When Ianthe Thatcher, a 21 year old Gotham City native reluctantly accepts a seemingly promising position at Arkham Asylum, her path takes an unexpected turn.
In addition to the crumbling state of her city and the proximity of her workplace to the...
The weeks went on, and I had been working at Arkham Asylum for about a month or so. I felt like I was doing well with my client case notations, though I had to up my medication because of the anxiety the patients were giving me. Luckily, it was free of charge now since I was a staff member.
But no amount of medication would erase the tortured images that played through my mind. Only a month in and I had been exposed to schizophrenics, psychopaths (including my boss), and an array of individuals with unique mental illnesses. I hoped that after some time I would go numb to what I saw, like Dr. Crane. There was a time where together, him and I watched a client claw at his face until security came, and by that time there was...barely anything left. I had tears in my eyes, but the doctor had nothing but icy circles of blankness in his.
Now I knew why this job paid so well. I was making $45 an hour to watch people tear themselves apart.
But what I didn't understand is why they needed a person to do this. They had cameras. When I expressed this to Dr. Crane, he simply stated, "Technology does not capture intensity, such as the human mind. Your feelings and emotions in real time and in real life further enhance your descriptions, something impossible for AI." I had no further questions after that.
But something peculiar I noticed is that rather that studying the patient, like I was, Dr. Crane instead studied me during the sessions. He typically sat across from the client while I, keeping a healthy distance, sat adjacent to them. Anytime I was deeply analyzing a patient, my thought process would be interrupted by the chilling feeling of Crane's glacial eyes caressing my every movement. After every session he asked me how I was feeling, though I felt like it was for statistical purposes rather than genuine concern. Or maybe it was a mix of both.
And the most peculiar thing was that after work, he would never leave the premise before me. Whether he knew that I knew or not, everyday I saw him in his car watching me get into mine, but I never actually saw him leave after me. Did he ever go home? Or just anywhere but here?
I noticed he had some obsessive tendencies, and tried not to let myself feel flattered that I was most likely his current hyper fixation.
✣
It was Saturday and as I was fulfilling my morning routine I realized I was out of medication. "Fucking hell," I muttered to myself, chucking the empty orange bottle into the bathroom trash. I had meant to pick up a refill—which was to be of a higher dosage—of my Lexapro yesterday before I left work. The last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday was go up to the asylum, the place I spent 40 hours of week at, but I needed my medication. I was supposed to go out with some friends tonight and if I didn't have something in my system I was going to be an anxious nutcase.
At this point, I felt like I belonged inside of Arkham as a patient just because of the things I had seen while working there. But I continually reminded myself that this wasn't forever, and one day this will all be over with and everything would get better. That I would get better. Though Gotham's economy and politics still weren't looking good, so I wasn't sure when that would be.
I went ahead and got ready to go out so I could just stop by the asylum and be on my way. My prescription was already called in, so I just I had to get in, avoid the snake-like eyes of Dr. Crane devouring me on the spot, get my meds, and get out.
Since I would be going to the bar for a well-deserved drink, I paired a mid-thigh length, black long sleeve dress with some sheer tights, a pair of chunky-heel black booties, and a thick black leather coat since it was getting chilly outside. I let my hair go wild, choppy curtain bangs framing my face, and opted my natural look for a little extra eyeliner.
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The sun was already setting by the time I arrived at Arkham. I made my way into the dark building and into the area where I was to pick up my medication, but stopped dead in my tracks at the threshold of the room.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
There he was, Dr. Crane, his hair glistening under the buzzing fluorescent lights and his distinct voice filling up the room. He was having a conversation with a pharmacist that was placed behind a glass divider. I wanted to turn around and leave, simply because I didn't have the sanity to deal with his moody and unpredictable ass. But, some strange desire in me wanted him to see me out of work attire. I wanted to further stimulate his hyper fixation on me, though it was bold of me to assume it was because of my looks.
Simultaneously, the doctor and the pharmacist looked towards me as the sound of my heels gave me away. Crane looked me up and down and something feral crystallized in his eyes as they met mine.
"Good evening Dr. Crane. No, I'm not here for an overnight shift, sorry to disappoint." I gave a smirk as did he. "Just here to get my meds so I don't end up as one of your cases being notated on." I gave the pharmacist my information and he went back to get my prescription.
Only inches away from my ear, Dr. Crane's voice of silk cut through the brief silence, "Funny. Though, I'll admit, I wouldn't mind having you locked up here."
My heart skipped a beat, his words sending ricocheting chills up and down my spine.
