Within Arkham's Walls: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow x OC Fanfiction

III. Underqualified

I found out very quickly the in-depth meaning of "Client Case Notation Specialist."

Essentially, I was to sit in on all of Dr. Crane's sessions with his patients and notate any strange or irregular behaviors that I saw.

"I'm too preoccupied asking the patient questions and contemplating their answers to track every detailed movement, facial expression, and other irregularities they display," Dr. Crane had told me on my first day, his voice slick but stern.

My first thought had been that I was underqualified for this position. I was a businesswoman, not a psychologist. The only experience I had with any sort of behavioral studies or body language reading was from dates, which, these days, were few and far between. I had more pressing things to worry about than if a man fancied me or not. Or if he wanted to kidnap me, assault me, or kill me.

Or all of the above.

It wasn't until my second week at Arkham that Dr. Crane had decided to hold a private meeting with me. I had been sitting in with him as was required of me, but my case notations were scattered and borderline incoherent. I tried pinpointing the behaviors I felt that I was supposed to look for, but instead became so enveloped by the individual, i.e. the case, that my observation skills became useless.

This job required a level of experience and psychoanalytical knowledge that I didn't possess. But, I wouldn't let Dr. Crane see that. Despite his unique beauty, I could smell his arrogance. He absolutely reeked of it under his overpowering scent of rich, heavy cologne. I would not fail in front of such an egotistical individual.

"Ms. Thatcher," Crane cooed, initiating our meeting, "how are you feeling about your position here at Arkham so far?" His crystal-blue irises scanned me carefully. His jaw was clenched, causing his angular cheekbones to protrude even further than they already did. He sat motionless across from me, only the stale breeze from a moldy AC vent gently tossing his sleek hair. Rested on the table before him were a pair of large, veined hands that were slightly clenched. His pouty top lip pursed.

I was shocked that in all of my years of visiting the asylum I had never seen Dr. Crane, as he would stand out in such a dank and mundane place like this. But perhaps that was because he only worked with patients staying within the walls of Arkham.

"I'm enjoying it so far, and I'm incredibly grateful for this opportunity." I paused. The way he stared at me, so handsomely but at the same time so hatefully, chilled my core. I had lost my breath for a moment, but I quickly pulled myself together, not letting myself break eye contact. "But I understand I have quite a lot to learn."

He tilted his chin in acknowledgment. "Yes, about that," his words slithered across the table, "that's why I have brought you in here today. I want to show you a few things. I believe it'll increase your capabilites in assessing my...clients." I nodded. He got up swiftly and turned off the lights, the sudden blackness startling me.

"Dr...?" I started, but was cut off by a whirring sound and blinding light from a projection screen at the end of the room. On it, there was a woman bound to a chair, fear in her eyes as they frantically looked around the room. I too began looking around the room I was in, my head swiveling from side to side. Where did the doctor go?

I was afraid.

✣

I felt weak and queasy once I had finally arrived at my apartment. I had to drive the whole way from work with my windows down and my AC blasting freezing air just to stop myself from hurling out the drivers side window.

What I had witnessed on that projection screen was horrible. But, I had learned a lot, just as Dr. Crane told me I would. The woman on the screen had been a past patient at Arkham. She had been diagnosed clinically insane and throughout the film, more and more of her insanity seeped out. She screamed, convulsed, spit, and did many other gut-wrenching things that I can't begin to describe.

During this, Dr. Crane told me to point out her behaviors. I named all the most obvious ones I could see, but I could tell he had become irritated and he droned me further. "No, Ms. Thatcher," he had snapped, "look closer. Pay attention to the things that they...," he said as he waved his hands to the psychologists across from the insane woman, "wouldn't see. Things that I wouldn't see."

That's when I began realizing what it was that I was supposed to be looking for. I started by looking at the woman's hands, her fingers. She picked at her cuticles in a compulsive rhythm, only stopping to itch the top of her left hand three times before starting back. I noticed how she twitched her head: left, left, right, left, right, over and over again without failing to break her pattern. When I pointed these things out to Dr. Crane, he gave a pleased but forced grin.

I had finally gotten it. I understood what he wanted. A part of me had spite towards his narcissistic attitude that only took me a week and a half to recognize, but there was another, strange part of me that wanted to please him.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the horrible state that I had seen that woman in...the insanity that overtook her. The way she moved and twitched, almost inhumanly, and how her screams made my blood run colder than Dr. Crane's eyes.

Now I could put "traumatized" as part of my workplace-earned attributes.