FREAKS || Jerome Valeska¹

49 || It's Time

A couple of hours.

It had been a couple of hours since I had seen Jerome Valeska.

Our last moments together were at the hospital and during the ride to Arkham. I was thankful to Jim because he let us be together and say goodbye. However, they were less of a precious goodbye and more of a chaotic flurry of people tending to our injuries.

The nurses had tended to my grazed shoulder while the doctors focused on Jerome's damaged face. Some of the nurses there appeared a little disgusted with the exposed muscles. Nevertheless, they disinfected the area. As they cleaned, I held onto his hand, clenching my eyes, pained every time I heard his groans and gasps for air. He squirmed on the hospital bed ever so often.

With every pulse of pain, he squeezed my hand hard. His vocal agony had ceased when they were stitching the skin back on. I bit my lip, feeling his nails dug into my skin. But I endured it. He was giggling and cackling as they worked, but I knew he was in more pain than he wanted us to see. Hurting me wasn't his intention.

By the end, I had some bruises and tiny flesh wounds on my hand.

The men who had come for us strapped me in a straight jacket and muzzled me again because... well, I had snapped my teeth at someone. They had grabbed me too hard. The whole ride to Arkham was Jerome telling me it would be okay, that we'd rule the nuthouse together. My head was leaned on his shoulder for comfort.

I could still vividly remember the moment they pulled us apart. The happiness we had felt moments ago had been extinguished. His voice was fragile and broken when he told me he loved me. Yet, a fleeting smile crossed his lips when I told him I loved him back.

I'm sure we both knew this time that everything would be different. Almost a year ago, we had arrived at the depths of hell that was Arkham, strangers to one another; our paths crossed in what I believe to be fate. But now that we know each other, who knew if I'd ever see him again. They would probably keep us separated, knowing we would likely cause trouble together.

But I missed him.

Possibly more than when he died.

Why? Because he was out there but just out of reach, an unattainable presence. It was like a drug. Now that I had him back, I yearned to see him all the time.

I examined the bruises, crescent-shaped cuts on my hand, the reminder of Jerome's last touch. My eyes trailed along the sore marks as I sat in the familiar, cold room, cuffed and chained to the metal table, my leg bouncing. Anxiety coursed through me as I faced the same psychiatrist from my previous stint at Arkham.

"Reese, calm down. You've been here before," The woman spoke softly. She hadn't changed much; she still looked youthful despite pushing 50 (as she had told me), and her brunette hair was shorter, shoulder-length. She was one of those people who defied the aging process. Honestly, it was comforting to see a familiar face in this hell. She opened the manila folder before looking at me, intertwining her fingers above the table. "What happened?" Her eyes squinted with curiosity. "You were doing good. You were friends with the mayor."

"All good things come to an end," I replied with a sharp eyebrow raise, recalling the chaos unleashed by the cult and Dwight Pollard. My mind echoed Jervis Tetch's words that night at the Founder's dinner, reminding me that I was pretending to be someone I couldn't be. My lips pursed softly. "I have never been sane. The cult came to remind me of that."