The Skin That Crawls From You [A Jonathan Crane Fan-fiction]

Rachel Dawes.

I'm woken up by a cruel burning grip hoisting me by my arm, out of my hospital bed.

The nurse pushes me down into a chair, straps me in, and rolls me down the wooden hallways of Arkham.

"It's time for your shower,"
She says sharply.

As we walk, another female nurse rolling a male patient comes up besides us . In her chair, a pale balding man sits in our common uniform; that red jumpsuit. As he sits, he murmurs over and over beneath his breath.

The sight of him makes my body freeze but it isn't until I fully listen to what he has to say that I realize how afraid I should truly be.

His voice is barely audible over the creaking of the wheel chairs, but it's there.

"Scarecrow, Scarecrow, Scarecrow."

his eyes are glossy and staring out into the hall; focused on nothing in particular. I take a deep breath and eye him carefully,this victim of Crane, fully unresponsive.

"These reassignments are ridiculous!"
The African American nurse complains behind us.

"At least you're not on shower duty- I've had to line them up I've got so many"
My nurse claims, her Latina accent as thick as ever.

"Arkham's cutbacks are getting unbearable,"
The second nurse agrees before veering down a separate hall and wheeling the poor man away.

My nurse parks me and the chair beside the wall, facing that hallway. I watch the other woman disappear into a room before re-emerging with an empty chair. Before me is a long queue of wheel chair bound women all in line for a shower (I assume.) My nurse bustles away and disappears into the wash room, rolling a woman inside the room with her. I curiously peer out the window above my seat only to find darkness. It's the middle of the night.
She's pulled us all out of bed for showers in the middle of the night? She must truly be running behind.

Still half asleep, a part of me begs to drift back into that slumber, to visit that Crane. The one who I can thoughtlessly want, the one I don't have to fight. Because in that world he isn't the leader of some chemical war on Gotham. He's just a handsome doctor who wants to help me. Who wants me. He's just Jonathan- he's-  he's right there.

Down the hall, a thin brown haired woman stands frigidly; not a doctor. She wears a tight fitting plum shirt and a jean skirt. I watch her carefully; as just behind her stands Crane. He looks caught off guard, anxious perhaps; but mainly frustrated. Normally so steely, it's odd to see a hint of emotion on him.

"I have nothing further to add to the report I filed with the judge."
He says.

"I have questions about your report."
She responds sharply.

"Such as?"

"Isn't it convenient for a 52 year-old man who had no history of mental illness to suddenly have a complete psychotic breakdown just when he's about to be indicted?"
She questions, she stands just in front of the murmuring mans room. Her back to me.

Indicted?

"Well as you can see for yourself, there is nothing convenient about his symptoms."

"What's scarecrow?"
She responds.

Ice shoots through my veins. Maybe if I could get her attention, if I could just convince her that I'm innocent and that Crane is twisted and that- no. It's all too far fetched. Yet somehow it's all true. I hear some rattle outside the window but don't have time to investigate- it must be some sort of animal or bug on glass.

"Out there he was a giant, but in here, only the mind can grant you power."
Crane says, as I jump back into ease dropping.

This woman must be the assistant attorney general Dr. Crane complained about yesterday.

"You enjoy the reversal?"
She gently accuses.

"No I simply respect the mind's power over the body; it's why I do what I do."

"I do what I do to keep thugs like Falcone behind bars- not in therapy."
She hisses, stepping past Dr. Crane. I watch his gaze follow her, frustrated yet still. As she passes, her body no longer blocking me, his eyes catch mine. He doesn't show any hint of acknowledgment, he simply turns and follows the woman down the hall.

"I want my own psychiatric consultant to have full access to falcone including blood work. Find out what exactly you put him on."
She yells as she stalks away.

My nurse wheels a soaking wet woman past me, the fresh scent of cheap bar soap catching my nose. Dr. Crane steps into the elevator with the woman dressed in plum directly down the hall; and for a moment I feel something pang in my stomach. I can't tell if it's fear for her, or something different? Jealousy? I swallow yet another unwanted undecided feeling. I thought a place like this would try to help me understand and voice those feelings. It has simply created so much more.

I watch him take his keys from his pocket and insert them into the elevator. He's taking her to the basement.  The doors close slowly and they fully disappear.