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

Four Casualties

I'm shoved relatively gently into the back of a van, and my aching body is thankful for the change of pace. It's dark outside, and I hear the lapping of water against concrete before both back doors slam shut.

We drive for what feels like hours; and we drive fast. I try time and time again to stand up and find some form of a weapon- but my body is absolutely crumbling under the weight of physical and mental fatigue. I simply lose balance and hit the hard metal ground over and over. My escort bangs on the divider and yells something about holding still. Helpless against the whims of own broken body, I must.

I can't help but wonder what my next cage will be. Panic grips me as we leave my familiar shit covered dog crate behind- god knows what will come next. Knowing my captor, something theatrical, a bird cage I'm sure. A bird cage for his precious Raven. I can hear the joker's pinched voice in my head, I can hear it as it says my name- and I could throw up. The thing about torture, is that you don't seem to belong to yourself anymore. You're simply a play toy, something that has to adjust to the pain; something that must adhere to their captors whims. The word Raven doesn't belong to me anymore. It belongs to him.

I wonder if Crane is a coward. If it's simply easier to move on and leave me behind. I wonder if he's still alive. I wonder if he's fighting for me and I'm almost positive that's he's not.

We come to a stop, and the van continues to idle. The front door slams in the muffled night and back doors swing open. The burly man grabs ahold on my bare shit covered feet and yanks me out of the van. I groan as he slips an arm under my pit and holds me up. My eyes begin to adjust to the orangey streetlights in the night. We're at a motel. My breath catches; I don't know what to think.

"You're gonna go inside and wash up. He'll be here in a moment."
The man says quietly.

He'll be here in a moment?
The joker?

Hot tears well in my lids and my shaking hand grasps the man's arm. He shakes it off and I can't do anything to grip his skin. I'm too weak.

"Please,"
I beg.

"Let me go."

"I'm under orders mam'm."

He pushes me into a motel room on the first floor and hands me a keycard after we enter. The hotel room is untouched, and rather normal though my tear blurred eyes.

"Take a shower, but don't try nothin'- i'll be sitting right here."

"You have ten minutes."

He sits on the corner of the singular queen sized bed and motions for me to go into the small rectangular bathroom.

Ten minutes to escape?

To my dismay, the bathroom lacks any form of a window. So I turn on the shower to distract the man as I figure out my escape plan.

I could run out and grab the man, I could be that weapon, I could save myself...

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my heart sinks. Who is this?

My cheeks have sunken in, my hair is matted and frizzy at the top of my head. My eyes are dark and turned downwards from fatigue.

I look like hell.

I look down at my body and notice my inmate jumpsuit is covered in shit. My feet are covered in shit, my hands-

In a panic I strip off my clothes. This may be my only chance to shower. I test the hot water on my hands and I could almost moan. The warmth.

Happily, I jump in, and forget my plan for a moment. I simply enjoy the heat as it pushes the caked feces off my body and down the drain. I can see my bones through my skin; and bruises have erupted on my skin in colors I didn't even know about. I wash my hair with the small shampoo and conditioner provided and scrub half my skin off.

"Times up."
The man calls. I hear an ounce of sympathy in his voice. I can't wait to take it out of him.

"Stay behind the curtain, I'm going to throw some clothes into the bathroom for you,"

After I hear the door latch shut, I pull the curtain back with it's heinous scraping screech. On the stained tile lay a pile of clothes. I sort through them and find a large grey pull-string hoody, a men's 'Radiohead' band Tee, and a pair of dark wash woman's jeans. I put them on, grateful for the soft worn cotton of the tee- anything but my shit covered onesie. Why does the joker want me to look inconspicuous? Who's clothes are these?

"Mam'm?"
The guard calls from the other side of the door.

I stare in the mirror for a moment at my wet snarled hair and attempt to braid the clumps into something somewhat manageable. I wish I had scissors to cut the whole lot off.

"Miss Alcott?"
The voice says.

Miss Alcott?

I push through the door and find three more guards have joined me in the hotel. A stone sinks into my stomach. What atrocity are they about to escort me into that requires four armed guards?

In the dim orange lamp-light of the motel room I lunge at the first guard. I grasp his face and watch his veins pulse as every ounce of his soul flows into mine. A small sound escapes him as he drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The second guard pulls a gun and another slaps it from his hand.

"We have orders!"
He bellows.

"Fuck his orders!"
The fourth guard screams.

Before he can pull his weapon i slam into him and press my skin onto his bare arm. He crumbles to the ground.

Then it goes on, on and on. All four dead.

I'm free.

I grab one of my escort's guns and tuck it into my baggy hoodie's front pocket. I push the door open and get ready to run.

But then suddenly there he is.

Terrifyingly beautiful, terrifyingly cold.

Jonathon Crane propped against the stairwell, eye brows raised and a smile creeping across his devilish lips.

Doctor Jonathon fucking Crane.