Chapter Text
Oh oh, forgiving who you are, for what you stand to gain
Just know that if you hide, it doesn't go away
When you get out of bed, don't end up stranded
Horrified with each stone on the stage, my little dark age
Growing up, you never really pictured yourself becoming a psychiatrist. When you were really young, you had aspired to be many things. You still harbor a few dreams from back then, even if they are of the pipe variety. Especially now, with college taking up most of your day and your job occupying your evenings.
The idea of your future career is still almost funny to you. You need a psychiatrist more than anything; becoming one right now isn't the greatest idea. The moment you moved out you had to wave goodbye to any healthcare you had. Therapy isn't something you can really afford.
Yet you pursue it anyway. The mind interests you. The complexities of it all. And, more than anything, psychiatry is a way you can help. That's what matters to you.
Forensic psychiatry is particularly interesting. Despite that, it isn't really the path you were aiming for. Not until you got the internship offer.
You snooze your alarm four times before you finally force yourself to wake. You'd been anticipating and dreading this day in equal measure. Sure, it’s a very unique opportunity. Interning at Arkham Asylum will look good on your resume. But, at the same time, the volatility of the place and its inmates scares the absolute shit out of you.
Besides, it’s a new experience. One you have little prior information about. You've never liked those.
You take an overly long shower, do your best attempt at 'professional' makeup, and try on the outfit you planned out the day before. All black– you doubt showing up in light colors will allow you to blend in. The last thing you'd like is to draw any unnecessary attention.
Your stomach churns with nerves so intense you fear you may vomit. Breakfast consists of burnt toast and over sweetened coffee. You barely touch either.
Just leave early, a part of your brain whispers, but it's only 8:11. Rip the band-aid off.
You decide instead to pace circles around your apartment. Maeve, your roommate, isn't awake yet, but you're sure your stomping will disturb her soon enough. She's more of a morning person than you'll ever be, but she had a long night.
You try to force yourself to sit down. It's no use. Anxiety seems to set your every nerve on fire, leaving you restless and shaking. It's 8:20 now. You're supposed to come in at 9:00. But getting a head start won't hurt, right? You don't know how traffic will be.
That's it. You lace up your boots, pull on a coat, and leave.
The cool morning air on your face is enough to somewhat calm you down. Still, you can't help but wrinkle your nose. Gotham always stinks. You've lived here long enough to be somewhat desensitized, but that doesn't mean it's any more pleasant.
Everyone's in a hurry, pushing and shoving past you to get to their destinations. Any sense of calm you had is quick to dissipate. You feel almost claustrophobic; surrounded on all sides by people. You're relieved when you finally reach the bus stop.
The bus arrives at 8:30, right on schedule. Not that it matters. It seems you're going to be early regardless. Maybe it'll make you seem extra eager. Or maybe it'll just make you seem inexperienced. The latter is more true than the former, anyway.
You sit down. Hands fidgeting in your lap, heart beating in your ears. Nothing holds your attention for long. You open social media, hoping to drown out your thoughts. It doesn't help, the stimuli fading to the back of your mind in favor of your anxiety. You're sure the fear will be little more than a memory, soon. This commute will become a routine. This all will.
Yet, when you reach your stop, you almost don't get off. A part of you screams to keep going, to sit back and let the opportunity pass you by. The other half, however, pictures how disappointed everyone will be. Most people only have the chance to intern while in medical school. You were one of the only few people who got chosen for the program. While you'd like to say you were chosen due to your abilities, in reality it was only because you were quick to respond. First come first serve. Besides, the psychiatrist you’re interning under, Dr. Leland, seemed very nice over email. Professional, but friendly. You'd hate to leave her waiting.
So you get up, thank the driver, and step out into the cold.
No bus routes go straight to Arkham, of course, but this one drops you off relatively nearby. Just a short walk away. Enough time for you to collect your thoughts, plan out a script in your head, and calm down a bit. None of this is helped by the large ' hitchhikers may be escaped patients' sign you spot halfway through. Creepy.
Seeing that just confirms your fears. Arkham isn't the most secure place in the world. The knowledge that you're putting yourself in very real danger even coming here is frightening, to say the least. It's a reality you've spent too long mulling over. You made up your mind.
You'll be fine.
You feel your stomach drop when you finally reach the front gates. This is it. Arkham Asylum.
How do you get in? After a moment of confusion, you realize you need to press the buzzer. Deep breath, now. Calm. Professional. Friendly.
You press the button.
"State your business." A voice says, scratchy and muffled by the intercom.
Deep breath. "Uh," you stand up straighter, clear your throat. "Intern? I'm, uh, interning here."
Wow. So eloquent. You resist the urge to take off in the opposite direction.
You think you hear a laugh in his voice when he says, "Can I see your badge?"
"Oh. Yeah," you rummage around in your pocket, pulling out the lanyard and ID card. You hold it up to what you think is the camera.
"Alright. Opening the gates."
They begin to slowly glide open. Alright. You're almost in. The thought exhilarates you. Not many people can say they've been inside Arkham. You're sure Maeve will want to know all about it.
You exhale. "Thank you,"
You don't expect him to reply, but you hear an amused, "You're welcome, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. You cringe for a different reason, now. They already aren't taking you seriously. God, you're so– they're so–
No, no, no. You stamp down your spiraling thoughts, force a smile, and step through the gates. You've gotten this far. You can't spiral now.
For some reason, you hold your breath when you push open the doors. You used to do that as a kid when you drove past cemeteries. The reasoning is lost on you now, probably just some urban legend– but now, it only seems right. Because this place is truly, sickeningly dead.
The receptionist is only half so. Her eyebags are poorly hidden by her makeup. Even beneath her concealer, you can tell they're darker than yours. She seems to take a few moments to even realize you're there. But she's friendly as she checks you in, and takes the time to point you in the right direction.
Your footsteps echo annoyingly loud in the quiet hallway. It's eerie, lit by humming fluorescent lights. They cast strange shadows. You're sure you've had a nightmare like this once. Maybe twice. Hospital hallways have always freaked you out. Before, you comforted yourself with the knowledge that there was no one truly dangerous within the building. Now, however, that thinking rings hollow. Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. It's right there in the title.
You shake your head. Fear will get you nowhere. If this is to be your job, then you need to get past it fast.
Still, only when you reach Dr. Leland's office do you feel safe. It may help that there are a couple guards milling about. Some of them smile at you. You gladly return it.
You make sure your ID card is still around your neck. Take a deep breath. Raise your fist. Knock one, two, three times.
Dr. Leland has the same air of exhaustion about her as the receptionist, but at least she seems more aware. Her smile makes the corner of her eyes crinkle.
"You must be my new intern," she holds out her hand. "I'm Dr. Leland."
You shake it. Her hands are soft. You hope yours aren't too sweaty. "Nice to meet you," you smile, telling her your name.
"You can also call me Joan," she beckons you inside. "Either works."
"Alright," you say, stepping inside her office. It's definitely clinical, all white walls and uncomfortable furniture. You wonder if she treats patients here.
"Go ahead and take a seat," she says, sitting behind her desk. Already she's tapping away at her computer. You've always been mesmerized by how fast some people can type. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, filling the once silent space with loud taps and clacking.
"I'm just going to be upfront with what you're going to be doing here," she begins. "While normally you'd be a lot more hands-on, for the most part you'll just be shadowing me. You'll be unlikely to be working with any of the patients directly, and definitely not on your own."
You let out a sigh of relief. It comes out louder than you intended.
She looks up from the computer, raising an eyebrow. Are you supposed to be disappointed? It takes you a beat too long to realize she's waiting for you to speak.
"I just didn't feel like I was fully ready for more involved things," you explain, feeling anxiety knit a ball in your chest. "Like working with patients on my own. This is much more… comfortable to me."
"Hm," she says, returning to her computer. "I admire your self-awareness," she doesn't sound like she's judging you. "Knowing your boundaries. It's a good skill to have. Especially here."
The ball unravels. You smile. "Thank you."
She smiles back. "Are you planning on working here in the future?"
"I'm not sure yet," you answer.
"I'll have to be honest," she says, "Arkham can be frightening. It's not the most beginner-friendly place, so you may find yourself initially put off. But it can be very rewarding."
You swallow, choosing to voice your opinion. "The patients here deserve as much of a chance as anyone else."
Her smile returns. "I'm glad you think that way."
While you're happy about her praise, you can't help but worry about her previous statement. It's all things you already knew, but hearing it from someone who actually works here still is disconcerting. Fortunately, she speaks before you can linger on it for too long.
"You know we usually only offer internships to medical students," she says. "This is a rather unique opportunity, and I implore you to take full advantage of it. Ask questions. Push yourself. Learn."
You nod. "I plan on it."
"Good," she stands up, and you're quick to mirror her. "We're just going to take things slow today. Would you like me to show you around the asylum?"
"Oh, uh," you take a deep breath. "Yes please."
"Great. Let's get going."
Turns out, Arkham is much more sprawling than you ever could've imagined. It's separated into several different wings, including a medical facility and visitors center. You learn that you'll mainly stick to the intensive treatment ward and penitentiary. And never on your own. Always with a guard or Dr. Leland. You're definitely not complaining.
You stop outside one of the cell blocks.
Just before she opens the door, you speak.
"Is there anything I should do?" you say, then clarify, "Like, how I should act?"
To your relief, she seems understanding. "You don't have to ignore them," she says. "If your presence does cause a commotion, however, make sure to leave the de-escalation to me. That's what we're focusing on. De-escalating the situation, not fueling it."
"Don't give Zsasz none of your attention," the guard orders. His name tag reads M. Jones.
Zsasz. Victor Zsasz? Oh, god, you're going to be in the same room as him? Calm down. Practice what you preach. He isn't a monstrous, dangerous serial killer– totally. Just a man who needs help. A very, very, very scary man who needs help.
Dr. Leland doesn't correct him, so you decide to take his word for it.
In you go.
The transition from near silence to dozens of clashing voices is disorienting. You resist the urge to cling to Dr. Leland's arm. As you walk past the cells, you try your best not to avert your eyes. Some patients stare. Others barely spare you a glance. The people here seem mainly ordinary– unlike the superhuman criminals you'd seen in news articles. Some do mutter, pace, lick their lips, but you find any sense of disturbance replaced by sympathy. They shouldn't be treated like this. They need help, and despite all your happy thoughts and hope, you know Arkham does not provide it. You're not stupid. You've read the articles, the allegations. Malpractice and testing and abuse. You swallow past your guilt and force yourself to look them in the eye.
One of the patients walks closer to the bars, eyes boring into your own. You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks.
"Your eyes,” he says. “Pretty, pretty eyes.”
You force yourself to smile. A compliment. It feels wrong.
And of course it turns out to be. “I'm sorry,” he stammers. “I must take them. I must take them! I must eat them, I must eat–”
The guard, Jones, hits the bars with his baton. "Shut it, Stirk!"
He cowers back, holding up his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry–"
You shudder, feeling sick. Your eyes? He wanted to– he wanted to eat – you'll be fine. He's just sick. He just needs help.
"Are you okay?" Dr. Leland asks. "I know that must've been startling."
You coach your expression into one of calm, even when your thoughts are anything but. "I'm fine."
"You sure?" Jones asks.
"Mhmm!" You say, digging your nails into your palm. "I'm good."
Dr. Leland clears her throat. "At the end of this is the cafeteria. We sometimes go down there to monitor patients and work with them in a less formal setting."
"Okay," you say, refusing to keep your eyes to the floor. Not with Jones now watching you; like you're something fragile.
Cell after cell after cell after cell. A few patients smile at you. They seem more tired than anything.
Then you see him.
He sits on his cot, long legs curled aside him. If you saw him on the street, you wouldn't look twice. There's a book open at his knees, but he pays it little attention. A shiver courses down your spine the moment you meet his eyes. Like the shock of cold water, like a sudden fall, like every fibre of your being screaming at you to run. You're not safe, he's dangerous, there's something wrong.
He cocks his head.
You break the contact, hurrying to follow your companions when you realize you've fallen behind. The whole time thinking, wondering, confused. Every single patient here has committed a crime. Most several, most violent. And yet, not a single one has frightened you in a way that man did. One threatened to eat your fucking eyeballs, for God's sake!
The rest of the tour continues without a hitch. Well, a few more patients do scream at you. You ignore them, Jones yells, Dr. Leland de-escalates. The tour concludes back at Dr. Leland's office.
"Well, that was all we had planned for today," she says, back at her computer. "I have a session in a couple minutes."
That's it? "Oh," you say. "So I should go?"
"You'll have much longer days in the future," she says, "but I think that's good enough for your orientation. You're taking time off school for this, aren't you?"
Well, yeah. But that's fine. You're totally okay to take the rest of the day off. It's what, twelve now? A nap sounds nice.
"Yeah. I figured things out with my professors, though," you say.
"That's good," she says. "I just don't want to spring too much on you all at once, is all."
She needs you to get out. You may not be the most socially adept person, but you know when you've overstayed your welcome.
"Thank you so much for this," you say, walking to the door. "I really appreciate the opportunity."
"Of course," she says. "I think you'll do great here."
"Thank you," you say, opening the door. "Have a good day."
"You too."
You finally feel you can breathe when you leave Arkham. But at least you got today out of the way. And, most of all, you're hopeful. This is a good fit for you. You think.
Just don't think about the man screaming, screaming for your eyes.
On the bus. On the way home.
You'll do great there. Take full advantage of the unique opportunity.
Don't think about the other man's stare, boring into you. The shiver down your spine, your instincts screaming at you to leave.
You're home now. Maeve's at work.
Don't think about what happened. Think about how good of an opportunity this is. What a chance. It'll look great on your resumé.
Throw off your coat. Kick off your shoes. Curl up beneath your comforter.
Don't think don't think don't think don't think–
You dream of eyes.