Gotham: Jemma's Diary (v1)

Chapter Two - Therapy

Group Therapy.

Just the thought of it would make anyone want to climb into the sewers and spend the rest of your life in hiding. But I guess we didn't have a choice. It was better than solo therapy, after all. You know, the kind where they get two rather large men to strap you down into an uncomfortable chair and send electro-shocks throughout your brain.

Fun, huh?

"Ms Valeska," Mr Strange said, clearing my thoughts as he stared at me from across the circle, "Why don't you share with us what you've been struggling with?"

I hated this man. This short, bald-headed man, wearing tiny glasses, scared me. And he knew it. He tortured me each day. Whether it be by shock therapy or by staring at me from across the room. He made me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough that I'd do anything he said, without thinking twice about it.

I gulped, looking around the small circle of inmates as I responded, "Well... I actually don't think I'm struggling with anything at the moment."

"Really?" Mr Strange asked, his voice deep and menacing as he glared at me from beyond his glasses, "What about the death of your brother?"

Gritting my teeth, I took a moment to get myself together. He knew this angered me, and I hadn't known why he'd bring such a thing up.

"The situation with my brother ended months ago, why are you bringing this up?!" I retorted, glaring back at him.

"I only bring it up so we can offer support, Ms Valeska." He replied, a little smile apparent on his face, "As I can see, it still angers you to talk about it. So, let's move on."

"Jerome Valeska." An inmate said, "He's your brother?"

I nodded in response, "He was, yes. And no, Mr Strange, it doesn't anger me to talk about my brother-"

"He killed a lot of people, didn't he?!" The inmate questioned, watching me with eager eyes.

"Vince," Mr Strange spoke lowly, turning to the inmate, "We don't interrupt when others are speaking."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair and rolling my eyes as the rest of the group carried on the session without me.

I was much happier being left alone.

Hell, I could be sat in the darkness of the corner of the room and still find things to keep me entertained. I guess that's something you have to learn when you're young and having to fend for yourself.

Not entirely, of course. But when your mother is busy having sex with a random stranger in the room next door to yours, in a tiny caravan no less, there's not much more you can do other than find ways to forget about the bad thoughts.

My brother was always good at doing that for me, though.

Jerome had always protected me whenever mum was drunk and too tired to go outside and find a stranger to hook up with. She always turned to us, in that situation. 

She would slur disturbing words at us, throwing empty bottles of cheap wine at us, slapping us so hard across the face that we didn't want to wake up the next morning.

But Jerome did his best to make sure I wasn't getting the worst of it. He did his best to make sure mum never laid a hand on me.

What could I do? I was only little. A young child, at most. 

I didn't know how to stop her. I didn't know what to do to please her, to make the beatings stop just for one night.

My brother should've hated me. 

I carry with me so much guilt of times where I would've left my crayons out, and mum would get mad. Or I'd forgotten to do something, and mum would get mad. And every time she'd take it out on Jerome. 

Until he killed her, of course.