I have gotten used to the pasty-green walls and poor lighting and musty air that make Arkham Asylum (for the “criminally insane”) such a dismal place. In fact, it has become almost soothing to me now. I would much rather spend my day here than out in the hustle and bustle of Gotham City’s streets. After all this time, Arkham’s little quirks have grown on me. However, I know that it’s not just the building that I’ve become fond of. There is something . . . someone . . . else here that makes me want to stay.
I don’t need to glance at my wristwatch as I walk down the barren, dirty halls – I already know what time it is. I find myself adjusting my grip on the clipboard that I hold by my side, my other hand fussing with my white waist-length lab coat. I should have gotten over the slight nervousness that returns to me every day after being here for as long as I have. But, no matter how hard I try, it still comes back, every day, at the same time.
I finally reach a door, one among many, that is flanked by two security guards, armed and alert. I don’t even need to show them my badge as I approach; they simply smile and nod, and one of the men readies a key. He opens the heavy door and motions me inside.  Without a single word, I step in, and the loud bang of the door being closed behind me causes me to flinch slightly.
When I enter the bare, white-walled room, I suddenly realize that something doesn’t feel right. There is no voice to greet me, and the chair that is set before a simple table remains empty.
I grip my clipboard once more. Slowly, I walk further into the room. I begin to feel my heart beat rapidly against my chest.
Then, I release a held breath as my eyes land on a figure, curled up on the dirty cot set in the corner of the room. He has his back turned to me, and he wears the standard red-orange jumpsuit all the inmates wear here. But, I cannot see his face. Again, I get the feeling that something isn’t right here and my pulse quickens once more. I step towards him and reach out a hand to touch his shoulder, but my hand freezes as words leave his mouth.
“I was worried you weren’t going to come, Doctor . . . That I wouldn’t see your lovely face again . . .” His voice is surprisingly shaky, something I haven’t heard before in all this time. I stay where I am, not speaking a word, my eyes focused on the man who still does not turn to face me.
“But . . .” the man continues, “now you’re here!” Then, he rolls over, and his dark eyes bore into mine. However, it is not his eyes that cause me to stiffen, nor is it the scars that are cut into his face, nor his yellow-stained grin. This time when he turns to face me, there is red smeared over his lips and scars, imitating a crudely-painted clown grin. Something about it unnerves me, but before I can even begin to collect my thoughts, the man grabs me by my biceps in a strong grip, pulling me towards him. I nearly fall forward, and the next thing I know, our lips are pressed together in a sloppy kiss. Any other moment, any other day, and I would have gladly given in to the act, but this time is different. This time, I taste copper in my mouth. It’s the acrid taste of blood.
With what takes all my might, I pull myself away, breathing hard, and I see the man laughing, his hands – which he has now removed from my arms – shaking uncontrollably. And it is then that I notice that his hands are covered with blood that has soaked into the sleeves of his jumpsuit. My eyes widen with a mix of horror and shock. His wrists are covered with gashes, fresh, and oozing blood. I feel every muscle stiffen, and barely move even as the man collapses onto the ground at my feet, still giggling hysterically.
Panic kicks in, and without a second thought I stumble over to the door and pound on it as hard as I can. Instantly, it is opened by one of the guards, and I quickly blurt out: “A doctor! Get a doctor! NOW!” The two guards don’t have very long to realize I have blood smeared on my mouth and white coat for they hurry off without a moment’s hesitation.
When I know they’re gone, I rush back over to the man who is lying crumpled on the concrete floor, taking off my coat as I drop to my knees. My heart is beating even faster now, and I feel my eyes begin to fill with sudden tears. However, I do my best to hold them back as I take the man’s arms and wrap my coat tightly around both his wrists, hoping I can at least help slow the bleeding. The man takes a moment to look up at me, a grin on his face, his eyes as wild as ever. He’s in my arms now, and I hold him close, praying and hoping that this man does not die. I do not care what his history is, nor do I care that he is imprisoned in an asylum for the criminally insane. I only care for him, and only him.
“Oh, Harley, Harley . . . My sweet Harley,” the man says weakly, the smile never leaving his blood-smeared face. “Why do you have to be such a fool?”