. This wasn't like him. At least not like the new him. This behavior was like when he still lived with his mother. When he still worked at that damn clown shop. When he was only seen as Arthur Fleck, the pathetic man who got beat up and pushed around by everyone.
"Mr. Fleck?" Dr. Quinzel's soft voice broke him out of his thoughts. "Why is it torn in half?"
"Ask Pamela," he spat under his breath. "Or should I say, Miss Ivy?"
Dr. Quinzel's eyes widened. "Ivy did this? Do you know why?"
Arthur finally met her gaze as he flung himself onto his chair. "She warned me to stay away from you. She thought I was trying to corrupt you. Crazy, ain't it? As if I had that sort of power!"
She pushed back her glasses and shook her head. "I'll talk to her about it. I'm sorry she did that. I don't understand why she'd do something like that–"
"Ain't it obvious, doc?" Arthur reclined in his chair. "Us psychos are possessive types! Pammy doesn't want to share you with me!"
It was a shot in the dark. The truth was Arthur didn't know why Pamela reacted the way she did. If he had to guess, it was that she just hated him that much. She always made her disdain for him very well-known.
And the feeling was mutual. Despite her outer beauty, Pamela reminded him too much of the people in his life who used to look down on him. Who used to treat him like garbage and think themselves so much better than him.
"Well." Dr. Quinzel cleared her throat and glimpsed at the drawing in her grasp. "I really do appreciate this, Mr. Fleck. It was a kind gesture."
"Of course, doc!" Arthur grinned at her. "You've helped me so much! You got me out of that damn straitjacket! You deserve someone who actually appreciates you."
That last sentence was a jab against Pamela. And Dr. Quinzel seemed to realize it since she said, "I didn't get into this field looking for appreciation. Everyone knows if that's what you're looking for, then this isn't the career for you. I became a psychiatrist because I wanted to help people. I want to make a difference."
Her face lit up when she said those words. She spoke so earnestly and passionately that Arthur truly believed she was sincere.
"Yeah, I know." He shrugged before letting out a chuckle. "But still, you deserve a little appreciation every once in a while. Cause God knows with patients like Pamela, it sure ain't easy."
"Besides what happened with Miss Ivy." Dr. Quinzel took a seat opposite of him and crossed one leg over the other. "How else are you doing?"
Arthur noticed how she changed the subject so effortlessly. It seemed she didn't like to talk about Pamela. Hell, he didn't blame her. He figured having someone like Pamela as a patient must be like having a root canal performed. With no anesthesia.
"Do you have a smoke?" he asked.
Dr. Quinzel sighed before digging into her purse. "Those things are bad for your health, you know," she said as she gave him a cigarette.
"Then why do you have them?" He shot her a knowing look.
She pulled out a lighter, and it flicked to life with the brush of her fingers. "I don't smoke as much as I used to, but I still haven't given it up completely. Old habits die hard, I guess."
As Arthur drew closer so she could light the cigarette, he observed just how close their bodies were. Only a few inches apart with nothing but a flame dancing between them.
Pamela had made a fatal mistake today. Because the moment someone told Arthur not to do something, the more he wanted to do it. It wasn't only the thrill of the challenge that egged him on, but the thrill of showing them he simply could.
If Pamela had no use for the doctor, then surely she wouldn't miss her if Arthur took her.
Dr. Quinzel was right. Old habits did die hard.