The Laughing Man, Book Two: Goner

Chapter Five

The girl was crying again. It seemed she always cried. The sessions had been of little help to her recovering psychosis. Harleen touched her gently on the arm. A calming gesture that sometimes dried the tears. Peyton looked to her doctor, puffy, red, eyes and nodded, pitifully. Times like this Harleen wished it was appropriate to hug a patient. The poor girl had such a difficult time adjusting, terror sweeping through her constantly.

"Peyton, it's alright," Harleen said, a soothing tone. "You're safe here now."

The wet streaks continued down her gaunt cheeks. "I want to believe you. I really do."

"If you like, we can just sit in silence."

"No, I want to talk. It's just hard," Peyton said, breathing deep. She was calming down.

Peyton Riley was a hard case to have in her lineup. The case file filled with her arrest record, notes from both reliable and unreliable sources. The story the notes told was one of despair. The girl often reminded Harleen of her own past in minor ways. An abusive relationship, scars lining her body from gunshot wounds, knife wounds, beatings. Losing the love of her life. Driven into psychosis. Harleen sympathized more than she could admit. Often times, she wondered if she would have been trapped behind the bars of an Arkham cell had her situation differed slightly.

It was their third session together. Always hard to switch psychiatrists, but in Peyton's case, it was a necessary change, having been one of Crane's patients. She showed no signs of having been inflicted with his toxin as many of his other patients had, but he certainly didn't work on her condition. There were no videos of their sessions to study, just half-assed notes that made Harleen question whether Crane was writing real observations or just making stuff up for the board. So the sessions were vital to understand the troubled woman and to find the best course of treatment.

"Why don't we focus on what makes you happy, today." Harleen said. "See if we can find a way to smile through the pain."

Peyton nodded, the miserable look almost chiseled on her face. "I love my dolls. They make me happy."

"And how do they do that?"

"When they talk to me, they can make me laugh. They tell me jokes and remind me that life isn't so bad."

"That's good," Harleen said, taking notes. The talking dolls were a delusion of her schizophrenia, a comfort zone for the girl. "Any specific doll you like the most?"

"Scarface." Peyton smiled at last. Harleen assumed she was referring to her Al Capone doll. "He was a gift from Uncle Andrew before he died. Scarface is always reminding me of how we have to treat each day as if it were our last."

"A good philosophy." Harleen chose not to contradict the delusion. A trust had to be built first and foremost before the barriers could be broken down. "Anything else that makes you happy?"

"I like you, Dr. Quinzel," Peyton's smile turned to her doctor. "You're nice and you don't treat me like a freak just because I'm going through some rough times. That makes me happy."

Harleen smiled back, carefully choosing her next words. "Thank you, Peyton. I like you, too. And I'm here for you, to help you get past this rough patch." She scribbled down a note before saying, "Anything else?"

"There was Matthew before he died." Her late fiance. "Nothing made me happier than being in his arms."

"Why don't you tell me more about him?"

"I...I can't. Not yet."

Harleen understood. Hard memories to touch. "Alright, then. What else?"