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

Decaunt Street

Dr. Crane:

I can't help but watch her eyes as we enter. It's hard to tell what she's thinking.

"One bedroom?"
She asks, her tone hard to recognize.

"We had a budget."
I tell her. I try to sound kind, but it comes out sharp.

"I'll take the couch, you can have the bed-"
I reassure her.

She eyes the small brown couch in the room's center and nods before pulling our luggage into the bedroom. She shuts the door.

I roll my cramped neck and start for the French doors situated in the center of the living room. Walking onto the balcony, I look down on Decaunt Street. The bustling tourists, the street corner tarot readers, the performers and the poets. The quarter always smells like some sort of food, and here it smells like Chinese. Good Chinese, not the kind you order when you're a penniless college student. Not the kind I ate when I lived in this city.

If I sell my 'goods' here I may be able to afford decent Chinese- I may be able to afford a decent life. A decent life for her. God knows after everything I've put her through, she deserves a decent life. Maybe she could consider school, a career, a life. Maybe we could have a life. That is- if I don't haunt her dreams and trigger her gag reflex when she's awake. That is, if she doesn't decide to kill me with her bare hands. That is, if she can get her abilities under control.

I wonder what will come of this. Borderline personality? Internalized CPTSD, bipolar? god I need to stop looking at her like a case study. I turn around and prop my waist against the iron balcony and I look at her. Really look at her. She's sitting on the old brown couch now in the middle of the living room bouncing up and down methodically- feeling it out.

"You can't possibly sleep here"
She says, she stops bouncing and lays down in my ramones t-shirt. Her hoody is on the footstool and her laceless sneakers are hanging off the end of the sofa.

"I can feel the springs through the cushion- no way."
She stands up and pushes down on the cushion with two hands, her dark curls falling into her face. Looking over at me, she looks so innocent, so young, so tired.

"No way."
She decides.

I can't help but smirk, but there's something in my throat, like I'm choking and there's this heaviness in my chest I can't shake.

God if I could burn Arkham down- just to see her dance around the flames I would. If I could get my hands on Jack, if I could pull him to shreds- watch the life leave his eyes- god.