The Skin That Crawls From You [A Jonathan Crane Fan-fiction]

You crazies.

"Miss Alcott, what are you trying to do?"
He hisses. He looks down for a moment, realizing how close our bodies are and takes a step back, pressing harder onto my wrists.

Panic whirs through me. This was a mistake. This isn't what he wants. His eyes are icier than I've ever seen, his brows arched. he looks so alive, so young.

"I'm sorry doctor, I don't know,"
I lie, my voice a whimper.

"I'm just so lost and confused and, I thought you cared and-"
I stammer, parts of it are true; I am lost I am confused, but I'm almost positive he doesn't care. Not truly.

He swallows and his face softens. His cheeks flush just a bit, he lets me go and he turns his back on me.

There was something there. In the way he looked at me, the way he closed his eyes with my touch, the way he stepped back, the blush of his cheeks. Worst of all, there was something there for me too. A rush of electricity, that feeling in the pit of my stomach. But I can't afford to feel that. This has to just be a game; I have to be in control. Total control.

I crumble to the floor, milking every piece of sympathy I can get from the hardened doctor. Some part of him likes to play 'savior.' Maybe that's why he became a psychiatrist in the first place.

He steps over to me, offering a hand to help me up.

I grasp it, and he pulls me up gently; as if I'm fragile, breakable.

I offer him a timid smile, not quite genuine.

"Miss Alcott I have other patients to tend too,"
He says emotionlessly before turning to walk out the door.

•

The rest of the day is spent doing things that are presumably normal for mental hospital inpatients. I'm sent downstairs to eat lunch with the other prisoners- patients, at least those that are deemed as stable enough for socialization.

Miss Selleck escorts me into the dingy elevator, the air moist in the moving booth.
I feel more comfortable in her presence after what she asked me; not everyone is ruined, broken, and demented here in arkham. Empathy still lives.

"Thank you- For earlier I mean,"
I say, my voice soft and true breaking the thick silence.

She looks at me, eyes wide and swallows something sour.

"I only asked because I took an oath, it's my job."
She says, accent thick as ever.

I tilt my head.

"Well no, I appreciated it-"
I follow with. i didn't mean to embarrass her.

"You're still a murderer to me,"
She reminds me, her voice suddenly venomous.

"I heard about what you did to your brother, I heard about how you killed him, I still think that you're sick."
She spits.

My heart drops. The only warmth in this frozen hell, ripped away from me before I can savor it. I thought there was someone on my side; I was naive. I cannot afford to be naive.

Soft corners will become raw sores if you bare them to the world. I must be more cautious, I put weight in her opinion and lost control.

Leaving the elevator, I push past the woman; slamming my shoulder against hers as I enter the mess hall. I don't look back. I stalk towards the serving station, grab a tray and slam it onto the metal railings.

A bearded man with two hair nets; one on his chin the other on his almost bald head, passes me a flimsy paper plate. A piece of soggy breaded chicken with canned green beans and instant mashed potatoes looms in front of me. I grab my plate, a set of plastic utensils and a carton of juice before looking for a place to sit.

I feel the room's eyes on me. This co-ed facility makes my skin crawl; yellow toothed men gaze at my rump, the male guards eye me up. Even women look me up and down; whispering little comments amongst themselves.

Look at how scrawny.
I manage to hear.
I've never been scrawny, in fact my whole life I've been soft in all the wrong places and often made fun of for it.

I'm the youngest in sight, and this feels like high school again. I have moved states and switched schools my entire life- this new girl shame is something I'm used too. My instincts kick in, and I stalk forward to find a bathroom to eat in.

Walking towards the 'restroom' sign, a stiff hand slams into my chest. The impact stings and I look up at the source. A tall burly man with orange hair and a patchy mustache, he holds a single hand against his belt- ready to draw. The other against my chest, his fingers pressing into my left breast.

"Excuse me,"
I fume, I can't help the fire within my tone.

"Where do you think you're going?"
He growls.

"The bathroom,"
I hiss.

"Okay, I'll come with."
He says with a shit eating grin.

I don't say a word.

"You crazies can't be trusted to be alone with those plastic forks- I've gotta keep an eye on you pretty gal,"

His words send a sick feeling to my stomach.