⁽ ᵗʷᵒ ᵖᵃʳᵗˢ ⁾

           it would be just her luck that tonight is the night the sky decides to throw a temper tantrum; if eliza had the chance, she’d like to ask whatever sick god had it out for her – why? fucking why? on the way home from an already miserable gig, it started pouring. leave it to her moronic self to not have enough money for gas (nor be close enough to the nearest station to beg), have a dead cell phone, or any means of reaching the rest of humanity. she’s cold, wet, tired – and damn near completely helpless. (and not at all happy about it.) rain isn’t ever her least-favorite occurrence; tonight, though, precipitation is making it’s way up her kill-list at a rapidly increasing rate.

           nonetheless, it’s not like she has much of a choice. either die from hypothermia and exposure, or at the hands of some serial killer waiting for prey – with the latter, at least it would (preferably) inside a warm home. after two patterned raps on the door, she can feel her resolve starting to weaken. maybe she has a flask in her truck, and can just drink herself into a suicidal stupor – and, debating that exact thought, eliza is greeted with the door opening, and she finds herself finally taking a breath of relief.

           “well, ah —- tha’s good, ‘cause i don’t have any,”      she replies a bit more dryly than usual, though there is a shaky, lowered chuckle that leaves her lips. arms come to cross tightly over her chest, still dripping from every corner of her body – he doesn’t seem too scary. (then again, nobody ever does, and yet …)      “i —- i really hate t’be a walkin’ cliche in a rainstorm, but … ‘m outta gas, phone’s dead – an’ if y’had a cell i could use, jus’ t’call a tow truck or anythin’ – i’d give y’a hug, but … y’know.”      she gestures to the rain that still rolls off her shoulders, fully expecting the worst reply from the stranger before her. (better to have zero expectations, anyways.)

As she explains herself, Jonathan swallows the rest of the room-temperature scotch that sat at the bottom of his glass. He blinks, initially unresponsive to her situation. He rests his hand on the door frame and steals a glimpse of his watch. ‘   Well, I have some bad news,   ’  he replies, slurring slightly at the end of his sentence as he locks eyes with her again. ‘   The electricity is out and I don’t bring my cell phone when I’m here. So.   ’  He allows his head to fall to the side matter-of-factly and turns on his heel to walk back into the home. He pauses when he doesn’t hear her follow and looks over his shoulder.   ‘   Are you coming in? Close the door – the rain is getting in. Take off your shoes.   ’   He continues to walk towards the stairs.

If he closed his eyes for too long, with the burning irritation along his lids due to lack of sleep, he’d hear Scarecrow. He’d feel the crimson liquid gather on the tips of his fingers and soak through his sheets: to only open his eyes and be deceived again. His sleeps only lasted about a half hour to forty-five minutes — to only be awaken in a cold sweat and the sharp pain of his nightmare lurking in his room. It discouraged him from teaching, from grading papers, and creating new lessons for the year.

Jonathan raised his tired head to the singed sun, bathing in its rays. He heard his alarm clock whine from the bedroom and willed it to stop, the sound SEARING his nerves. Drunk and exhausted, he carded his shaking fingers through his locks and then padded along the kitchen floor toward the sink, tipped his glass and watch the remnants of his wistful night alone swill down the drain. It’s time for work. Faint blue orbs flick towards the cluttered stack of ungraded papers — causing him to sulk and brush his fingers over his eyes. He reaches for the phone. He’s calling in sick.

As the steaming hot water causes goosebumps along the pale skin of the professor, the plans are made mentally. He had to end them today. End them now. Before it started. A freshly-ironed shirt and jeans are thrown on uncoordinated; whereas Jonathan catches a glimpse of himself before he reaches the front door; a sullen look carved onto his expression. This forces him to return to his bathroom —- shaving, tossing the old outfit for a sleeker, casual look, allow the bristles of the brush to fix his curls, and apply a touch of cologne.

Scarecrow whispers:  ‘   HIM.   ’  He hesitates, unsure on whether to listen — but Scarecrow, a figment of his imagination created his ever failing mental stability, takes him by the arm to the victim. Jonathan is led towards a white car parked under a badly-lit streetlight, to make it appear as if he is getting into his vehicle. The man approaching walks a small dog in what Jonathan assumes his his pajamas. He fakes a smile and extends his arm, greeting himself by petting the dog. The little mutt barks and the man blushes, jerking the leash back as he reprimands his pup.

‘   It’s okay, he’s probably not good with strangers. What’s his name ?   ’

‘   Richard.   ’

Jonathan hated when people gave their pets human names. Sweat beads his forehead; his patience running thin. The man notices this as the light reflects off his skin and asks if he’s alright. He replies in assurance, simply saying that he may be catching a cold. The dog continues to jerk away from Jonathan and as he rises back up, he stealthily unhooks the collar and watches the dog run into the park. The man cries out and Jonathan tells him he’ll help find him. Without thinking twice, the stranger agrees and the two walk into the dark park.

Scarecrow barely gives it two seconds —- PUSHING the man down the stairs. He can hear the bones crack — an instant damage to his legs. The victim falls onto his back, crying out in pain. Jonathan descends the stairs slowly, watching the man attempt to drag himself away from his killer. Scarecrow whistles and Jonathan mimics, both throwing their leg back to kick him in the stomach. He drops to his level and extracts his knife from his pocket. swiftly running the blade over the other’s exposed stomach. Blood beads across the incision and causes him to scream. He instinctively muffles his mouth with his hand, placing most of his weight to keep him QUIET.

However, Jonathan didn’t think twice of checking the famous park. He feels a presence behind him and turns his head to see a woman — another stranger. Usually, he would abandon the scene, but instead he throws his arms above his head and stabs the man with each spray of blood across his face and chest.

Still in possession of the house he grew up in, he only visited during the summers when he cared to get out of Gotham and be secluded from the overwhelming presence of the cluttered city.

A sudden rapping at his door causes him to jump -- breaking the silence that was once hanging in the stiff air as it echoes throughout the halls. With calculated pace, he quietly closes the book and places it beside his abandoned plate. However, he stays in his seat for a moment in hope that the person just leaves. He is gifted with another knock that convinces him to rise off the chair and bring his glass to answer the door.

He is greeted by an unfamiliar woman – dark hair, dark eyes and SOAKED.