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.
"What kind of help?" she asked timidly.
"I believe I can help you overcome your fears, harness them," he explained animatedly. "I believe that we can directly confront whatever part of you that was in control the night that you set the fire."
"But I didn't -"
"Oh, but you did, Astrid. The evidence is overwhelmingly clear," he cut off any protest of innocence she was prepared to make.
"How does it work?" she remained on course for the topic at hand.
"An injection," he said as he moved to the table, filling one syringe from a vial of clear liquid. He watched with pride as a bead of the serum ran down the needle.
"This particular form must be taken intravenously. It's... Therapeutic effects last approximately one hour," he continued, making his way to her side.
He waited for her to proffer her arm - something which happened quite slowly and without her total appreciation for what she was doing - before prodding at the crook of her elbow to find a useable vein.
She shuddered as he ran his fingertips over the thin, silvery scars that laced over the skin of her forearm in a millisecond of touch that she barely registered. The scars were only just visible in the direct lighting and so close up.
"And this will help me remember?" she asked, her eyes full of childlike naïveté as she gazed up at him. Her mind was rife with possibilities of understanding what it was that had happened, of getting real answers.
"I did say it would help," he answered cryptically.
He held the skin of her arm taut and held her gaze even more tightly. Before she even registered the pinprick of the needle, the liquid was being injected into her veins.
-
"Case number one twenty-five. First dose of serum administered at approximately eight fifteen A.M. with an onset of effects six minutes later.
The session concluded one hour and twenty-seven minutes post-injection when the subject succumbed to exhaustion.
Subject responded ideally to the administration of the toxin in terms of physical tolerance. No adverse side effects were apparent and vitals remained strong in three separate checks.
Subject was unable to articulate specific hallucinations as they occurred but made several verbal indications that she was being burned to death. Possible pyrophobia. Issue needs revisiting.
In summary, the subject displayed a typical response to the serum. Reactions hold much promise for future sessions provided -"
Jonathan shut off the pocket-size tape recorder with a snap. His fingers ceased their fluttering over the keys of his laptop and he removed his glasses, using the opportunity to rub at his eyes.
Attempting to listen to his own voice as he typed up his personal report from the dictation never failed to result in a terrible headache for the doctor.
Notes were necessary, however, and he was frankly incapable of jotting them down when Scarecrow had taken center stage.
He needed files in order to compare and contrast results, to rework the formulations of his toxin. He also needed files in order to relive each experience in detail.
He knew that, in particular, Astrid Monaghan would make for an interesting case study indeed.
He couldn't be certain that she had the same propensity for darkness in her that his mind called home, but oh, how many coincidences there had been in their stories.
He was quite intrigued by the idea that something not so unlike Scarecrow could be carefully cultivated if brought out in enough measure.
He sighed and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, hitting the button on the tape recorder to back up the tape just slightly before hitting play.
"- promise for future sessions provided subject can withstand the mental duress of subsequent sessions.
As proven in case number one ten, there is a limit to the amount of fear the human psyche is able to withstand before either disassociating or triggering a more volatile response.
The next session has been scheduled for two days from now. It remains to be seen how much pressure the subject can withstand."
He chuckled darkly to himself as he looked at the words on the screen; he supposed they would find out likely sooner rather than later just how much it took to break Astrid.
But exactly what happened when she was did finally break?
That, he was genuinely thrilled to find out.
✖ ✖ ✖
Woo! There's some quick progress being made, here. I hope you guys are enjoying.
How do you think Astrid will react to having been dosed with the toxin?
Let me know what you think with a comment or vote!