When Ianthe Thatcher, a 21 year old Gotham City native reluctantly accepts a seemingly promising position at Arkham Asylum, her path takes an unexpected turn.
In addition to the crumbling state of her city and the proximity of her workplace to the...
The week dragged until it was finally the next Monday. Luckily today was somewhat sunny, rare for Gotham, which would balance out the the dank, hell hole of a building I was about to spend the entire day inside of.
I knew today would mostly just be filling out paperwork and maybe some training, but a part of me was excited and contrastingly filled by shaky feelings of nervousness and anxiety. With that, I took my meds. Which, coincidentally, I got prescribed for at Arkham. I was a client there, and I had been for about 2 years now. That's part of the reason why I was so scared to work at the asylum. I knew what it was like on the inside, and with my own...mental health issues...I was nervous that being in an environment like that would take a toll on me.
But, I had to do what I had to do.
I started my first day look with a gentle touch of makeup. Mainly to hide my genetically hollow under eyes, but to also accentuate my natural features. My ash-brown hair shone with long golden strands in the peeps of morning sunlight, and I decided to tie it up simply because I didn't feel like taming the crimped waves, choppy layers and cowlicks.
I decided to wear a pair of black, pin-striped slacks with a 3/4 sleeve white button-up blouse. Casual, comfortable, classy. I wanted to make a good first impression. I accessorized myself with my vintage-silver jewelry. A few rings, some stud earrings, and a 2-layered pendant necklace, most of which were passed down to me. My favorite piece was a delicate watch, the ticking clock no bigger than my thumbnail, given to me by my great grandmother after she passed.
I slipped on some low, black velvet closed-toe block heels and threw my purse and lunch bag over my shoulder. I took my coffee and breakfast to go and made my way down to my car.
✣
A ping of fear rippled through me as I began crossing the bridge that connected to Arkham Island. I had made this trip dozens of times over the last few years, but today it felt different. Now, I had this odd feeling that once I crossed to the other side the bridge there would be no turning back. That I would be trapped.
I parked in the staff parking lot, which was better than the client parking lot by just a little. I studied the area for a bit before getting out of my car, notating the cars I saw and looking for any lurking individuals. Nothing stood out to me.
As I stepped into the ginormous and dated asylum, a sickening feeling of dread swamped any earlier emotion I had. Every muscle is my body was burning to turn around and bolt, to go back home. I assured myself that it was just my anxiety.
The building smelt of mildew, and everything I saw seemed to be covered in a thin layer of grime. Fluorescent lights hummed and casted a dampening filter over everything within their reach. The coloration and state of just the entrance hallway already began sending me into a depression. But, I remembered that this was a locally funded facility, and with Gotham's tax crisis, there was nothing that could really be done about anything.
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I soothed myself by putting it out of my head that I would be here every day and instead reminded myself that this was only temporary. Maybe one day I could get a better job elsewhere.
Maybe even leave Gotham.
✣
I finished my paperwork and orientation at around 3:00 PM. I still had 2 hours left for training until I left for the day at 5:00 PM. The job description online of what I would actually be doing was brief, so I was curious as to the in's and out's of my position and what training would be involved.
I had been sitting and contemplating for just a few moments. Then I felt him.
The door to the room I was working in opened briskly, and followed in by the sound of footsteps was an energy thick enough go choke me. When I turned around, my eyes met his: a pair of glacier blue disks that sliced through me at first glance.
I had no other words to describe the man standing before me than...beautiful.
Every feature he had contradicted the other. His facial structure was marked by stark, high cheekbones, but set gently with his rounded, pink lips. His deep, hollow sockets held large, unforgettable eyes that I could feel ripping into my soul. His beige, pale skin was contrasted by his long, layered dark-brown hair. And despite his somewhat smaller stature, there was a heavy weight that his presence added to the room.
"Hello, Ms. Thatcher."
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His voice was smooth and icy. The type of voice you could recognize in a crowd of a thousand people. He didn't introduce himself but I already knew who he was.
