The first thing I noticed was his lime green hair and pale white face. I stared him down, examining his dark purple lips and smeared black makeup. The memories of the day I was assigned this project flew through my mind. Dr. Harleen Quinzel, you are to help a man who goes by the name of the Joker during his time in The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. I distinctly remember driving up to the edifice, unknowing of what I should expect. As I walked inside, I took in the sight of the plain white walls and bare silver chambers. It felt as if the vibe of the room was calling me. Almost as if it was a long lost home. I walked over to the cell where my patient was locked inside, standing in front of the stern gray bars.
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Every time I saw him, or was even near him, there was a feeling like no other. Everything seemed to be going great until on one specific day, he seemed different than usual. When I questioned what was wrong, his fist started to clench. In a guttural tone he began telling me snippets about the hard life he had lived, about his criminal record, and the several horrid things that he had done. My hand reached out to pat his back. My intention was to comfort him, yet he quickly pulled away. He ruthlessly glared at me and began yelling, saying that he was innocent and that the police were the ones who should be locked up. His voice was somewhat calm at first, but as each second went by his tone was raised. "They're the crazy ones, not me!" He exclaimed. My eyes widened. I just knew he could see the fear and doubt in my face. "You believe me right?!" He questioned. "They're the crazy ones, not me!" He screeched. The words spat out of his mouth like fire. I stared at him in awe, watching as he began to breathe heavily, ripping his hair and clothes, violently moving around the small room. My shock in his temper began to shift into anger. I hated seeing him like this. I hated it! Watching him rage gave me a ravishing disgust for whoever had put him in this cell. They were making him upset! They were making him angry! Changing him! He was innocent! He wasn't insane! I took a deep breath, knowing that I could not take it anymore. Hurriedly, I packed up my purse and ended my shift
Every time I saw him, or was even near him, there was a feeling like no other. Everything seemed to be going great until on one specific day, he seemed different than usual. When I questioned what was wrong, his fist started to clench. In a guttural tone he began telling me snippets about the hard life he had lived, about his criminal record, and the several horrid things that he had done. My hand reached out to pat his back. My intention was to comfort him, yet he quickly pulled away. He ruthlessly glared at me and began yelling, saying that he was innocent and that the police were the ones who should be locked up. His voice was somewhat calm at first, but as each second went by his tone was raised. "They're the crazy ones, not me!" He exclaimed. My eyes widened. I just knew he could see the fear and doubt in my face. "You believe me right?!" He questioned. "They're the crazy ones, not me!" He screeched. The words spat out of his mouth like fire. I stared at him in awe, watching as he began to breathe heavily, ripping his hair and clothes, violently moving around the small room. My shock in his temper began to shift into anger. I hated seeing him like this. I hated it! Watching him rage gave me a ravishing disgust for whoever had put him in this cell. They were making him upset! They were making him angry! Changing him! He was innocent! He wasn't insane! I took a deep breath, knowing that I could not take it anymore. Hurriedly, I packed up my purse and ended my shift