The Good Doctor (Jonathan Crane / Scarecrow)

V.

Her heartbeat was a quick chorus of drumbeats in her ears. There was nothing altruistic about the look on Doctor Crane's face as he declared that he was going to help her.

"What does that mean?" she asked. It was difficult to will her tongue to cooperate as it sat, dry and useless, in her mouth.

He looked puzzled by the question, a touch of amusement in his eyes.

"You're so full of fear," he mused. She felt unpleasant goosebumps break out on her skin at the way his mouth formed the words, as though they were meant to be a compliment.

"I'm not scared of you," she lied. It was a last ditch effort to appear somewhat less of an easy victim, though it regrettably fell short.

He chuckled softly in response, rolling up the sleeves of his Oxford shirt to the elbow.

"If you'd like to hear the details, you're more than welcome to sit," he offered, motioning to the bed. "There is truly no need for cowering in the corner."

Distrust radiated from her. It didn't matter if she heard the details or refused to comply; she knew it did not matter. Whatever he was going to do, it was going to happen.

Slowly and while keeping her eyes fixed on him at all times, she slunk from the corner and perched on the edge of the bed.

"I know what this is. What you're doing, I mean," she accused. He seemed amused by the suggestion, raising an eyebrow as an indication for her to continue.

"The other patients, they say the people you take care of don't come back. Something about the medicine you give them," she hissed, eyeballing the syringes lined up on the table.

Crane seemed genuinely mirthful at her words, blue eyes dancing with a glee that seemed totally inappropriate for the situation.

"The medicine," he tested out the words on his tongue. "Interesting."

"Is it true?" she asked, choking back a sob. "Are you going to kill me?"

"I'm considering changing your diagnosis to histrionic personality disorder," he groaned, again rolling his eyes at her. "Your flair for the dramatic is second to few."

"Then why go through all this trouble, why bring me here at all?" she asked. The anticipation and time to imagine her fate was so much worse than just knowing what awaited her.

"I said that I was going to help you. I may be many thing the administration would be less than thrilled about, but I am not a murderer," he said as though the idea alone was entirely preposterous.

Despite his slight build and generally calm way, something in her gut told her that his proclamation of innocence might not be entirely true.

"You remind me of someone, someone I didn't have the opportunity to assist," he explained, beginning a languid pacing of the floor.

"He, too, was a very frightened boy. Abandoned by his mother and father, abused by his caretaker, a walking ghost after the thing that were done to him. Practically afraid of his own shadow," he mused ruefully.

"He, too, did things, terrible things, without any memory of the event. I wonder often how the proper help may have altered his course in life."

She felt her apprehension weakening ever so slightly, her eyes softening from their stony glare.

The way he described the boy was all too familiar to her. She would have second guessed the truth to his statement had his voice not sounded so genuinely remorseful, almost longing.