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Post by xivy on Aug 20, 2009 2:29:00 GMT -5
It took God a long seven days to create this world, and if you asked Pamela Isley, he was just being a little lazy. If you asked Pamela Isley, she would have stopped on the fourth day, for that was all that was really needed. Adam and Eve enjoyed the luxuries of paradise with their fig leaves and obedient ignorance, but Pamela would have just wanted Eden. In all its green and lush glory, with bushes of fragrant flowers, trees to high and so full they blocked out the sun and threw everything below it into shade. She would have frolicked in the fields and slept in the gnarled roots of the vegetation. Pamela Isley would have made gowns of roses, and necklaces of daisy. No filthy human scum staining Paradise’s beauty, no pollution smudging the air, and no civilization to tear it all down. She would be Mother Nature, and every plant, every tree, every flower, would love her, and she them.
Pamela Isley opened her eyes suddenly, erasing every image of life before the filthy stench of mammals. She gazed into a vanity mirror trimmed with garlands of roses. She took in her alabaster skin, her full lips stained red with lipstick, her long red hair that was pushed back away from her face. Slowly she reached out a hand to one of the roses, plucking it from its place and bringing it to her nose, still watching her reflected image. She took a deep breath in, smelling the flower. It brought a smile to her face, and she lightly kissed its petals like a mother would kiss their child on the first day of school. The rose fluttered, and if one had been watching this exchange they wouldn’t exactly how. Had it been the air conditioning, or had Pamela’s kiss sparked a genuine reaction in the plant? Pamela fluttered her eyes at herself, still looking into the vanity mirror as she tucked the rose behind her ears, the deep crimson of the flower and her hair clashed brilliantly together. A few more moments of making sure her look was perfect, Pamela stood up as single figure walked up to the glass wall of her holding cell. She cast a glance at the figure and smirked with an evil seduction as she adjusted herself in the mirror. She was absolutely appalled at these unflattering orange jumpsuits that Arkham insisted they wear. Orange wasn’t Ivy’s color, even if it went well her hair and eyes. The jumpsuit was of form fitting, hugging all the right curves on Pamela, she had made sure of that with a sewing kit she had stolen from the linen room. As soon as she made sure she looked dazzling she moved over to a table of potted plants, sitting comfortably under a sun lamp. At that moment the glass door of her cell slid open and she looked over her shoulder.
“Pamela Isley, I’m going to have to ask you to stand in the red circle.”
With a heavy sigh she grabbed at watering can and moved to the back of the cell, standing like an obedient little girl in her circle. The man who stood in the cell block doorway looked around the cell, taking in the decor. Almost every inch of surface had a potted plant growing bountiful and lush of all different colors. There were orchids, geraniums, ferns, roses, snap dragons, and in one corner a bush of Bird of Paradise. And on her vanity, next to her large array of cosmetics, was her most favorite, a Venus Fly Trap. It did not look like some insane asylum cell, but instead gave whoever was standing inside, the feeling of being in a greenhouse. Stepping out of the madhouse and into the jungle. After inspecting the room to make sure nothing was going to jump at him, the man’ s muscles relaxed and he addressed Pamela again.
“Alright Ms. Isley, let’s go for a little walk.”
“Oh Gregory,” Pamela purred as she turned back to her plants. “Aren’t my pretties just flourishing? Take in their beauty Mr. Irons.” She batted her eyelashes over her shoulder at the handsome asylum guard. “This must have been how Eve felt when she first took in the beauty of Eden…”
“Ms. Isley you have to go to group therapy now. If you would please come with me.”
Pamela set down the watering bucket after sprinkling a healthy drink over her precious plants and turned round to Gregory Irons. She fixed him with a smoldering stare that made the man freeze where he stood. She closed the gap between them in mere moments, digging her gaze into his brown eyes. “You look good Irons, have you been working out?” She lifted a hand to gently caress the man’s bicep, stroking it up and down softly. She leaned in closer to his face, smiling seductively. “Of all the guards, you certainly are my favorite.” Her lips were very close to his, and she let a sweet cascade of her flowery perfume wash over him. “Kiss me Gregory…” she whispered. “Show me how a real man does it. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real man…” As she leaned in to lock lips with the guard, he pulled away.
“Group…group therapy now, Ms. Isley” he was stuttering and a thin veil of sweat and dampened his brow.
Pamela smiled to herself, knowing that she had infected his mind, just like all the others. Pamela Isley had a history of making the young guards fall head over heels for her. Their delusional obsessions usually got them fired, and that was exactly what Pamela wanted. She had no true feelings for these men, no real desire to love them or lay with them. The days before her eventual break out had to be filled with something exciting, so this was how she passed most of her time. Her men and her plants.
“You’re no fun at all Gregory, sweetheart.” Then shifting her demeanor into that of her usual icy narcissism she held out her wrists and, in an annoyed tone, said: “slap the cuffs on me.”
They were down the maximum security hall in no time, walking at a casual pace; Pamela liked to take in the other inmates, the ones who were allowed to even see any form of light, that is. Gregory walked awkwardly beside her as they reached the door into the therapy room. Pamela stopped, waiting for Gregory to open the door. He looked at her and she looked back with a cold smirk. “Well, be a gentleman and get the door.” She jerked her handcuffed hands at the door handle, and he hastily reached forward and pulled the heavy steel door open. When Pamela slipped gracefully into the room, and Gregory removed the handcuffs, only then did she look around the small room with the plastic chairs in a circle. Her emerald green eyes landed on both Jonathan Crane and Jervis Tetch. A sneer cracked her crimson lips as she strode to the nearest chair, directly across from Crane and a few seats away from Tetch. She sat daintily in the chair and crossed her legs, looking between them both.
Just as Gregory was about to leave the room, Pamela looked around at him. “I hardly think I was meant to be in group with these freak shows. There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Ms. Isley.” Gregory stuttered and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.
“You look terrible Crane.” Pamela stated simply, looking at the man behind the Scarecrow mask. Then her attention turned the Jervis and she raised an eyebrow, looking from his face to the straight jacket. “Comfy?”
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Post by Harleen Quinzel on Aug 20, 2009 17:14:22 GMT -5
Bringing a crazy person back to the Asylum is just bringing them home, really. Whenever Harley was checked back in (literally checked sometimes! What did the Bratpack think she was, a football player?) she giggled the entire way back to her cell. She waved at friends through their peep hole and curled up on a familiar cot. Sometimes crayon drawings she’d been doing last time were still on the drilled-down desk in the corner of her cell. It was exactly like coming home in a twisted way.
She stuck with a general routine when she was admitted into the loony bin, beginning with a hose down and ending with sedatives. However, her latest time in the Asylum hadn’t followed this pattern. She’d been brought in unconscious and the lazy orderlies had thought it best to let her sleep. After all, the fewer hours they had to pump her with drugs and keep her in check, the better.
The good old doctor Leland had woken her up this morning and brought out the shackles. Her legs were to be constantly kept within a foot and a half of each other; preventing kicks and jumps. The blonde hadn’t minded at the time, she was sleepy still and the drugs made her dopey and forgetful. Harls was hosed and scrubbed by a team of nurses (‘Ya know, I’ma doctor and I don’t find this all that impersonal!’) before Leland sat her down on a medical table and began stitches and wrapping up her various bruises, cuts, and bangs. As she cleaned out a particularly nasty gun-shot wound that Harley had fixed up herself last week (stitches were never her forte) Harley swung her legs, Leland lectured her.
‘You won’t be given any wait before you’re put back into therapy’
Yaddah yaddah yah. Yawn. Harley had heard this spiel before! She wasn’t supposed to think of being locked up a vacation, nothing to slowly acclimate herself too. Didn’t the woman get it? Bringing her back was like bringing her home! She hardly suppressed a giggled as the doctor knotted off the last stitch and began to bandage it up.
‘We’re placing you in group therapy. It wasn’t my decision, and I’m strongly against it howev-’
This, Harley had never heard before. Group therapy? With other people! With her friends?! She tried to pull her legs into an Indian position but the shackles about her legs kept getting in the way. She pouted slightly before widening her eyes at the other woman.
“With other people? Like Red! And Jonny! And, and my mistah-“ But it with the doctor’s turn to cut her off. Harley was sure most of her treatment could be described, in layman’s terms, as denying her entire relationship with the Joker. And they thought she was the crazy one! They couldn’t even see a couple when it smacked them (literally) right in the kisser.
‘I don’t know and I honestly hope not, Harleen. That would be very detrimental to your therapy.’
Well that was the end of that. No wonder the woman was married to her work! Such a party pooper. No one would have fun with her around, clearly. And she had to use that name. She hated when people used it on her, all it brought back was memories and awful childhood. It felt like they were yelling at her whenever they used it; scolding her for breathing. She huffed and pouted, resigned to let the doctor finish patching her up in silence.
Harley took this time to run her fingers through her still damp hair. The nurses hadn’t given her rubber bands, but she knew Leland would. She’d give her rubber bands and gum just as long as she kept still and wasn’t naughty during her fix-up. She’d get two pieces if she popped all of her pills.
She tongued two but swallowed the other three, using the few seconds that she slipped the gum into her mouth and the doctor’s back was turned to slid them into her pocket. She used the rubber bands to create two blonde pony tails on her still slightly aching scalp before hoping down.
“All done?”
‘All done. Jones, Jameson. They’ll escort you to the therapy.’
Harley hadn’t caught that she was speaking partially to an intercom. Leland checked the padded shackles on her hands (they were locked tight and made of some plastic cloth shenanigan. She’d used metal handcuffs to bash in someone’s head once and they hadn’t allowed the use of them on her since) and ankles before permitting them to escort her down the hall. They didn’t let her have even an peek in His cell window. Hadn’t they ever been in love!?
When Harley arrived into the room, she had a giant smile spreading across her face. The orderlies hadn’t even waited to see her to her chair before leaving so Harley sat next to Ivy. Turning sideways in her seat, the blonde let her legs rest over her friend’s as she hugged her shoulders.
“Hiyya Red! And uhm. Ya guys.” She added, letting her eyes dance across the other patients. Not a single green hair but there was still empty seats! Her hope still thrived.
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Post by jacknapier on Aug 20, 2009 21:43:00 GMT -5
The Joker, unlike most all Arkham patients, didn’t mind the asylum. It was like a vacation to him; the asylum’s resources were sadly, better than the Joker’s usual. And sure, the Hatter and Crane and the Riddler had their potential for rehabilitation. They could be fixed up with scotch tape and locked away for the rest of their lives. The Joker, on the other hand, could never be rehabilitated; it’s impossible to fix something that believes it isn’t broken from the start. The doctors didn’t seem to understand that though, and once the Bat had dragged the Clown Prince of Gotham in once again, the counselling sessions and the medications and the shock therapy had picked up right where it had left off since the last time he had broken out of the asylum. Nothing much had changed since he had been here last, the Joker mused. He had been reassigned to another psychiatrist, granted that the one he had previously had was now in a cell of their own. He’d been treated for the Bat-inflicted injuries, and they had fixed up his own attempts at sewing himself back together. Still, the Bat hadn’t even knocked him unconscious this time. His pride was still aching from that. Being brought in by the Batman out-cold was one thing; he considered it a temporary truce between the two rivals. But having to go through the ordeal, conscious; that just put the Joker in a downright awful mood.
It had taken several people to remove his characteristic makeup, most holding him down as he thrashed and bit and cursed, as well as at least half an hour of scrubbing for the majority of the greasepaint to come out of his skin. Even now, there was a faint trace of red around his trademark facial scars. Most of the green hair dye had been washed out of his dirty blond hair and his hair itself had been significantly cut, as he now sported a fairly short hair cut and a bit of blondish peach fuzz. Save for the telltale smile, the Joker had been reduced to a slightly normal appearance. And he wasn’t happy about it at all.
He lie on the metal cot, quivering slightly; perhaps from the chill, perhaps from the quiet giggles he let out every now and then. Staring up at the ceiling, he hummed quietly to himself, enjoying the silence and solitude. A fan of chaos yes, he did like the few moments to himself that he got at Arkham. That and the basic luxuries of beds and running water were some of the limited pros to the asylum. The Joker, being a nomad type, wandered from abandoned place to abandoned place, never really spending too much time in one location, for fear of the Batman finding him at a less than optimal time. Harley hindered that slightly, as his self-declared sidekick, and established a certain headquarters at an abandoned theatre. But even so, the Joker would often disappear for days at a time, showing up later without an explanation.
Scowling as his alone time was disturbed by a loud click, he sat up as an orderly entered his cell without so much as a knock, another one staying towards the door, should the Joker try to run. He had to admit, he was disappointed that the orderlies didn’t talk to him anymore. He supposed they were instructed not to, but he had ever enjoyed messing with their minds. He forced a smile and a chuckle as he stood up, drawing himself to his full height, which was several inches above the orderly’s head. He smirked and made faces at the shortest one as the other forced a straitjacket on him. Normally, this would have been the time that the Joker would have thrown a temper tantrum, but had decided earlier that he would play good until future notice. It was more fun that way. He stared at the guard, resisting the urge to kick the back of the guard’s knees and run down the hall and out of the asylum, laughing all the way.
“So where is it today? Story time or crayon therapy?” the Joker prodded, purposefully walking in a zigzag, just to scare the orderlies, who both clung tightly to either side of the jacket. To his delight, the shorter one seemed to have not gotten the memo about not talking to the Joker, and answered, “Group therapy.” Of all the things the Arkham staff had tried on him, he was most surprised by this. So surprised, that he shut up the entire way there, instead racking his brains to try and remember the list of current occupants. Would they even let him see his fellow freaks? Or would he have to sit in the company of the suicidal office worker brigade?
He was led in the room, and his smile weakened as he spotted his Harley, talking in a dangerously calm voice, “You got caught, didn’t you?” Turning to see if he recognised any of the other occupants, his scarred visage twisted into a sneer as he spotted Jonathan Crane among the participants. “Why’s the straw man here? He doesn’t even have a brain!” the Joker said, rather loudly. “And look, Ghost girl’s come as well. Oh and the Hatter and the Venus Flytrap,” he continued dryly, rolling his eyes as he was forced to sit, his ankles being cuffed to the chair itself, scowling. With the Joker in a foul mood already, there was no way this was going to end well. |
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