Ha Ha Harlequin

Harleen gripped her Styrofoam cup of coffee tightly as she made her way down the halls of Arkham to her office. It had been a rough night, and the sickly yellow upon yellow décor of the asylum was not helping. She could not fall asleep at all the previous night. She was too excited, and like a child on Christmas Eve, the enthusiasm kept her awake. There was no Santa Claus waiting for her in the morning, nor presents underneath a tree. Instead, something different waited for her at the asylum.

Multiple cups of coffee and eye drops were going to be necessary.

She unlocked her office and stepped inside, gently closing the door behind her. Even the slightest loud noise would just increase her headache. Glancing at the time on her computer, she let out a long, exasperated sigh. It was only eight o’clock. Her first appointment was not until eight thirty, and the Joker would not be in the asylum until nine o’clock at night. She knew that she and Arkham would not be starting his treatment until later on in the week, but she couldn’t help but feel anticipation bubble up inside of her. Harleen knew very well that his presence alone was going to change things at the institution.

She shrugged it off, and tried her best to forget about the clown. If she didn’t, she knew that this day was going to take a very long time.

Then, she remembered last night, and wondered when Bartholomew was going to break the news to her. Would he come to her? Would she be asked to come to him?

Well, I’ll just go throughout my day as normal, and we’ll see what happens.

Harleen stared at her tiny office. She knew she should have been grateful for having one at all, since she was an intern, but she could never fully appreciated the stuffiness of the room. It was practically a closet, and Arkham had put all of the patient’s files in this room, into a wall of file cabinets. Not only was it stuffy, but also smelly. The fowl stench of mold was in the air, and there was only a single window in the back to air it out, which did Harleen no good during the winter. The lights that were once white were now a yellow, sickly color. As soon as she was a full-fledged doctor, she was going to do something about this.

This thought was definite. Sure, at the moment, she was just an intern, but if the amount of successes she’s had continues to increase, and if she lives through the whole Joker fiasco, they were surely to make her a doctor. Arkham would be foolish not to.

With dazzling thoughts of the future in her head, Harleen grabbed her patient’s file out of the cabinet and made her way down the hall to the other end of the building, where the detainees were being held. She began reading her notes halfway down and paused. She was thoughtful for a moment, and then suddenly turned around and headed back to her office. She rummaged around a drawer for a moment, until she found what she needed. It was an old video camera, similar to the size of a small shoebox, but it suited her purpose. Closing the draw gently, she once again began her journey to the cell block.

“Mornin’, Ms. Harleen,” the guard greeted casually, a stiff smile on his face.

All orderlies at the asylum were big men, with muscle bulging out of their uniforms. It was required for them to be very strong, or else they would not be able to handle the prisoners here. This guard was no different. His name was Frank, and he had the morning shift here, in front of the cell block, during the weekdays. Being here at least twice a week, Harleen and Frank had become acquaintances.

“Good morning, Frank,” Harleen said, eyes glancing up briefly from her notes.

Frank stood up and opened the gate. Harleen made her way in, heels clicking on the old tiles, with Frank following suit. The two walked silently down the hall of doors, until they found the one they needed. The guard unlocked the door, and let her in.

“Sure you don’t need me to stay out here, just in case?” Frank asked, as he always did before Harleen saw a patient.

She shook her head and turned around in the doorway. Everybody always underestimated her. Not too big of a surprise, considering her size. She was merely five foot six, and she was very skinny. She liked it when people underestimated her. She liked seeing the look on their faces when she succeeded.

“There’s no need for that.”

Frank simply shrugged, mumbling a quick, “I’ll come getchu in an hour.”

And the door closed.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Harleen smiled pleasantly to her patient. She always preferred to address her patients by their real names, instead of their patient number, as was standard protocol.

Schiff was sitting on his cot of a bed, hands resting on his knees and face being hidden by his greasy black hair.

“Good, good morning, Dr. Quinz-zel,” he greeted timidly, still not looking at her face. He was very twitchy this morning, Harleen noted.

She sat into a chair at the table in the center of the room, and set a video camera on top of the table. She wanted to record today’s session. Schiff didn’t seem to notice. She smiled to herself and pressed the play button, making sure the camera screen was centered on her patient.

“Dr. Quinzel interviewing Thomas Schiff, patient 3859,” she began, making sure to keep a trained eye on her patient. “Eight thirty a.m., January fourth. Thomas, what is two plus two?”

Finally, his gaze reached hers. It was a curious look, and his lip twitched slightly. He struggled out an answer. “Fa-fa-four.”

Harleen smiled at him, and he seemed to sit up straighter. “Now, four plus five?”

“Nine.” His answer came out faster this time, and more confident. He was still very suspicious, his expression not changing.

“Eight plus nine?” Harleen’s pen was poised over her paper, waiting to hear his response.

This one took him a bit longer than the other two, and his face stared at the floor in concentration. She trusted he was doing the math in his head, and had not become distracted by the molding floor. Just as she was about to give up hope, his head snapped up, answer ready on his lips.

“Seventeen.”

Harleen’s smile grew wider, secretly applauding him in his head. “Very good, Thomas.”

She began writing on her clipboard.

His mind is working well today. Responded well to the math. Was almost proud of himself, and received my praise happily. Grew more confident with each response. Lost some in the more difficult question, but was not violent about it.

“Dr. Quinzel,” he began nervously, slowly standing up and sitting in the seat on the other side of the table. “How is knowing…math…supposed to ha-help me?”

She looked at him for a moment, and noticed he keep pursing and unpursing his lips nervously. She wrote it down.

Nervous habits still intact.

“I just wanted to see how your memory was working,” Harleen answered amiably, finishing her note. “Most of our patients would’ve had troubled remembering such simple math, but not you. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, but he refused to let it show.

“I am going to ask you a few more questions now. You are trying to get into your home-” She began, but Schiff cut her off.

“I don’t have a home.” His previous, happy demeanor had suddenly been sucked away. She didn’t let this faze her.

“At some point you had a home,” she reminded him. “Think back to that time. When you would come home from school to see your parents. Now, you’re trying to get into your home, but the door is locked. How can you get in?”

His curiosity had returned, and his mouth open and closed as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t get the words out.

“There’s more than one way, Thomas.”

Schiff looked at her and swallowed harshly. His eyebrows were knitted together, not because he was trying to answer the question, but because he was trying to figure out if she had an ulterior motive. Harleen only smiled at him, eyes friendly through her glasses.

“Even if the way is…bad?” he asked curiously, mouth twitching once more.

“At the moment, that is not the point.” She returned to her clipboard, writing something down on her piece of paper, which set Schiff even more on edge.

Afraid he’ll give a wrong answer. Wrong, as in morally wrong. He is recognizing some methods as bad.

Harleen was pleased with her results thus far.

“You can…you can use a key…” Schiff said fretfully. The sudden response startled Harleen, only slightly, only because she did not expect him to answer so soon. Perhaps he was trying to please her now? Receive more praise? She had to hide her anticipation so as not to throw off this progress.

“How else, Thomas?” She nodded her head at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

“You can pick the…lock…” He started off strong, but then ended weakly. Harleen motioned for him to continue. This seemed to boost his confidence. “You can break it down…you can knock to see if someone is there…”

His lip had stopped twitching and he actually smiled. And it wasn’t his devious little smirk that she had seen the first time she had began his treatment, but a happy one. The first one she’d seen, during their two months of sessions.

Excellent responses. Is really thinking outside of the box now. Not just criminal methods, but also normal methods. ‘Knock on the door.’ He is now pleased with himself. Smiled.

She made sure to underline the last one. This was a most excellent day for Thomas Schiff. Which meant it was an excellent day for Harleen.

“Outstanding work today, Thomas,” Harleen congratulated him, her face positively beaming, which made his smile even wider. She reached over the table and shut the camera off, placing it in her lap and out of sight. She wanted to shove the tape into Jeremiah’s face, and have him then tell her that Thomas Schiff was, ‘untreatable.’

“I will see you on Thursday,” she told him, standing up and making her way out of the room.

“Goodbye, doctor…” his voice trailed off, but he continued to sit in his chair and twiddle his thumbs.

Harleen pounded on the door a few times, and after a brief pause, Frank came and opened the exit for her.

“You’re done early,” he noted to her, locking Schiff’s door back into place.

“Quality is always better than quantity,” Harleen answered with a pleased smile. And boy, was her work of fine quality that day.

Other doctors at this institution tried to talk about their patient’s feelings or about their patient’s past, trying to find an abusive father, or a neglecting mother. Not Harleen. She liked her patients to get comfortable with her, to like her as a person, and not as a doctor. Then, she tries to make them feel as normal as possible. Most doctors didn’t like that, simply because their patients were not normal.

But what do you expect for working at a mental institution for the criminally insane?