Schizophrenia

"Sir, he's asking for that box again." The man sighed sharply, looking up from the papers he had been immersed in.

"Fine, bring him in here. It's about time we talk to figure why he's in here." he replied, putting the papers back on his desk. The officer hesitated, his hand on the molding of the door as his body turned to exit.

"If you don't mind me asking..what is in the box?" The chief shrugged indifferently.

"Dirt."

The police chief exited his office to the interrogation room just down the concrete hall, not soon enough to avoid the incoherent yelling from the mysterious visitor, though. He sat down in the familiar cool metal seat, it was uncomfortable to say the least, but he liked it. Because this was his favorite part of the job, finding the missing pieces of the complicated puzzles criminals hid behind.

"The box-where-? I need to kill her! To bury her wicked heart-god her lovely face. I miss her-the box! Let go-I need the box." The man screamed as he entered the room in between the two officers holding him fast by the wrists. The chief looked onto the man with a stern expression, trying to ignore the pain of pity that stung just beneath the right side of his rib cage, pity affected his job.

"Liar, liar!" the man barked as his eyes spun around the room blindly, the officers struggling to put him in the chair across the table. "You know you can't kill her, you love her too much." The man sat very still suddenly, his eyes staring straight into that of the chief's, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly. And after a heartbeat of silence a terrible grin spread across the man's un-kept face. He looked rather goofy, with the dirty bandage across his forehead slightly pressing down on his left eyebrow and his missing right eyetooth.

"Hello, my name is Chief Banes," the head of the police department said dryly," who are you?"

The man laughed, and even his teeth looked dirty next to the white of his mangy beard. "Why, I'm George Markham." he said matter-of-factly, though his voice sounded much too young for his appearance. Banes wondered if it had anything to do with that damned bandage they had had to put on him when they found him bleeding and shouting in the desert a day and a half ago.

"George Markham. Well, it seems we don't have you on file, George, your fingerprints say your somebody else." George laughed at that, slamming one of his dirty hands on the table with a hoot.

"And who do my fingerprints say I am? Also, when did my fingerprints start speaking? I haven't heard them say anything!" He laughed again, and it was a hearty sound that in other circumstances might have made Banes smile a little.

"Oh they do," Banes played along, that was the trick with these kind of people, crazy people, you had to feed in to their lies a little to get a bit of truth in return. It was baby steps, give them too much information at one time, or press them too hard and they'd plunge head first into the deep end. Not that he had that much experience with people like that, not this crazy, "and they told me your name is Oliver Wilken."

"Wilken?" George muttered, sobering up instantly and meeting eyes with the chief. The dusty blue irises inside of his skull were wide with pleading, "No, no, Banes you gotta believe me. That guy is bad news. I have nothing to do with him, he's crazy. Absolutely bonkers, insane, and not the good kind either."

"Really?" Banes mused, folding his hands together as he watched.

"Yeah, take it from me, buddy. I don't know what you're looking for, but he ain't got the answers." Markham said, throwing his hands in the air.

"What makes you think I'm looking for something?" The chief asked with one of his eyebrows raised, grateful that there was a tape recorder under the table that he could listen to later. This was definitely going to be the most interesting interrogation he would ever be a part of.

"Well we're in an interrogation room, ain't we?" George asked with a small smile. "I might look stupid, chief, but I ain't." The chief smiled a little back, but what he really thought was that if the man used proper English his point might be better proven.

"So, George, what can you tell me about this box?" Banes asked, hoping his digging a little deeper wouldn't send the man back into his spiraling blabber of confusion.

"Box? I don't have no box." He said a little defensively, moving his eyes from the chief's.

"I know. But do you know about it?" Banes pressed a little, his voice still as placid as an untouched lake.

"I don't know about the damn box!" George yelled, his hands gripping his tangled white hair as he shook his head fiercely.

"George-"

"No! Listen," he shouted, pointing at Banes with one hand as the other gripped his hair tighter, "you don't know what you're getting yourself into-what you're bringing on. The man, he's crazy! Get rid of the box. Kill the man, and then live. Forget we ever came around, you'll be better off."

"We?" Banes asked, knowing that George was leaving fast by the looks of the way his eyes were rolling. With a grunt the man's elbows fell back to the table and his head slumped down to where Banes couldn't see his eyes. "Dammit," he sighed and leaned back into his chair.

"Oliver? Oliver Wilken can you hear me?" Banes asked loudly. Why was he talking like that? The man was in front of him, it's not like he would hear him any better if he increased the volume, that didn't change mental illness.

"She's gone," the man moaned, clenching his fists until the knuckles were white.

"Who's gone?" the chief asked, starting to become a little haggard with the routine of this.

"My love, she's gone." he wailed again, his shoulders starting to shake with small gasps.

"What was her name?" Chief Banes asked, wondering who these women were. One was dead, and one was going to be. One was an evil bitch from the likes of it and the other a perfect lover, or maybe there were none at all. But he had to know, because there was a reason this man wandered into their town and he would be damned if anyone got hurt because of him.

"Does it matter? She's gone now!" the man blubbered, still refusing to look up.

"Where did she go?" Banes asked patiently though he felt like screaming.

"She left--left me. I watched her- she left. Threw out the ring I gave her--and the bouquet."  he gasped in between heaves of his shoulders while his tears dripped onto the metal table.

"Why did she leave?" he asked slowly, trying to weave together the characters that seemed to share this one man.

"I'm alone now, all alone." he sighed.

"You're not alone, Oliver." Banes reassured, feeling the need to reach out and touch the man's forearm like he would do to his son.

"Oliver?!" The man hissed, bringing his tear stained eyes to the light. "I am not that bastard."

"Why do you dislike him so much?" Banes wondered aloud, letting his eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"Because he killed her! He stole her away from me!" the man yelled, slamming his fists on the table.

"Who?"

"Oliver!" he shrieked.

"No, who did Oliver take from you?" Banes clarified curtly.

"Her. Don't you get it? He killed the only girl I'll ever love, she had my heart and he killed her. I hate him." his voice broke in the middle of the scream as the tears came down faster.

"But aren't you Oliver-?" Banes started to ask, but was interrupted by the angry screeching of the man.

"Stop! Stop saying his name, you're going to bring him back, and no one can stand him!" and the same desperate look was in his eyes as the man, George Markham, before him.

"Bring him back from where?"Banes inquired, starting to wonder if the man was not only sick but possessed as well.

"Sleep-ugh!" he squeezed his eyes shut tightly then after a moment reopened them with a sigh. The change had occurred, Banes could see a whole new demeanor to the man by the way his eyes looked around the room, almost as if he understood why he was there.

"Who are you?" Banes asked flatly, feeling the circles starting to form under his eyes. This was exhausting, he doubted he would get any where this man.

"You know who I am," the man said as he stroked his chin, grimacing at the feel of it, "why else would you have me in here?"

"Actually," Banes corrected smartly, "I don't know who you are, because it seems to change every few seconds."

The man chuckled at that, and the youth in his eyes seemed to match the age of his voice. An early 30 year old, maybe even a late twenty year old.

"Now, I'm not that good of an actor. Surely I don't have you fooled to make you think I really am different people, do I?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"So you're just acting? Playing a little joke on us?" Banes asked with narrowed eyes, he was inclined to hit the man if it were the truth.

"Not necessarily," the man said with a sophisticated shrug. He looked like he belonged more in a suit in the middle of a court room than in torn clothes at a police station. "I mean, it's not on purpose, I assure you, but my problems aren't yours, right?" The smile that followed resembled that of a sales person.

"Depends, because it seems you're bringing your problems into my town." Banes growled, taking the intimidating approach, betting on the fact that this character could handle it.

"My problems and I are just walking through, if you let us go, we'd be on our way." The man said with a charismatic smile, looking even more goofy than before.

"And why exactly are you walking through?" the chief pressed.

"We've got business," he said with a shrug, " isn't that why anyone passes through here? Or do you have some secret sight seeing I didn't know about?"

"Why were you bleeding and yelling when we picked you up?" Banes asked, ignoring the jab.

"There was a fight, but you should see the other guy," he said with a wink, and Banes felt the urge to choke him halfway to death.

"Between who?" the chief asked in a strained voice, trying to keep his frustration at a disguised level.

"Listen, bud," Banes flinched a little at the endearment, "you don't need to know about me. Besides, what am I even doing in this dump?"

"You were causing a disturbance with your yelling as well as making death threats," Banes said coldly, letting his glare burn into the man who just shook his head with a chuckle in return.

"I formally apologize for the disturbance, as for the death threats who were they made to?" he asked, trying to hold back a smile.

"That's what we're trying to figure out." the chief answered, trying to read the guy.

He smiled wickedly, "I don't think you have much to hold me on, sir, with all due respect. If there's a fine I'll pay it, as for the death threat, it's just nonsense. I'm crazy, remember?" Banes wanted to kill the guy, or at least for the other versions to come back. The ones he could treat like children and strangle information out of.

"That's the thing, Oliver," the man clenched his teeth at the name, "I don't see anything in your records that says you are. No registered mental hospitals or even diagnoses of mental illness."

He leaned forward so that his face was only inches from the chief's when he said, "Well that's the thing that's scary about crazy people, Banes, is that they can blend in with everyone else for as long as they want without anyone knowing until one day, they just snap."

"And what made you snap, Wilken?" Banes whispered in a voice that sent goosebumps down his own back.

"Love. Love's the death of all things, Chief." he said with half of a smirk.

"And the box?" Banes asked, realizing that he had to let the man wander off at the end of the day. He had too much work to do, and he looked like the only real problem he was was to himself.

"What about it?" he said, leaning back into his chair.

"It's full of dirt, why's it so important?" he wondered, trying to feed his personal curiosities more than interrogate the man now.

"Maybe to someone who wasn't looking," the man said with a shrug as he rested his palms on the top of his head and tilted his chair back. And in the change of light Banes could see scars running across the man's tanned skin in all different directions on his arms and face.

"What happened to you?" he muttered in astonishment and the man clenched his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Bad things," he said lowly, "I got my heart stolen and I have yet to get it back, doubt I ever will."

"You too?" Banes asked, realizing that maybe he was closer to the answers than he thought.

"Who else?" he asked with his eyes still closed.

"The one before you, he was crying about his lover being gone, his heart being taken." Banes explained and realized that he was starting to sound crazy himself for feeding into it.

"Peter? Yeah, he's a crybaby. But his heart is mine too if that makes any more sense to you." he said quietly and it sounded almost like he was drifting to sleep.

"Oliver?" Banes asked, afraid that's what he was doing.

"I am heaven sent, don't you dare forget." the man mumbled and Banes could feel his hair on the back of his neck raise.

"What?" he asked, leaning forward so he could hear him better.

"I hope you come down with something they can't diagnose, something they can't find the cure for," he muttered as if it were playing off a recording in his head. A moment passed then he was scowling, his hands shaking with fury. "The bitch put a curse on me I swear it."

"What girl?" Banes inquired lowly.

"I think about you every day, and now I'm all alone." he whispered to himself. Banes couldn't ignore the electricity in the room, he was on the verge of understanding this man's story.

"You're not alone, Oliver. I promise that I'm right here." and again Banes wanted to comfort the man, less like his son now but more like he wanted to comfort himself. Like these problems were suddenly his now too.

"My friends, they're at the bottom of that lake. They don't swim because they're all dead." and realization slammed into Banes like a bullet. Right into the temple like a shot to the brain. Something hot leaked down his face and he touched it curiously, drawing his hand back red.

"Get it, Banes?" The man asked, his eyes open and burning now, "I'm not Oliver Wilken, you are." And suddenly those blue eyes were familiar, and the beard was no longer white but a grungy blonde. The missing tooth was one he had accidentally knocked out when he played football in high school and the gash in his forehead was from the car accident. The accident that killed her. Killed her and all his friends. The one that had sent them off the side of the cliff and into the lake they had been planning to spend the week at.


The car accident that killed his fiancee a week before their wedding day. The one that was 3 days after the worst fight they had ever had. The one where she told him that she wished he came down with something they couldn't diagnose, because he drove her as crazy as she drove him. 


"No, no, no!" Banes screamed as he realized it was just a mirror in front of him. It shattered then, plunging him into darkness.


"No!" Oliver screeched, waking to sweat covered sheets that entangled him like a snake. 


"Vera?!" He yelled, in the hardly lit apartment when he realized her side of the bed was cold. Tears streaked down his face when he realized it wasn't a dream but a waking nightmare, a view into himself and how crazy he'd become. He walked to the dresser across the room slowly, afraid of what rested on it. 


He traced the wooden lid lightly, like he used to trace Vera's thighs. He picked up the box gingerly, letting a sob break from his chest as he opened it. 


"When I die, you'll carry my ashes to where we first met, right? On the side of that highway in New Mexico where you saved me from dehydration and countless other things." He remembered her saying only a few months after they had started dating. 


"What other things did I save you from?" He had asked. 


"Well," she said, looking at him with those big green eyes, "you saved me from myself." 


"I promise." he muttered as he gazed into the box of gray ashes. And as he looked inside of that box he realized that that was the end of his road too. Because he hated the pain she'd left him with, and the world didn't make sense without her. And maybe when he layed that box in it's proper place she'd finally let her rest. 


Maybe he'd rest too. 

Letters

I look through those letters
The ones you gave me
Only a short time ago

I look at the writing
And the way your hand
Must have caressed the page

I look at the ink
And the spots where
You crossed out the words
That didn't fit just right

I look at the letters
And how each one was
Fashioned by the ends
Of your fingertips

And I realize
As I look through those letters
That they are
The language of love itself

That you are my Prince Charming
Even if you don't believe it

That you are a poet
Even if you don't like your handwriting

That you are my everything
And I am thrilled
To call you mine.

Innocence Lost

It was a warm sunny day outside despite the cool temperature that nipped at my hollow bones inside the hospital room. It was one of those days that I hated my career, that I wished I had chosen to be something different, something normal like a magazine journalist or maybe a paper distributor. One of those days that I felt completely and utterly empty, like a ghost, able to watch but not interact. 

Because I couldn't save her. I couldn't save her. A single mother, a warrior, some kind of angel sent down from heaven itself and I couldn't reattach her wings. 

She was pale as she laid there, the blinds were drawn in effort to save her one last headache, casting a gloomy shadow over the entire room. But it wasn't her, really, that my heart ached for. It was the child beside her bed, the little girl that clutched her mother's weak hand with all of her strength. 

"It's going to be okay, Annabelle," the mother whispered, stroking the girl's red brown hair with a wan smile. The girl nodded with wide eyes and pursed lips, and I knew she didn't believe it. An 8 year old girl, staring at her mother in her deathbed, and she knew the difference between the white lies and the bleeding truth. "Promise me, baby. Promise mama that whatever happens, you'll be strong. You have to be strong, because one day you're going to change the world." 

The girl nodded again, but this time I could see the tears well up in her navy blue eyes as she tightened her little hands around her mother's. 

"I love you, Annabelle. And I am so, so sorry." the mother gasped out with tears streaming down her face. The girl simply nodded again, her bottom lip quivering as she tried to hold back the tears that screamed to stream down her face like her mother's. "I'm sorry." 

The words hung in the air for a long, silent moment after the woman let her eyes fall shut and her hand fall limp in her child's. I watched the girl through this silent moment, watched her choke back the sob that threatened to shatter the quiet as the tears poured down her face and clutch the pale hand until her own knuckles were white. Desperation crept into the little girl's wide eyes and she started to shake her head, finally letting her face fall into the sheets and let the sobs break free. 

I slowly walked to her, my heart breaking with every step, to lay my hand on her small quivering back as I knelt next to her. We sat like that for a while, and I let her cry, because there was nothing else to do but that. 

"Does anybody hear us when we pray?" she asked into the mattress and I was slightly startled by the nature of her question. Out of all the days I had seen her she had never spoken a word, not to anyone. Not even to her mother. 

"What?" I asked, and wished I hadn't, my male voice sounded shockingly harsh even in a whisper among the soft voices of innocence and death. 

"Do they hear us when we pray?" She asked again, this time looking at me with her lost tear stained face. "Because I haven't stopped praying since mama got sick, and they didn't save her. They didn't save her." She collapsed into me then, her little arms wrapping around my neck and her tiny body crumpling into mine as the sobs racked through her. 

I stroked her hair softly as I let the question soak into my bones, because I didn't know what to tell an 8 year old. I didn't know if the answer was another white lie or the terrifying reality that I had accepted as the truth.

"You don't have to answer," she mumbled after a few minutes of my contemplated silence, "I know." 

And in that moment my world shifted with perspective. Because we were all born with innocence, but was it really a choice for us to lose it? Was it something that was just stolen from us as time grew old and we matured to see the horrors? Or was it something that we had to give up in order for us to be strong? Something we needed to lose in order to protect the ones who still had it? 

I held the girl's hand as we walked out of the room, and as I looked at her I still didn't know the answer. Because I was holding an 8 year old's hand, but I was looking into the eyes of a woman who knew that her mother needed to be protected from the truth that she in fact was the one who stole her innocence in the first place. A girl who knew the horrors of this world and realized that there was no amount of praying that would protect her from it. That no one could protect her from it. 

Crime's Royal Court

It was ironic, really. To wind up behind these walls when all she had ever done was advance the progress of the people that once belonged in these rooms. Ironic, and all she could do was smile, because she wouldn't change the past even if she had the choice. She was in here for a reason, they all were, but crazy and crazy in love? They were two different things her fellow psychiatrists and Gotham police had failed to see the difference between. But even though it had been months since she'd lost everything, she still had hope.

Because the love for her Joker was stronger than these madhouse walls, and one day he'd come for her like she had come for him.

The light above her flickered ever so slightly and she couldn't help but grin, because the day had come sooner than she had ever thought. The ground under her feet vibrated slightly and she giggled to herself, thinking of all the ways she would greet him when she saw him for the first time outside of the Asylum's walls. Maybe she would kiss him, or maybe she'd pretend she'd forgotten about him, maybe she'd slap him in the face for not coming sooner.

With the sound of thunder the room began to shake and warp underneath her, making it difficult to keep her balance as she ran to the door. She waited a moment, listening to the sounds in the hallway as the roaring got louder in the concrete walls.

"Earthquake!" someone yelled from beyond the door and she laughed with amusement as a chunk of cement fell from the ceiling to crash into the floor. She looked at it for a moment then grinned, she was on her way out.

"Help!" She screamed as loud as she could, pounding on the door as more debris fell from the ceiling and cracked the floor with a spiderweb of craters. As if on Que, the door burst open with a crash and two of the nurses ran in, after all, it would look extremely bad for the psychiatrist gone mad to be killed in a suspicious earthquake.

"Harleen?" They called, coughing on the dust and trying to study themselves on the shaking ground.

"I'm here," She called out weakly, holding a piece of the concrete between her hands.

"Where?" They called, fumbling closer as the light flickered off.

"Right...here!" She called as she smashed the concrete into the nearest nurse's head with a cackle.

"Jesus!" the other man cried out at the noise and she jumped toward the sound.

"He won't help you here, love," She whispered as she broke his neck. Freedom was only a few floors down, and not even the Batman could figure out a way to be here to stop her in time.

She jumped over the debris and into the flickering hallway, sprinting toward the window at the other end. She didn't have enough time to run down the stairs, and surely the police would be here soon to help with the cleanup, the only way out was down, and quickly at that.

Screaming was heard all through the hospital, cries of desperation and fear. Frantic chaos had never been so beautiful in that moment as she threw a stretcher through the glass and watched it shatter into the night.

She climbed into the window's empty frame, letting the cool wind hit her pale face as she gazed over the sparkling lights of Gotham. It was beautiful, but the part that made her heart beat was not escaping, or knowing that she would be able to see the sun again. The thought that made her heart race and her palms sweaty was knowing that in one of those buildings 6 stories below her was her Joker, and he was waiting for her.

With a grin on her face and the building shaking underneath the weight of her realization she jumped into the inviting ebony arms of the night.

---------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn't about the money, it had never been about the money. It was about chaos, about anarchy. Destroying the society they had all carefully constructed, instilling fear in the system they all bowed down to. None of these-these buffoons understood that. It was all about the damn money to them, making a quick dime, that was power to them. He rubbed his temples with an exhale, his mind already wandering to the forbidden thoughts with the small chance.


"Boss," one of their voices droned.


"What?" He growled, refusing to open his eyes.


"You uh- you might want to see this," Fantastic. Something else to have gone wrong with the plan he was sure. The bastards, he was about to kill each and every one of them and complete the task by himself.


"Really?" he inquired sarcastically, "Unless you have the Batman hooked on your left arm you better-" he opened his eyes to his vision completely blocked out by a title. A head title on the front of the Gotham Times, that read:

"Former Psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel Escapes From Arkham Asylum"


He blinked once, the henchman looking at him with satisfaction, expecting some kind of reward. His jaw clenched as he looked at the one of his many workers, signaling with a finger for the man to come closer, which he did.

He wrapped one of his gloved hands into the man's hair with a smile as he yanked the man's face close to his. "You are a waste of my time," he hissed as he dug a knife into the man's throat and tossed him, bleeding and screaming, to the floor.

"Let that be a warning to all of you," he yelled standing so the whole warehouse could see him, "to not waste my time."

------------------------------------------------------------------

Tonight had an electricity to it, he could feel it as he walked through the empty bank behind all of his henchmen. Tonight was a night for change, he didn't know what kind of change but he could feel it. Maybe he'd kill the Batman tonight, or maybe the people of Gotham would finally start to realize there was no stopping him. Either way, it was putting him in a shockingly good mood.

He walked lazily into the vault where the men were stacking the bills in sacks, a grin so wide even his scars stretched to show a few more teeth than usual. "Looking good, boys," he hummed cheerfully, taking out a lighter and playing with it. He was about to set a small stack on fire when shattering glass and screaming erupted from outside the vault. The henchmen jumped with the noise, looking to him for comfort, or maybe the signal to flee with worried eyes, but all he did was smile in return.

"Don't worry," he said with a wave of his hand, "I'll handle the Batman." and tucked the lighter back into his pocket, the grin he wore spreading ever so slightly.

Even the security lights were off in the bank now as he walked out of the vault, a cool breeze filtered in, knocking lose papers around and spreading the stench of blood and death toward him, in which he took a deep breath.

"I know you're supposed to be a bat," he chuckled, striding father away from the open vault, "but even this is a little dark for you, don't you think?"

"I don't know, it seems to be the perfect shade for me, I think." The voice froze him in his tracks, and even the Joker couldn't laugh in that moment. He spun around to face the source of the noise, slightly shocked by how close she was to the vault without him noticing. One security light flickered on behind her, illuminating her silhouette as she strode toward him, swinging what looked like a giant hammer in her hand. She wore black on one side and red on the other, each color hugging every curve and line of her body, her face painted white with ebony smirking lips, any man would've crumpled at her feet in that second. Specifically a man who found harlequins especially sexy.

"Excuse me," he said with a chuckle as a smirk stretched across his lips, "I thought you were someone else."

"Aw," she cooed as she stepped into another light so that he could see her full face, "can't you recognize me, puddin'?"

"Boss, do you need some help with the-" the henchman choked on his words as he caught sight of the disturbance, "W-who's this?"

And before the Joker could shoo him away, a wicked grin stretched upon her black lips, "Why, I'm Harley Quinn, his girlfriend."