"How do you feel today, Mr. Napier?"
The question cut through the sterile silence of the room, where the scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. The walls, a dull grey, were stained with the history of troubled minds, and the soft hum of flickering fluorescent lights only amplified the feeling of isolation. This was Arkham Asylum—a place for the lost and forgotten, where the line between sanity and madness blurred.
A woman dressed in a simple black suit moved efficiently as she set up a camera in the room's corner. It whirred softly, locking its focus on the man and woman sitting across from each other at a cold metal table. The woman, a therapist, shuffled a stack of papers in front of her, barely looking up. The man, cigarette in hand, leaned back in his chair, staring at her through the haze of smoke, his eyes sharp, yet distant. His yellowed fingers tapped the cigarette against the edge of an ashtray—tap, tap, tap—never fully relaxing.
"Jack?"
He didn't answer right away, lost somewhere in the fog of his mind.
"Jack?" she repeated, with more firmness.
Jack blinked. "Huh?"
"I was asking if you're alright."
He stared at her for a moment, then a slow, unsettling smile crept across his face. "I'm as fine as I could ever be, miss."
The therapist exhaled softly, amused. She glanced at her papers, and with little thought, cracked a weak joke. "Well, at least you're not one of the other guys in here… poor Eddie thinks he's the mayor of Gotham, but we can't even trust him to lock the door behind him."
Jack froze for a second, then suddenly burst into laughter. It started as a chuckle, a little too loud, but quickly spiraled out of control. He leaned forward, his whole body shaking with exaggerated, high-pitched cackles. He slapped his knee, nearly dropping his cigarette as tears welled in his eyes. He howled, bending over as if the joke was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, his laughter echoing through the small room.
The therapist raised an eyebrow, watching him with a practiced calm. The joke wasn't that funny. Not funny at all, really.
And even Jack, between gasps of air, seemed to realize it. The laughter kept coming, but it was almost mechanical now, his voice faltering. Finally, as the absurdity of it hit him, he forced himself to stop. The last laugh escaped in a strangled cough, and Jack straightened himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some sense of composure.
He muttered, half to himself, "Wasn't even that funny…"
The therapist glanced up at him over her papers, her expression neutral. "We're going to start from the top."
Outside, the rain hammered down on the city, drowning out any other sound. In the distance, thunder rumbled, a low growl that sent vibrations through the asylum's walls. A man walked outside the gates, a yellow raincoat draped over his hunched shoulders as he pushed through the storm.
"Let's see." She flipped to a new page, narrowing her eyes. "October 24th. Where were you?"
Jack flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching it fall into the ashtray. His gaze lingered there for a moment, as though searching for something within the curling grey smoke. "I was coming home from work… you see…"
Jack turned the corner onto the grimy, rain-soaked street leading to his apartment complex. His shoes splashed through shallow puddles as he walked, the yellow of his raincoat standing out like a small light in the drab Gotham evening.
As he approached the entrance, he saw a gaggle of teens spray-painting the brick wall next to the door-crude tags and symbols that meant something to nobody but the ones creating them.
He squinted a little and watched them for a moment. They looked up, saw him.
Jack chuckled, showing off his teeth as he made a weak joke. "Hey, careful, you're improving the place. Might get the rent raised."
The teens stilled for a second, then turned to each other before one of them, a kid with a hood pulled down low over his head, grinned. "Haha, you got it, Jack!"
Jack smiled to himself. "Yeah, thanks, guys." His voice was light, but his thoughts were darker. Fucking junkies.
He moved past them, shaking his head slightly as he went on into the building. The apartment complex had seen better days-if it had ever seen good ones.
The brick exterior was chipped and faded, streaked with the grime of years of neglect. The smell of mold and something burnt perpetuated in the lobby's air, though no one knew precisely from where. The elevator wasn't working again, but then, that was hardly news. Jack had long since stopped pushing the button.
He began the ascent up the stairs, his feet hitting the steep, narrow steps. Paint peeled from the walls, and the handrail felt loose to his fingers, barely attached to the wall anymore. Two children played on the floor of the second storey landing where the stairs made their sharp turn. They had half-a-dozen action figures-ill cheap plastic toys that seemed to have seen too many battles-and scuffed paint and missing limbs.
Jack smiled at them as he walked by, but the kids stared back, wide-eyed and silent. Their play ceased the second he approached, their little fingers digging into their toys with all their might. The rest of the stairs were climbed in silence, with the weight of their stare on his back; the smile slipped from his face.
Now he sat before his therapist again, her eyes soft but steady as she waited for him to continue. His expression turned sad and his mind was far away from the present.
"Why don't you think they liked you?" she asked, her voice careful and measured.
Jack's eyes flickered up to meet hers, then fell quickly again to the ashtray, the burning cigarette low between his fingers. "I don't know," he muttered, almost to himself. "Maybe it was the way I dressed. The way I looked." He paused, his mouth twitching in a bitter smile. "I looked like a freak."
She leaned forward, her eyes catching his. "You looked like a person, Jack. You are a person. Nothing's wrong with you."
Jack firmed his jaw and muttered low. "Whatever you say, doc."
The therapist sat and watched Jack mutter to himself, her calm gaze never changing. Instead of pushing him, she gave a soft smile. "You know, Jack, you really have made a lot of progress. It might not feel that way, but I can see it."
Jack looked up at her, almost surprised. For a second, his defending walls fell. His lips slightly twitched, in a real, though faint, smile. "Thanks," he muttered, though he didn't quite believe it.
The therapist nodded, marking the moment before continuing.
Jack wrenched open the screeching door to his dilapidated apartment, and the worn hinges groaned in protest into the dark hallway. The air had a putrid stench to it, like something unwanted breathed there. As he entered, he heard his mother's voice coming from the other room, weak and trembling.
"Jackie? Is that you?"
"Yeah, Ma, it's me," Jack replied, dropping his soaked raincoat onto the back of a chair. He rubbed his hands together, the cold still in his bones from being outside. He kicked off his worn shoes-their soles nearly falling apart.
"How was your day?" she asked in that same well-forced tone she used every time.
Jack blew out a breath, pulling off his tie as he walked into the living room, where she sat in her old, lumpy recliner. The faded fabric was frayed at the edges, but she never complained. It wrapped her in a blanket, her small frame all but swallowed. The flicker of the television cast a dim glow on her frail face, making her look even older than she was.
"It was all right, Ma. Just the same old thing." Jack forced a smile, while the exhaustion in his voice betrayed him.
"Oh, that's good, Jackie," she said softly, her eyes crinkling in a weak smile. "You're such a good boy, you know that? You're doing your best. I'm proud of you."
Jack's heart clenched. She always said that. But did she really believe it? Did he? Hard swallowing, he turned his face from her so the mix of guilt and frustration wouldn't mar the surface of his calm expression.
"Come on, Ma," he said softly, "let's get you ready for bed."
Slowly and with care, he made her rise from the chair. Her weight leaned heavily on him as they moved towards the bathroom. Her body was so light now, as if she was disappearing inch by inch, leaving only the frail shell behind. The light above the bathroom buzzed weakly overhead, casting a dim yellow hue over the cracked tile and peeling wallpaper. The small, worn-out room was testimony to the wear and tear that time had inflicted on everything in their lives.
Jack turned the water on in the tub, playing with the faucet until it came out at an agreeable temperature. His mother hummed a soft tune; it was an old song, from years back, one of those sweet-sad melodies that always made Jack think of better times. He washed her carefully, being sure not to touch the more sensitive parts of her fragile skin. She shut her eyes and let the warmth soak in.
After he had dried her off and put her into a worn nightgown, Jack escorted her to the bedroom. He tucked her into bed as one would a child, pulling the blankets right to her chin. She smiled up at him tiredly.
Jack slid into bed beside her, a ritual they'd performed for years-ever since his father had left and Jack had taken over as caretaker. The bed creaked under the weight of them both; the old springs groaned in protest. Sighing, he glanced at the TV: the news blared on, quietly.
On screen, an outdoor rally was in full swing. Signs waved; behind them, the Gotham skyline soared upwards in dark menace. At the center of it stood Thomas Wayne, in a quick and perfect suit, his hair slicked back, every inch a man assured in his path through life.
"…the city of Gotham deserves better, deserves a leader who can guide us out of this age of crime, corruption, and chaos," boomed the voice of Wayne through the television speakers. "I'm running for mayor because I believe in this city. I believe in the potential that lives within every citizen, no matter where they come from. Gotham can be saved-but only if we work together.
The camera zoomed in on his face, his square jaw clenching with determination. There was a huge banner behind him, which read: Thomas Wayne for Mayor: Restoring Gotham's Future.
The crowd cheered in agreement, waving signs and hollering his name, like he was Gotham's savior.
Wayne smiled and lifted his hand to quiet them. "For too long, we've allowed the crime families, the corruption, and chaos to run unchecked. We have allowed those who live in fear believing this city belongs to the criminals. Well, no more. If I am elected mayor, I will ensure that Gotham is no longer a playground for the thugs, the corrupt, and the cowardly. Gotham shall once again be a beacon of hope."
Jack stared hard at the screen, his jaw tightening. His mother's voice drifted up beside him, faint, almost dreamy.
"Isn't he handsome, Jackie? Thomas Wayne… He's such a good man. Can you imagine? Mayor Wayne. Maybe he'll finally fix things. Maybe he'll fix Gotham. I always told you we were close to them, didn't I? You'd fit in with people like the Waynes…"
Jack's eyes stuck to the screen. Wayne stood tall, confident, powerful-all the things Jack wasn't. Somewhere in the inflection of his voice, in the crowd's love for him, was a pang that burrowed into Jack's gut. He had everything. Money. Respect. Power. And here Jack was, barely surviving, invisible to the world unless people wished to mock him or step on him.
His mother heaved a contented sigh. "Maybe someday, Jackie… maybe someday you'll meet him. We deserve more, you and I."
Jack said nothing, his eyes still fixed on that picture of Wayne smiling, waving at the crowd. That searing feeling inside of him pulled even tauter.
"Jack?"
The voice cut through his thoughts and dragged him back to reality. He blinked, realizing he was no longer beside his mother but once again in the cold, sterile therapy room. The therapist watched him closely across the table, her eyes filled with concern.
"You zoned out again," she said softly, her voice gentle yet probing. "Are you all right?"
For a time, Jack said nothing. He simply looked at the ashtray, the cigarette burning down to the filter. He forced a smile, that same contrived smile he always used in order to mask the reality of the thoughts swimming in his head.
"I'm just fine," he said softly.