Gotham: Tales

A stern woman with voluminous hair and a microphone held before her full, sculpted lips; colorful cars at her sides; gleaming, broken windows above her — and such a crisp, vivid picture overall that Jerome could make out every wide pore on her pretty, modestly made-up face, every cracked brick of the building behind her, and so many other details — moving or still. It seemed his very eyes had evolved into something more perceptive, more attuned. “Another laboratory actively producing fear toxin has been exposed by Batman. Sources claim that Scarecrow himself is already on his way to the police station.” The sound was just as clear — pure and distinct. It carried the reporter’s weary voice without a single distortion. Scarecrow! Batman! So many marvelous things surrounded Jerome day after day — and it seemed there was no end to that marvel. He often felt like he was living in some kind of action movie — or, more likely, a horror story. His finger hovered above the keyboard, his eyes darting irritably across the buttons until, after an indecently long moment, he finally found what he was looking for and, grumbling like an old man, pressed pause. What a wonderful thing — this laptop. And no less wonderful, kind, and generous — Annie, who had brought it to him and patiently taught him how to use this small, clever machine, as if he had never dealt with such a thing before this amnesia of his. Annie came every day, spending long hours of his day with him — patiently showing and explaining all sorts of gadgets and trinkets she brought so he wouldn’t die of boredom. She sat beside him; one of her hands, in a strangely possessive way, rested against the back of the bed behind him — as if she wanted to embrace him but was, for now, content simply to cover him with her shadow and scent. Her body brushed against his arm and shoulder, almost deliberately provoking an unpleasant reaction — he could feel his skin prickle from her touch, and in those moments, he’d glance at her from under his lashes with a sharp look, only to meet the same keen gaze from beneath her half-closed lids — a gaze that clashed with her gentle, obliging demeanor. But Jerome did nothing about it — finding balance and stability was harder than he had expected. He still hadn’t remembered a thing. He roamed through his own mind, bumping into shadows and walls, trying to break through or dispel them — and earned, in return, only a vicious migraine and despair. The latter frightened him more than the former — that vile, trembling feeling — and once it attacked him, he retreated at once, just to avoid feeling it again, it and the — vulnerabilityit brought. All he could do was slam his fist against the wall to let off steam — and then ignore the throbbing pain in his joints. During such moments, Annie’s visits were especially unbearable. She’d soothe him, stroke his injured hand — and that, more than anything, filled him with a terrible sense of wrongness, so much so that he could barely restrain himself from pushing her away. But he couldn’t. She brought him goodies, after all! And right now, Jerome even wanted to see her — watching the videos and news on the laptop had sparked in him a desire to talk about his impressions. So when the door opened silently, he immediately turned toward the soft creak — he knew it was Annie, because his doctor always knocked first. “Sweetheart!” he sang brightly, flooding her with his boundless delight at the sight of her — he put every ounce of warmth he could into his tone so she’d feel how much he’d missed her. He didn’t even greet her — he went straight for affection! “I was just thinking about you!” His “tigerish” voice helped him purr the words tenderly. But despite his perfect performance, her face — to his mind — stayed neutral for a little too long before breaking into a smile. “I see someone’s in a good mood today,” Annie remarked with a half-smile that managed to be both shy and provocative. “Oh, you have no idea!” And indeed, Jerome could hardly stay still. Energy boiled in his veins, demanding he leap to his feet and pace around his cramped room — which he did. “I don’t recognize a damn thing! I feel like I’ve landed in someone else’s world, and this little city gives me such mixed feelings — feels like home, yet not at all! Ha!” His movements were sharp, almost threatening, though he didn’t notice. Despite his pessimistic words, his voice was lively, even cheerful. And though Jerome, without realizing it, began circling Annie like a wolf, she didn’t tense up or stop him. “Quite natural, given your amnesia, my dear,” she said softly, shaking her head with sympathy. “Ah yes — amnesia,” Jerome muttered, halting, the word coming out as a strained rasp. “The doc doesn’t tell me much. Seems he talks to ya a lot easier than he does to me,” he added, his tone edged with suspicion. And indeed, the doctor did seem to avoid coming in; and when he did, he always tried to leave quickly. He’d take samples, ask short routine questions about Jerome’s condition, examine him silently, and avoid his eyes. There was nothing remarkable about the man — except for the web of red capillaries that veined his eyeballs, like he hadn’t slept in days and was forcing himself to look at the world wide-eyed, refusing to blink. Under Jerome’s heavy gaze, the doctor’s round eyes would quietly shift, fixed on the readings of the tonometer — seemingly unaffected by the weight of being watched. “You just need time to recover.” “I assure you, your memories will return gradually.” “What you’re feeling is normal.” That was the usual list of excuses Jerome got in response to his questions. Eventually, he concluded that only Annie was a true source of information — through her words and the things she brought him. But he often heard quiet, rustling voices behind the white door of his room — hers and the doctor’s. Always speaking in private, never in his presence. It annoyed him. Sometimes to the point of paranoia — bright, searing aggression that he then had to deal with alone. A small, naive voice inside insisted they only wanted to help. After all, he had no proof otherwise. And truthfully, his own aggression frightened him. It was boiling, disproportionate to its cause — consuming, making his hands tremble, knocking him off balance. Raising doubts. Even his unfair treatment of Annie troubled him less than this. Yet together, that cynicism and anger forced him to dwell on something unpleasant but important — the question: “What kind of person am I?” Somehow, he knew these outbursts weren’t normal. But what could he really know? Judging by how Annie never seemed surprised by his behavior, he must’ve been an energetic, positive person before — witty, theatrical. At least, that’s what he had to assume, since she was all he had to rely on in this mess. “Of course that’s true. The doctor and I have been taking care of you for quite some time,” Annie’s voice suddenly rang through the air, cutting through his thickening thoughts. She seemed to have been watching him suspiciously for a moment before answering. Jerome paused, uncertain. Maybe he was overdoing it?.. How could he tell where he ended and where the aftermath of the coma began?.. “Batman, Scarecrow…” he muttered, sitting down on the edge of his bed. His voice trembled pitifully as he tried to change the subject — maybe to make her forget his ungrateful suspicions. “We live in quite an interesting city, don’t we?” He tried to wink at her, but managed only an awkward glance. “Hard to believe it’s real.” Annie came closer, her expression unreadable, sat beside him, and slipped one arm gently around his shoulders. This time, the resistance stirred only faintly, and he either allowed — or forced himself to allow — the gesture with something resembling gratitude. Then Annie spoke softly: “Well, it’s time for you to see everything yourself.” His head jerked toward her, his eyes flashing with confusion — quickly replaced by realization. “They’re discharging you today,” Annie nodded in response to his look. “Pack up — don’t dawdle.” From the inner pocket of her brown coat, she pulled out a small mirror and handed it to him. How strange. Truth be told, Jerome had only ever glimpsed his reflection in the window glass or the darkened laptop screen — there were no mirrors in the room or the bathroom, and the doctor had strictly forbidden him to leave the ward without permission. He’d even caught Jerome once trying — and after the look the man’s red-veined eyes gave him, something weak and childlike inside Jerome curled up and kept him from breaking that rule again. He’d never even asked why there were no mirrors — and somehow, subconsciously he’d kept himself from wanting to ask. As if seeing his reflection would change something forever — something he wasn’t ready for. Jerome took the small, cheap, fragile mirror. His thoughts and doubts flickered so fast he barely noticed his apprehension — only wondered why it had never occurred to him to ask the doctor for one before. Carefully, he opened it and brought it to his face, peering through the smudges and fingerprints at his reflection. His hand flew to his lips, touching the corners — as if something should have been there that wasn’t. Beautiful, full lips. Soft, youthful skin around them. Rebellious red curls. A fair, pretty face. And the eyes of a stunned animal.