"Shadows of the Mind" (Dr. Crane backstory)

[Lili]

This story is fantastic, Azina! Please keep writing; you're so gifted! *Claps and cheers enthusiastically*

[azina]

Thanks Lili! So glad you're enjoying it.

[azina]

Okay, I'm less sure of this chapter than the last one I wrote. This is my first time I'm journeying into Dr. Crane's mind, so to speak and we first hear Scarecrow's voice. Don't know if it's entirely effective. Feedback is appreciated.

“You know you are boring me,” Mrs. Chesterton said.

“If there is one thing I can always count on,” said Dr. Crane with an amused grin. “Is your complete honesty with me. I appreciate that.”

Mrs. Chesterton sat back in her chair with a bored sigh. This was not what she had expected by Dr. Crane’s “unconventional” methods she had wondered about and perhaps had feared when she first agreed on his “help.”

She had to admit she was a bit intimidated when the session first started. Unlike being in his comfortable office like on the first visit, she was escorted by Dr. Crane to a relatively stark room – one of the rooms that was dark and locked up further down the hallway. As soon as he flicked on the lights she was terribly disappointed. By the air of drama Crane was promoting, she almost expected it to display shelves of pickled experiments and a full torture chamber. His mysterious aloofness seemed to insinuate some sort of dark secret lurking in one of these locked up rooms. But it was just a small room with bare white walls, no decoration whatsoever, with white tiled floors and a white table.

“Who did your interior decorating? Someone who was color blind,” Mrs. Chesterton quipped.

Dr. Crane smiled as he gazed around the room.

“Yes, I guess it could use a bit of color.” Then he turned his eyes to her, very serious. “But that would add addition stimuli, wouldn’t it? No, best to keep it neutral white. No distractions then.”

But as Mrs. Chesterton was sitting in her chair – a thoroughly uncomfortable folding chair compared to that lovely leather chair Dr. Crane had back in his office – she was almost wishing for “additional stimuli.” She was just so incredibly bored.

On the blank white wall Dr. Crane was projected different images, one at a time, on slides while making notes on how each image made her feel.

This time the image was a big red ball.

“And how does that make you feel,” asked Dr. Crane.

“Like I want to bounce that damn red ball off your head! Can I go now? We’ve been at this for over an hour.”

“Just a bit more, Mrs. Chesterton. Patience is a virtue, as they say.”

Although Mrs. Chesterton couldn’t see it, Dr. Crane was writing on his notepad:

Patient C. is showing increasing hostility and impatience to said visual stimuli. Hypothesis proving positive on Patient C.’s response. Patient C. almost ready for Stage 2 in treatment.

Dr. Crane decided just for good measure to flash a few more pictures from the projection slide just to make sure his patient was ready for “Stage 2.”

He showed her a picture of a large chocolate bar.

“And how does that make you feel,” he asked in a low, soft tone.

“Hungry! Which reminds me I’m missing lunch. I want to go . . . now!”

“Very soon, Mrs. Chesterton. You’re cooperation will speed your recovery greatly, I assure you . . . And now this.”

Up flashed a picture of very jagged and intimidating-looking barbed wire. Mrs. Chesterton frowned when she saw it. Up until now he had been showing her comforting images – toys, people smiling, food and beautiful sunsets. But now was the picture of the barbed wire. How very odd.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to touch it. It looks sharp.”

Dr. Crane jotted down a few notes:

Patient C. expressed trivial statement toward negative stimuli (i.e. barbed wire). Will begin use of Solution B721.

Silently from his open briefcase, Dr. Crane slid out his canvas mask and fixed securely its breathing apparatus to his face while Mrs. Chesterton’s back was to him. He began burning the powdered crystals of Solution B721 in a shallow stainless steel dish. He had perfected the solution from its impure form which, when burned, had a sickly saccharine smell. Now it was entirely odorless and perfect to test on his patients.

Mrs. Chesterton squinted and thought she must be tired and maybe a little dizzy from being hungry. It looked like the barbed wire had vibrated a little – that it had moved.

Imagining things again, silly woman. The sooner I’m out of this place and away from that crazy doctor the better.

“What’s the next picture? Are we almost done with this,” Mrs. Chesterton cried out, trying to ignore the barbed wire which now began to look like it was shivering in the wind.

“Oh, yes, almost done,” said Dr. Crane.

Patient C. either is ignoring Solution B721 or is not affected yet at 1:58 minutes. Displaying Slide 0249.

Mrs. Chesterton gave a little yelp, but quickly stifled it.

It was a picture of a swarm of snakes, only instead of the picture being static, the serpents were writhing, flicking their tongues, gazing at her with their coppery slit eyes.

“Is there something wrong,” asked Dr. Crane. “How does this make you feel?”

Mrs. Chesterton clutched her chest, struggling to breathe.

“A bit – a bit faint. I – I hate snakes.”

Patient C. displays slight form of herpephobia, though not acute. Time 3:15. Patient C. showing increased disorientation.

Almost all the crystals of Solution B721 had burned away into a pure liquid in the steel dish and a thin stream of white smoke rose to the ceiling. Mrs. Chesterton wavered a little in the chair, looking about to pass out.

Not yet, you stupid old hag! Came a primal, guttural voice deep within Crane soul, total devoid of his analytic curiosity. We haven’t gotten to the good one yet! I want to hear you scream! I want your Fear!

Crane tried to fight back the Scarecrow, but he knew it would not be long. It was hungry and he knew he could conduct his experiment successfully as well as allowing the Scarecrow a treat this afternoon.

He flashed the last image – an image he thought might push her over the edge – the trigger of her Fear. Mrs. Chesterton’s eyes dilated when she saw it and her breathing turned rapid. At first she couldn’t scream, her throat was so restricted, then her voice broke free in a shriek so loud Dr. Crane would have been glad the walls were sound proof. But as she began to writhe on the floor screaming, Dr. Crane was no longer there – the Scarecrow was relishing every moment of her agony.

Yes, scream, writhe! Let me savor your agony. You’ve never really known suffering, you and your petty sorrows. But you shall know Pain, you shall know Terror under me!

Mrs. Chesterton now had curled up into a fetal position, her shrieking dying down to a pathetic wail, her eyes covered by her trembling hands. The Scarecrow was moving close to her, hungry, so hungry for her Fear, wanting to inspire more in her, wanting to relish every last shriek he could wrench from her throat.

No, I will give you more. Dr. Crane told the Scarecrow. I will give you much more than this. Just wait. Wait.

The Scarecrow stopped, hovering over her unconscious form, then turned away. The Scarecrow could wait for now.


Dr. Crane normally felt exhilarated and empowered when the Scarecrow took over. Today he felt exhausted. In some small way Dr. Crane was relieved she had not seen him as the Scarecrow. He almost felt a twinge of guilt as he pulled off the rough canvas mask of the Scarecrow and smoothed out his hair. Carefully he placed the mask back in his briefcase and removed a small vial of clear liquid and crouched by Mrs. Chesterton’s unconscious form.

“Breathe in. Breathe in. That’s it. Deep breaths.”

Mrs. Chesterton gasped and her eyes shot open.

“What happened? I – oh how terrible!”

“A nightmare I’m afraid.” Dr. Crane gazed at her, a soothing smile upon his lips. “I’m afraid you fell asleep during our session, then started to scream.”

“Oh, my, did I? Oh – I’m sorry. I know I was bored, but I didn’t realize . . . Is our session at an end doctor?”

“It is, Mrs. Chesterton. You are free to go.”

Dr. Crane invitingly gestured to the door and Mrs. Chesterton without hesitation picked herself up off the floor and shuffled to the door.

“Until our next appointment,” said Dr. Crane.

Mrs. Chesterton stopped at the door, gazed briefly into his cool, blue eyes before turning away and swiftly leaving the room.

Dr. Crane gazed at his notepad filled with valuable notes on “Patient C.”

Too bad, she was an apt patient and a fascinating study. She won’t be back.

(Oh, she will be, said the primal, dark voice within. She will return.)

How can you be so sure, asked Dr. Crane.

(Because she still Fears – she Fears much. Delicious Fear . . . And she will Fear more.)

And what do you Fear, Mrs. Genevieve Chesterton?

Dr. Crane turned to the image projection that started Mrs. Chesterton shrieking uncontrollably. It wasn’t a picture of a monster or a murderer, but a woman – a woman standing all alone in complete desolation.

[§ilvercell]

...............[shadow=blue,left,300]wow[/shadow]

[seonedevinian]

a woman standing all alone in complete desolation. wow is right. you are really good. i like the Scarecrow's hunger. just...wow!

[belle]

excuse me while i pick up my jaw off the floor, bravo, bon fait exhalt!

[azina]

More additions ... will post in two sections because both parts of the chapter are kind of long. You're welcome to view this story on www.fanfiction.net/s/2508834/1/

Jonathan stared blankly at the chalk board as Mr. Chambers wrote in big letters:

BEHAVIORAL STUDY

Mr. Chambers was wearing what seemed to be the same brown coat he always wore and the class seemed to be acting the same – noisy and obnoxious. Yet everything seemed so terribly different after what he had just experienced, as though just sitting in class was surreal after the traumatizing and intense experience in the alley.

It was quite unlike Jonathan to be daydreaming in class, but he couldn’t shake several scenes that kept appearing over and over in his mind: The darkness of the alley, the poignant belief that any moment he was going to die, being forced to accept the powerful and deadly drug CliMax, and then that strange “help” he had received deep within his mind.

Jonathan closed his eyes momentarily, trying to picture where that “help” might reside. He knew only vaguely knew where it was and it frightened him, because he knew where it dwelt – in that part of him that day by day felt more anger and disgust at being victimized. He wanted to feel strong, powerful – invincible.

Jonathan, what an absurd idea.

No, it isn’t, came that small, dark voice from deep within.

Inwardly he smiled to think that one day he might be as powerful Falcone – no, more powerful. But Jonathan mentally shook himself out of his brief intoxicating vision of grandeur. That could never happen, could it? Best to concentrate on what power he did have, the power of the mind, power he could control.

Eagerly Jonathan started taking down notes again, determined that nothing would stop him from first getting a scholarship to the university.

“Now with a behavioral study, class, as beneficial as it is to study from textbooks and from esteemed psychologists, it is just as valuable to gain field study and practical application,” said Mr. Chambers. “Therefore instead of a final examination I want each of you to pair up and offer a presentation based on your findings on your behavioral study with your partner.”

Jonathan’s heart immediately began to sink. He would have far preferred to take a five-page exam or write a 20-page essay over pairing up with anyone. This time he dared turn around and watched as friends eagerly began pairing up with one another.

“No, no. Pairings should be random,” said Mr. Chambers. “Rebecca, you’ll be paired with Jennifer. Brian, you’ll be paired with Adrienne. Jim will be paired with Jason –”

As Jonathan heard his teacher drone on, he just hoped he wouldn’t be paired with an absolute dolt, as he usually was in a “shared” assignment. Last time that happened he ended up writing papers for both himself and Michael, who couldn’t write a coherent essay any more than a chimpanzee could.

“And Jonathan will be paired with Emily,” said Mr. Chambers. “Meet with your teammate and start working on what psychologist you wish to focus on and what your behavioral study will be about.”

Jonathan heart leapt, but suddenly he felt a wave a panic.

Did Mr. Chambers say Emily? Great, now she’s really going to hate me.

Jonathan was about ready to pick up his books and move to the back of the class where she was sitting when he heard a sudden, harsh slam on a desk beside him.

“I swear this is a conspiracy,” Emily sighed. “Did you put Mr. Chambers up to this? You bumped into me a few days ago and now we’re suddenly behavioral study partners?”

She shot him a suspicious look.

“Um, I guess it’s pretty strange,” Jonathan mumbled, studying the open page he was on with feigned interest.

Emily’s chocolate brown eyes were intense, even angry.

“Very odd, I’d say.”

She began chewing on the tip of her blue pen. From the look of her pen she did that a lot – it was pockmarked with teeth marks.

Jonathan smirked a little – it was not lost on Emily.

“What’s so funny? You rarely smile in class – you better not be laughing at me,” she said.

“No, I was just thinking back to Freud,” said Jonathan. “If he saw your pen he would say you were suffering from an oral fixa-ah –”

She was now gazing straight at him with those dark, inquiring eyes of hers. He suddenly broke into a sweat.

“Oral fixa-ah,” she mimicked.

“An – an oral fixation.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow, then handed over to him her heavily gnawed on pen. “Then what does my ‘oral fixation’ tell you, Dr. Jonathan Crane?”

Jonathan almost laughed to hear Emily calling him a doctor. What an absurd thought – although the idea was strangely appealing somehow – a psychologist perhaps. He took the chewed up pen and gazed at it in mock concentration.

“I see you are suffering from a number of neuroses.”

“Oh, is that so, Dr. Crane?”

“Yes, as well as anxiety disorder, perhaps schizophrenia and possible insanity.”

“Anything else,” she asked, innocently.

“You also need a new pen,” said Jonathan, handing it back to her.

Emily took one look at the chewed up pen, then at Jonathan grinning at her, then playfully threw it at him.

Mr. Chambers turned around just as the pen was bouncing off Jonathan’s shirt.

“Emily, you are excused from class. To the principal’s office. Jonathan, I’ll find you new partner.”

“No, Mr. Chambers,” Jonathan blurted out. “Emily and I . . . we were – we were testing the psychological trauma an individual would suffer after being hit with a flying projectile.”

Mr. Chambers looked at Jonathan in disbelief and shook his head.

“I do hope you both come up with a project better than that,” Mr. Chambers muttered, turning again to the blackboard to write out the study guidelines.

“Sorry, guess I got carried away,” she said, blushing. “I’ve never had to go to the principal’s before in high school. Thanks for keeping me out of trouble.”

Jonathan smiled slightly, admiring how adorable she looked when she blushed.

“That’s all right,” he said. “We are partners right?”

Emily nodded and smiled.

[azina]

Part two of same chapter

Suddenly the prospect of doing a behavioral study with someone as beautiful and intelligent as Emily made it seem even more worthwhile. Jonathan’s mind worked furiously on a variety of interesting and challenging projects, but when he presented them to Emily, each one of them she either rejected as being too difficult or dangerous – arguing they either placed the subjects or themselves at possible risk.

“Let’s keep it easy, Jonathan. We are in high school psychology, after all.”

“But don’t you want to go beyond this, Emily,” Jonathan said, his eyes ablaze with ideas. “We could do something really original. We could do a groundbreaking study.”

“Jonathan, this is only supposed to be a simple behavioral study.”

Jonathan sighed, frustrated. The only behavioral study Jonathan and Emily eventually could agree upon is Piaget’s Hierarchy of Needs. They gained permission from Mr. Chambers to spend some class time observing three- and four-year-old children in the child development class.

“So you’re going to study children and their behaviors. How interesting,” said Tanya, a bubbly teenage girl with short-cropped chestnut hair.

Tanya currently was holding a three-year-old boy who was more interesting in picking his nose than in participating in their behavioral study.

“Yes,” said Emily. “We’ll be observing through that two-way mirror how these children’s needs are met and how they’re able to develop and grow after each need is met. Jonathan and I – uh, Jonathan?”

Jonathan was busy looking at three-year-old boy who seemed to be fascinated with spinning around in circles. Jonathan took out his notepad.

Subject A displays obsessive tendencies toward circular motion until said Subject collapses on the floor. Subject disoriented after circular motion. Subject likewise engages in obsessive circular motion after regaining orientation.

“Jonathan, we haven’t begun the study yet,” said Emily.

“Oh, that’s right.” Jonathan put his pen away as the child was spinning around on the floor again.

Everywhere young children were screaming, throwing toys, crashing into blocks and beating each other up with dolls.

This must be what it’s like to work in a mental institution, thought Jonathan.

“Daddy!”

Jonathan felt something tugging hard at his pant leg and looked down at a small little girl. She had smooth brunette hair and large, bright blue eyes.

“Aww,” cried Emily in delight. “How adorable, Jonathan! You must look like her dad.”

I never knew my father, Jonathan thought.

“Yes, she’s very cute,” he said, wanting to get away from the kids as quickly as possible. “Um, I think we should get to the study.”

“Daddy!”

The little girl beamed at him and Jonathan turned away.


Emily was smiling, gazing at the children through the two-way mirror. Jonathan was positive she’d be waving at the toddlers if they could see them, but they couldn’t. In the darkness of that small cramped room, furnished with just two chairs and a table, they had complete privacy to take notes. One Day Three after seeing a number of temper tantrums, a couple of block throwing fights, a few games of tag and enough screaming to make Jonathan feel like his nerves had been scratched raw with sandpaper, he thought it was time to mix up the study a bit.

“Let’s hide their toys and document their reaction.”

“Jonathan, that will only make them scream.”

“What if one of their needs isn’t met? Would they regress back on the hierarchy of needs? Wouldn’t that be fascinating?”

“Jonathan, we’re here to study and document how children grow and develop as their needs are met.”

“But what if one of their needs isn’t met? What happens then?”

“Jonathan, we’re not taking away their toys.”

“At least no milk and cookies one afternoon.”

“Jonathan –” Emily said in her warning voice.

“But if we don’t observe how will we know?”

Emily rolled her eyes and went back to taking notes.

On Day Four of observation Emily noticed Judy, a four-year-old in a plaid dress and curly golden hair was screaming and crying for “Mr. Snuggles.” Tanya was frantically looking for it.

“Um, Jonathan.”

“Yes, Emily.”

“Who is Mr. Snuggles?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on his notepad, busily taking notes.

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?”

“Wasn’t Mr. Snuggles a toy?”

“I don’t know – was it?”

“Yes, I think it was a toy rabbit.”

“Hmm.” Jonathan now was pretending to write notes.

“Jonathan.”

“Yes, Emily.”

“Give her back the rabbit.”

“But Emily –”

“Give her the rabbit!”

Jonathan threw down the notepad and left his chair. He paused, gazing at Judy screaming, her face red and wet with tears. Apart of him was fascinated by what seemed to be an ordinary temper tantrum as she was jumping up and down, her tiny fists clenched.

Good! Scream! Cry you little brat! I’ve had nothing! NOTHING!!

Jonathan shook his head, frowning.

He made sure Emily didn’t see, but from the back storage closet, he picked up the floppy white-furred rabbit doll and gave it to Tanya when she went on her break so Emily wouldn’t see him with it.

When Jonathan returned, he could see Emily was smiling. Judy was busy hugging Mr. Snuggles, clearly overjoyed; her tears dried on the doll’s matted fur. Jonathan slunk down in his chair and picked up his notepad.

None of my needs have been met, Jonathan petulantly thought.

(But they will, came the dark voice. Some day they will.)

Jonathan gazed up from his notepad through the two-way mirror, his eyes not on the screaming and playing children, but on a vision unfolding within his mind.

[nublet]

Great chapter!

“Emily and I . . . we were – we were testing the psychological trauma an individual would suffer after being hit with a flying projectile.”

That was great, lol! Love the foreshadowing too. And the dialogue.

Oh heck, everything is great. ;D

[seonedevinian]

'none of my needs have been met...'
that's awesome. great work, wow. i love this!

[Lili]

Another amazing installment! Yay!

[§ilvercell]

OMG!we are so lovin' you right now.

[belle]

psychologically brilliant!
oooh you really know what you're doing Azina!
Bon fait!

[azina]

Sorry if there are typos ... wanted to post and see what you thought. This is a very crucial chapter so feedback highly appreciated.

Jonathan took a turn down toward Shackborough Street, hiking up his bookbag on his shoulder. Never did Jonathan think he would enjoy returning to Shackborough as the clean, respectable world of Gotham City faded away. He would now take no detours or longer routes now that Stan knew he was trying to circumvent him. No use in avoiding the inevitable.

Give me your Fear and I shall take care of him, whispered the dark voice within.

It was the “help” Jonathan had received in the alley, the same voice that when Jonathan surrendered his fear to it the same cool calm filled him – and he then feared nothing. It was wonderful and empowering, but at the same time Jonathan was troubled, because he had never experienced this voice before, this deep-seated voice that seemed to express anger, power and a thirst for others’ Fear. At first it frightened Jonathan, but the voice enjoyed feeding upon his Fear and that Fear eventually drained away from him. He slowly was beginning to enjoy its company and the power and control it seemed to offer him. Dare he call it a friend?

How can it be a friend when that “friend” is within your own mind? That’s crazy Jonathan. Totally crazy.

(Pick up the drugs. You’ll need them today.)

The voice was now giving him directions too. As much as Jonathan hated to admit it, it was rarely wrong. He was studying psychology and realized that perhaps this “voice” was not a healthy thing, but he categorized it to highly imaginative intuition.

The hearing of voices could be early signs of schizophrenia, Jonathan thought. No, that can’t be. Now the drugs.

Jonathan realized it was not a wise thing to continue to hide the bag of CliMax in his closet. His mother eventually would find it, he’d know, and carrying it his bookbag would be plain foolish and academic suicide if he brought an illegal substance to school.

Jonathan was now nearing Shackborough Street and at this time of day it was predictably empty – most “business” took place within the confines of Shackborough itself, not on its outskirts. The filthy gray brick walls were covered with graffiti. He made sure the hiding place he picked for the drug was easily recognizable, but not too obvious. Over a large pile of dented and rusted trash cans were the large white graffiti words:

HELL U R

This was the place all right. From behind the trash cans Jonathan retrieved the clear, crumpled bag of CliMax, its white crystalline power sliding innocently enough around in the plastic.

Jonathan, what do you need this for? Throw the damn drugs away!

(Because you’ll need them!) the voice insisted darkly.

Jonathan looked at the bag, wanting more than anything to pitch it in the trash.

(Put it in your pant’s pocket. Trust me – and your needs, your dreams will be fulfilled in time.)

Jonathan closed his eyes and slid the hated bag of drugs into his pant’s pocket. He sighed and continued to wind his way down the street, nearing Shackborough. Although the day was sunny and warm, Shackborough Street was enclosed by two very large buildings, which always made it shady, cool and subsequently dark. It also remained a favorite spot for Falcone and his thugs, drug dealers and prostitutes. Jonathan was left pretty much alone; he was too poor and looked too weak for anyone to take notice of – except one.

“Hey, Scarecrow!”

Jonathan slowly turned around, a sudden weariness filling his heart. He was in no mood for Stan. He was so sick and angry of Stan and his incessant bullying. Surprisingly Stan didn’t have his full entourage, just two of his cronies. Jonathan guessed beating him up that afternoon didn’t take top priority when the weather was this nice.

“Scarecrow, you sent me on quite a chase the other day, but that means twice the play time today.”

Stan stepped forward, his fists clenched, his muscles bulging in his black shirt. His cronies remained behind. Jonathan closed his eyes, all his Fear draining from him.

“Hey, Scarecrow,” Stan laughed, pulling his fist back in for the punch.

“Yes,” Scarecrow replied.

Scarecrow suddenly opened his cool, blue eyes and swiftly stepped out of Stan’s way just as his fist lunged out like a deadly cobra and struck – deep – with crunching fury into a brick wall.

Stan shrieked piteously in pain, clutching his injured and bloody hand. His cronies gazed wide-eyed and terrified. Scarecrow could sense their Fear and relished it. But Scarecrow had far more delightful and delicious prey before him; oh, the Scarecrow was so going to enjoy this.

Scarecrow stood before Stan, a slight, cold smile playing upon his lips.

“Yes, I am Scarecrow. You call this play time? I have a far better game we could play.”

Stan, clenching his wounded fist, gazed in confusion and anger at the boy that once was Jonathan – but he was different, so different all of a sudden. He stood tall and his eyes were cold, near emotionless, with that cruel smirk on his face. So Jonathan was toying with him? He would show that him!

“I’m going to rip you apart for doing this,” screamed Stan.

Suddenly Stan lunged at Scarecrow again, this time with his good fist, determined not to hurt, but to break a jaw, crush a bone or shatter a nose. But Scarecrow was quick – quicker than Jonathan ever could be – for in Stan’s anger Scarecrow knew his fury was borne of Fear, Fear of losing control, Fear of looking foolish in front of his friends, and Scarecrow grew strong with each passing moment of Fear.

In one swift stroke, Scarecrow deftly slipped from his pant’s pocket the bag of CliMax and as Stan rushed at him, the menacing fist ready to aim the devastating blow, Scarecrow forcefully threw its crystalline contents full into Stan’s face.

Stan’s bloodcurdling shriek hardly stopped business in Shackborough Street – not when they were used to gunshots in the far off distance or fierce beatings as a matter of business. Drug dealers, prostitutes and a few of Falcone’s men casually looked with some interest at the screaming teenager clutching his face before resuming business once more. Stan’s cronies had fled as soon as they saw the powder fly, fearing Scarecrow had more.

Now Stan that was on his knees, his face covered with his hands, shaking uncontrollably, he was entirely at Scarecrow’s mercy – and Scarecrow became drunk with his feeble helplessness.

“Please, no! Please, stop! Help! Oh, God,” Stan wailed through his hands.

Scarecrow slowly kneeled down beside Stan, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Gently, almost tenderly, he touched Stan’s arm, knowing what it would do to him.

“No! No! Please!!"

Scarecrow’s touch felt like claws ripping deep into his flesh, clawing at him. Stan didn’t dare open his eyes, fearing the terrors he would see. Already his heart was racing, his blood pumping with adrenaline, his mind flooding with pure nightmare.

“Do you know what it is I gave you,” whispered Scarecrow.

Stan wailed. Scarecrow’s voice sounded like the growling of a demon from the darkest pits of Hell.

“What I gave you is Fear,” said Scarecrow. “Pure – delicious – Fear.”

With each word Scarecrow grabbed hold of Stan’s wrists, desperately clutching his eyes, desperately trying to block out the nightmares trying to flood his sight.

“I want your Fear,” whispered Scarecrow, grimacing. “I need your Fear. Tell me your Fear – your darkest Fear.”

“No,” wailed Stan, shivering uncontrollably. “Please, no.”

“Tell me,” Scarecrow screamed viciously.

Violently he tore Stan’s hands from his eyes and stared at Stan’s face covered in the deadly CliMax powder. Stan’s face was twitching, his eyes wide, glazed with terror.

“Oh, God! Oh, God,” Stan shrieked.

He writhed uncontrollably, struggling to get away from Scarecrow, crawling on his hands and knees across the filthy pavement. This was too good, too fun for Scarecrow to resist.

“No! No!”

Stan’s vision clearly was distorted, for he crawled instead of to any safety, to a garbage heap in a dead end and curled up there, shaking. As Scarecrow slowly approached, savoring the sight of his victim just waiting there for him, Stan dared to gaze at him, his chest heaving, like a prey knowing it’s about to die and wanting to see its murderer before falling into darkness forever.

Scarecrow hovered over Stan, slyly grinning, his eyes cold and keen upon his prone, helpless victim, drinking in all the Fear this delicious victim was pouring into him. How sweet it was, how very sweet. Fiercely, Scarecrow grabbed Stan’s jaw, clenching it hard. He could hear Stan whimper, feel him trembling beneath his touch. Stan closed his eyes tight.

“I will not kill you,” said Scarecrow. “If you tell me what you Fear.”

Stan’s eyes opened. His vision was glazed from the drugs and the trauma of whatever terror he was now witnessing.

Scarecrow bent close to his victim, his eyes cold.

“What do you see? What am I?

Stan’s eyes widened, seeing his terror hovering so close to him, so close. A droplet of bright red blood began to ooze from his left nostril.

“I – you’re –”

“What am I?!”

“You’re a monster,” Stan screamed.

Scarecrow coolly smiled, his blue eyes like twin February ice.

“Good answer – for that the monster won’t kill you.”

Stan gasped in relief, his glazed, fearful eyes almost registering joy.

“But I shall leave you with a parting gift.”

The plastic bag which held the CliMax was clenched hard in Scarecrow’s hand. He held it up to the light. A few white crystalline particles still clung to the bottom of the sack.

“There’s just a little left,” whispered Scarecrow. He turned his cold, blue eyes to Stan, a cruel smile upon lips. “I wonder what the rest of it will do to you.”

Scarecrow poured the rest of it up Stan’s nose while he screamed.

[§ilvercell]

MY...............................GOD!