E.N
Scarecrow, Johnathan Crane, a mad scientist, a man. Reborn out of the ashes of his fathers fears and mistakes, he uses a mask to hide his insecurity and his hurt. He wears false courage and desperation on his front like pretty enamel pins- plain to the naked eye, but rusted at the joints. He is rationally insane, a mad scientist.
The he who fashions himself in a tidy suit and bowler hat entertains a guest this evening in his small apartment. The guest is Scarecrow. They sit at a small round wooden table. The seats they rest on are old and rickety. A glass of water sits in front of each man, placed on small glass coasters, but neither of them will drink it. Crane's stare is both entrancing and terrifying, much like swimming at a beach with no life guards, or falling in love.
'I can fulfil this request, but you must do a favour for me.'
Nothing comes cheap or free in Gotham. That's one of the first things he ever learnt. You will not come across trust without losing part of yourself. You will not come across friendship without losing a part of yourself. Kinship and partnership have no meaning here- which never bothered him much. He doesn't have time for meaningless dignitaries and companionship, except for when he does. Except for when he lets it cloud his vision like rainclouds on a Tuesday, blind him like the words 'I care about you' and 'you are truly my only friend.'
But this does not last. He will not let the visor come down, he will not let the curtains close. He will stay wide eyed and aware to his surroundings. He will be be strong and resilient and above water. He will. He must.
'I need you to kill a certain bird'
He drowns.
O.C
His umbrella flicks open to shield him from the rain. The Gotham sky is not kind as it spills water unto the city. But the sky will not drown him today. Today is crucial to the rebirth of his empire. Today he makes a friend.
His crisp over coat blows behind him in the breeze. His freshly shined shoes splash into every puddle they find. His perfectly gelled hair sticks out of the back of his head like ice picks. Three curls stick to his forehead in small swirls. He is confident with his outfit and it shows in his posture. He means business, and he wants the world to know it. He wants his new friend to know it.
Friendship is hard to come by and even harder to keep- he knows that more than anyone else in this godforsaken town. But it doesn't stop him; he needs someone by his side, he needs someone to keep him sane. He doesn't want to be alone. He can't be alone. He needs.
He's never been able to see disloyalty. Partnership is a blindfold that he chooses to wear. Trust is a knife he stabs into his own back. Love is a razor blade he swallows with a smile. And in the end, after the betrayal and heartbreak, he does not learn. Everyone deserves a chance, everyone deserves to have someone, no one deserves to be alone. Does he deserve to be alone?
He who broke his heart. He who bound the blindfold to his head. He who used his own knife. He who forced the razor blade down his throat. Perhaps he deserves to be alone. Or, maybe he deserves to be with-
He knocks thrice on a plain wooden door. The sound echoes through the empty house to which he has arrived. His gloves looks glossy in comparison to the rest of his outfit. He shouldn't have worn the gloves.
The door opens to reveal no host, but a dimly lit, abandoned lounge room. He walks through, face scrunched at both the dead and alive rodents scattered around the townhouse floor. The wallpaper is coming away from the wall in different spots around the room, and there is a foul smell coming from the far left corner.
'Jeremiah?' He calls out and waits for a reply, but is met instead with a figure stepping out of the shadows. He straightens his over coat.
'Hello Oswald.'
That's not Jeremiah.
