Post by azina on Aug 30, 2005 1:03:49 GMT -5
Dr. Crane stared hard at Commissioner Steve O’Shannen with those icy blue eyes.
“Commissioner O’Shannen, a suicidal patient doesn’t get well sitting in a prison cell. A suicidal patient is 90 percent more likely to attempt to take her life again if she does not receive immediate psychiatric treatment. Now I can provide that treatment, treatment she so desperately needs.”
Crane was reciting what he learned by rote when committing patients to suicide watch at Arkham. He was relieved in a way he didn’t have to think or concentrate too hard on just who the patient was – his mother – or else he wouldn’t have the composure or even the concentration to frame a coherent sentence.
Keep it professional and be convincing and you’ll be able to get her out of this.
“I don’t know, Dr. Crane. The law states someone who tries to commits suicide – on public property no less –”
“I know commissioner, it is difficult and I am greatly appreciative of all the fine work you and your police officers have done in saving her life. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Well, just doing our job. All in a day’s work, y’know.”
“But you can help Mrs. Crane more, much more, if you release her to my care. As a doctor at Arkham, I can give her full psychiatric treatment.”
“Whoa, wait a minute, buddy,” said O’Shannen. “You’re her son.”
“That I may be, but I’m a fully licensed practicing doctor. I assure you I am well-qualified –”
“It’s not just that, she committed a crime and she’s gonna get locked up. Sorry, son.”
“Actually, commissioner, there is a loop hole in the law you may not be aware of.”
Crane slipped from his suit jacket some white papers and handed them to the wizened commissioner.
“According to section 84-14B of Law 74 Section A any Psychiatric Professional at a Psychiatric Institution may take full responsibility for a suicidal patient if said professional verifies said patient is indeed suicidal and is a danger to herself at the correctional facility.”
O’Shannen quickly gazed at the microscopic print on the pages of law.
“This is madness,” cried O’Shannen.
“Precisely, commissioner. Now let’s start working on the paperwork for the release forms. I’d like to have my patient out of here by nightfall.”
“I’m sorry, Jonathan. So sorry.”
“You don’t have to say a word, mom. We can talk about it once we get there.”
She rubbed her tired eyes. Her hair hung lankly over her face. He kept his eyes fixed on the road as he drove, the windshield wipers flicking back the rain.
“You must be so disappointed in me, Jonathan. I’ve been strong up until now. I just – I can’t stop thinking about that night. It keeps haunting me, every detail of it. I just wanted it to stop –”
He sighed, gripping the wheel.
“You’re suffering from post-traumatic stress. Where we’re going I can help you, but you have to trust me, mom. You must trust me.”
The car stopped outside the foreboding thick metal gates. A guard reluctantly poked his head out of the shelter window.
“Welcome back to Arkham, Dr. Crane.” the guard gazed at Crane’s mother. “I hope that’s not a patient. She’s not properly restrained.”
“No, she’s a visitor – coming to see a patient of mine,” said Crane.
“Visiting hours are over, Dr. Crane,” said the guard.
“I’m sure you’ll make an exception for me, George,” said Crane, slipping some folded bills into the guard’s hand.
“Have a nice visit, Ma’am,” the guard said cheerfully.
As the guard disappeared back into shelter, Crane’s mother turned to him.
“Jonathan, I thought we were going home? Why are we here?”
“Mom, you know you need help – this is the only place I know best to help you.”
She looked at the asylum gates as though they were the entrance to Hell.
“Oh, please, Jonathan, no! Please, no! Please, don’t make me go in there! I’m not that bad! Not so bad yet! Today, I don’t know what came over me! I just was so sad and afraid.”
“I can help you – more than anyone in Gotham can, please trust me on this.”
The asylum gates slowly opened, revealing the old white brick structure of the asylum, half obscured, half-glowing in the darkness and the rain.
“Do you trust me?”
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
“I love you, mom. I’ll help you. I promise.”
She covered her eyes as he drove the rest of the way up the lonely road to the asylum.
“You know I won’t leave here, not while you’re here, mom.”
“No, Jonathan, you must go home. This is an awful place.”
Crane gazed downward at the word awful.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, Jonathan. It’s just not like back home, you know.”
She nervously rubbed her arms and gazed around at the sterile, cold room.
“I’m sorry it has to look like this,” said Crane. “It’s always like this for everyone in this ward – to prevent them from hurting themselves.”
“I promise you, Jonathan, I won’t hurt myself. Not ever, ever again. Please, let me go home! Please!"
Crane gazed around the room, perfect in its simplicity, built for one purpose: No patient could kill himself in this room. The sheets would break before it would bear anyone’s weight. The mirror was cheap plastic; it couldn’t shatter. The faucet and toilet were stainless steel – a definite improvement from its breakable counterpart porcelain and all the furniture was bolted down. Even the toothbrush was blunt and would be taken away from patients once it was used. No, it was next to impossible to kill yourself in this room unless you rammed yourself into the door until your crushed your skull in – no even that was impossible, the camera would catch you on tape and send the orderlies in before you even bruised your cranium.
Yes, Jonathan Crane, you are selfish. She would be happier back home, but there are knives, unlocked windows, medicines and countless poisons, and you wouldn’t be there to stop her. Then she’d be dead and you’d be alone, all alone, wouldn’t you, Jonathan Crane? Here you can not only treat her but monitor her 24-7. You can help her better than any so-called quack in Gotham any could. Oh, mom, if you only knew how much I loved you by doing this!
“Mom, I’m sorry, but you know that commissioner, he wanted to throw you in jail. This was the only way I could get you out of jail, at least temporarily.”
“Oh, Jonathan, isn’t there at least some other way?”
“Not that I know of. You’ll stay at Arkham, say about a week. By that time he should be distracted by criminals, I imagine. Then you’ll go home and forget about all of this.”
“Really, Jonathan? Oh, thank you, thank you!”
She hugged him tightly. Crane had a sickening feeling in his stomach.
“And remember the time you pulled all the books down from the bookshelf? Oh, you made such a mess, Jonathan,” his mother laughed.
“I was pretty young then. What was I, four?”
“I think four or five. You always were fascinated in learning.”
Crane smiled. His notepad was empty and their therapy session went off on a tangent a long time ago, but he hadn’t seen his mother this happy in a long time and he didn’t want to ruin it by dredging up the recent painful memories of the attack. Even thinking about it himself brought to the forefront the sadistic viciousness of the Scarecrow and he didn’t ever wish for his mother to see that side of him, not ever.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Crane.
Dr. Gooding entered.
“Ah, I thought I would find you in here – you always seem to be in here, nowadays Crane.”
“Dr. Crane.”
“A word with you, please,” said Dr. Gooding.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be right back,” Crane said to his mother.
“Of, course,” she said and turned to the window.
As they entered the hallway, Gooding pressed close to Crane. It was a trait Crane despised in the older man and Scarecrow always had a strong desire to rip Gooding’s mustache out by the roots one by one with rusty tweezers.
“I don’t know if you think it’s amusing to flaunt your authority around here, Crane, but I am your superior and you never informed me of this new patient of yours.”
“I had to admit her very quickly. You know suicidal patients are very prone to re-attempt –”
“Save me the spiel you dish out to your dim-witted police officers. I know this patient is very special to you. Let me see, she shares something – let me guess – a similar last name. I wonder why that is? You know Arkham has a strict policy against admitting family members of staff, Crane.”
“Dr. Gooding, she was in need of help, surely an institution as fine as this one would not decline its services –”
“Also save me the sweet talk. I know what you’re trying to do. You’ve been neglecting your other patients. I’ve checked on this one. She’s your mother – even worse than just a mere relative. You know you are unable to reach any objectivity – you are too close – you know the patient too well, Crane.”
“Dr. Gooding, you know I am more than capable from my previous dealings with patients here to –”
“No, you are far too close to her. If she is to be treated here, she needs fresh eyes and fresh ears, that is all. You want the best care, I’ll give your mother the best care, Crane. I’ll personally take her as my patient. What better care could you ask for for your mother? And that also will allow you the opportunity to get back to your job and your patients.”
“I – I already have taken her as my patient – you – you can’t do that!”
“I already have made the necessary paperwork, Crane, and as the superior of Arkham, I can do anything I wish, as you have already seen.”
Gooding snapped his fingers and two orderlies ran to him.
“Anderson, Smith, have Mrs. Crane in a restraining chair. We will start the session immediately,” said Gooding.
“A restraining chair! She is not violent,” cried Crane.
“Crane! If you want to lose your job here and have your precious mother scheduled for some immediate shock therapy, you will do exactly as I say. And right now I say you have an appointment with Patient Taylor. Now I suggest you Go.”
The door swung open and Gooding stepped in.
“Good morning, Mrs. Crane. How are you doing today,” said Gooding in a sweet, soothing voice.
“Where’s my son? Why isn’t he here,” Crane heard his mother ask.
“Unfortunately he had another patient to attend to. But I will treat you today.”
“No! I want my son! I want out of this chair! I want out of this place! Please let me out! Please! Please!"
The door slammed shut. Crane gazed at the closed door, his heart beating fast, the Scarecrow spouting a litany of profanities and ways to flay and torture Gooding. Oh, how he wanted to do it so badly, but then his mother would see.
And she’s here because of you. It’s all your fault!
(No, hissed Scarecrow. She’s here because of the Snake. First let’s have some fun with him first, yesss?)
Crane slammed his fist hard into the wall and stalked down the white sterile corridor of the hallway.
Room 304. 304. Where is that damn room?!
He rounded the corner and threw open the door that read 304. Mr. Taylor jumped at the sound of the swinging door and gazed up at Dr. Crane.
“Mr. Taylor, I believe it’s time for our therapy session,” whispered Crane.
“Oh, God, no,” Mr. Taylor whimpered.
Mr. Taylor cringed, falling from his chair by the table and huddling against the cold, white wall.
A cruel, sadistic smile spread across Crane’s lips.
The door of 304 slammed shut.
..
I should be posting more soon. Just fine-tuning some of the scenes and had night school last night. Bleh.