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The third track of cocaine was unnecessary.
The third hour at this party would be the last. Crane hadn't decided yet, in his life, or at this party. Not that it was up to him to decide…
Someone's banging on the door. Surely not just those who want to relieve themselves. Maybe they want to have coitus right on top of a toilet seat that's still got white powder on it. Maybe someone's concerned about using illegal substances. They're knocking harder.
«Please stop» Jonathan howls, feeling like he'll soon be unable to form sentences. It's scary up to the heat. Everything's slipping. «Please don't open the door, go into the staff toilet.»
Some iron shit saws off a pretty good lock on the door. Crane reassures himself that he's hallucinating. He's alone, he's definitely alone, nobody's going to open the door. It just came on, it happens, he's used to it. Visual hallucinations aren't a big deal, he needs just have to breathe deeply.
«Dr Crane?» The intruder tosses the oddly shaped blade into the rubbish bin and tries to... Close the door again.
Only he could be this stupid at a rich party. Oh, no.
He even manages to close the door with a strange gadget. He's stuffed full of strange gadgets, even though he's only wearing a suit and nothing else. All the gadgets in his jacket, all the blades in his pockets. He's used to being on the defensive, waiting to strike every second. He's Batman. In social life: Bruce Wayne.
Jonathan knows his throat is jammed with the "r" in that awful name. Doesn't dare call him by his surname, doesn't dare call him at all.
«Crane, what's wrong?» Bruce is hovering overhead. Fucking bastard, looking down and reveling in his superiority.
If Crane wasn't shaking, if he wasn't nauseous and could see everything... Jonathan would have kicked Wayne in the knee for sure. Make him fall down and never get up again. But he don't have the strength, and desire is worthless.
«Everything is fine» Crane's choking. It's like something is tearing his airway from the inside out, tearing every tissue in his body. «Please go away»
«I see» Bruce sighs with determination. Now he's going to decide what to do.
No, no, no. The last thing Jonathan has time to notice is his own fingernails on the toilet barrel, painted black. Or are those bruises under each finger and he's just forgotten how it happened? Anxiety hits his body without asking. Tears every muscle, especially his heart. Strong hands pull Crane to the floor, his heart pounding frantically against his chest, trying to fight back against those hands in some way.
Maybe Bruce Wayne isn't a hallucination. That doesn't make it any easier, even worse. Jonathan can't guess what this maskless trash has in mind. This rich kid is too unpredictable. It's scary.
Let go, let go, let go. Crane doesn't understand why he's in the grip of someone else's body. He doesn't understand why Bruce doesn't respond to his requests, but only dials something on his mobile. Let go, let go, let go.
«Alfred, you...» Bruce is nervous. He doesn't loosen his grip, but he holds Crane tighter. «Do you understand medicine?»
«A little, sir...» The voice from the speaker sounds old.
Jonathan doesn't give up trying to break free. Wayne's hands are pressing, giving him the sensation that all the organs inside are being torn in two and soon all his rich inner world will fall out onto the cold floor.
«I need a lot, Alfred!» Bruce turns his head so Crane's thrashing doesn't hit the telephone receiver. «Does Mr Fox understand? I don't have his number.»
«Yes, he understands. Why would you call him? He's right here, sitting next to me.» The old man hands the phone to an equally old man.
Jonathan didn't want to hear it. But he did. Every breath, every movement coming from the speaker of the mobile phone. It was maddening, it was a hallucination and it wasn't. The conversation was there, but clearly not as loud. Auditory hallucinations. God…
Every movement of his feet, every slip of his sweat-wet, senile fingers over the phone. He heard everything, everything. The way the one calling himself Alfred sighed and set the cup on the saucer. Must be auditory. Yeah, auditory.
«Mr Fox.» Bruce looked round the lavatory. Every part of it. Especially Crane. Went into his eyes with fingers that smelled of champagne glass. Pulled his eyelids open, assessed the eye sockets with a sad gaze. «Dilated pupils, rapid heartbeat, labored breathing, reddened nose, white powder. What is it? I think it's… He's seeing something. Or hearing something. I can't speak for him, but…»
«Stimulant psychosis, probably. Who is he?» The calmness of this man was striking. Actually, psychosis is scary, and if it's caused by an overdose, people die from it. Crane knew that. And he could hear from the long pauses that the speaker knew it too.
«It didn't matter.» Bruce put the mobile phone right under Jonathan's mouth. «Tell them what the white powder is. I'm asking...»
Do you want the dealer's home number or mobile number? Crane rubs his head on someone else's shoulder. Bruce is wearing an expensive suit and his jacket is rough. Crane feels like the roughness of the jacket has rubbed the top of his head for blood, and he squeals, not wanting to answer «Fuck you, fuck you! All of you!»
«Crane, please. I'm not going to make you worse, and smart people are talking to you.» Wayne was talking really loud. «Tell me what the white powder is.»
A chuckle came from the phone. «It doesn't matter» of course it fucking doesn't matter, so much so that Bruce reveals the identity of the patient in such a ridiculous way. Doctor-patient confidentiality, banal humanism. Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!
And strong. Very strong, ribs aching, though Crane can't feel his body. So his rib cage is hurting so badly that it's making itself known while he's still in the cocaine rush. And what will happen next?
«Powdered sugar!» The only synonym for cocaine that comes to mind. «Let me go.»
If you pray long enough, the deity will hear. Wayne won't let go, he's not a deity.
«Mr Wayne, perhaps you...» Jonathan knows that tone. The man on the phone understood everything perfectly. Bruce doesn't, and so he continues the torture.
«Tell them what the powder is.» It's like a forceful interrogation. Bruce is breaking words into syllables. «What's your nose in?»
Forced interrogation is illegal, but Crane's in no position to go to the police. He'd rather go to jail on every possible count than Gordon even entertain the idea that Batman's use of force is unfair.
«Cocaine.» Jonathan vomits the words. A few more minutes in the grip and he'll vomit jelly made of meat and bile. «God, let me go, let me go, please»
«Cocaine psychosis lasts for days, sometimes even weeks. I'm afraid the only thing you can do is a drip. And antipsychotic tablets..... Transport your mystery cocaine addict to us if you care for him, or you could just send him to Gotham General Hospital.... They'll help. Don't make any sudden moves, calm him down as best you can. Cocaine is serious.»
Oh, yes, it is serious. As serious as a college degree. Crane didn't choose between a college education and a good heredity. Decided to be smart because it was prestigious, became a cokehead, just like his mother. His gut was full of resentment towards the world. Sober, he would have cried, but now he just felt dead calm as his insides burned with the gastric juices of a terrible creature. The creature was fear, shame, and hate all in one. If the creature had a human face, it would be Bruce Wayne.
«I never sniffed…» Wayne speaks with annoyance. It's always frustrating for him to talk about things he doesn't understand. «Will he really survive?»
How is it never sniffed? How is it never sniffed, Bruce? That's a lie! That rich guy's nose went over Crane's jacket during the inspection, so he sniffed it. Yeah, not tracks, small particles, but it doesn't change the point, he's lying! Jonathan wants to tell Wayne he's lying, but all he gets out is a faint sigh.
«Your mate? I'm sure of it. If he survives, he'll outlive us all.»
Bruce Wayne is a little kid who believes every word. Jonathan even sobs with emotion. He knows he may not bounce back, and that death may come. He is ready for it, he has long accepted the fact of his own mortality. As long as he doesn't die in Bruce Wayne's arms. That's too scary a prospect. What's there, he's scared even now, alive, and a corpse freezing in his muscular arms is much scarier.
Bruce hangs up. Takes the phone off his shoulder.
«Crane, are you okay?» A wonderful question, asked just in time.
The agony subsides. Very slowly, but passing. Crane was almost reaching for his pocket. No, hands on his chest would probably get in the way, but he almost reached for it.
The auditory ones pass. The tactile ones come. Crane feels something that isn't there. Dirty insects crawling in a sterilely clean toilet. Dirty insects crawling all over his body. There's no way to get them off. Bruce Wayne is a strict warden which does not allow to create the appearance of a struggle. His hands are like an electric chair, there is no electricity yet, but there is no way to scratch nose.
«I am like a fly in a spider's web.» Jonathan resigned. «There's a spider crawling all over me.»
«What?» Bruce doesn't understand. He's never hallucinated before.
«I can feel its paws. Everywhere. Stomping.» Crane's talking to keep from passing out. What he feels is beyond description. Hundreds of movements through his body, every hair stirring from movements that aren't there. But Crane speaks, because passing out next to a jerk is scary. «When it steps, a stomping sound is heard»
«There is no spider.»
Bruce Wayne is the obvious one. Too much. Thanks for saying, no one knew that without you! Jonathan closes his eyes and tries to find censorious words.
«I can feel it.» Crane hesitates to speak
"and I know that no one is crawling on me"
«Crane, listen to me, there's no one crawling all over you. It's all a hallucination. Do you hear that?» Bruce speaks calmly, and terribly compassionate. That's no way to treat a drug addict. «Your body's all covered by the suit, there's no insects. None at all.»
Oh, yes, Jonathan can hear. Every word, blunt and clearly spoken. Oh, yes, Jonathan knows all this, but knowing does nothing to help him. Hearing the obvious things is disgusting and calms him only slightly. Jonathan is only as grateful to Bruce as he hates him.
«I can feel it.» This non-existent spider. Between the spider and Bruce Wayne, Jonathan would choose the spider. «Let me go»
The nonexistent spider injects poison, Crane's insides turn to jelly after all. He bends over someone else's sharp elbows to vomit. But it's not even vomit, it's blue soda mixed with bile. He hasn't eaten in a long time.
«What's next?» Wayne's not disgusted. Maybe if there were entrails, he'd waggle his eyebrow a little. «What happens if I let you go?»
«I'll go home.» Jonathan's just lying.
He can't remember his address now, and he won't be able to remember it in three hours. Not even in a day. Any stimulant psychosis has to end in the morning in an unfamiliar flat, smelling expensive, of cocaine and the saliva that came out of the landlady's mouth when she went into a violent drug spasm.
«You won't make it, you're not well. I'm sorry to do you good.» Remorse without a shred of remorse. «I'm sorry, but you won't come to your senses alone. I'm sorry.»
Bruce Wayne probably didn't snort heroin as a student. He didn't hystericalise himself in a public lavatory. He probably doesn't know you can snort heroin at all. He probably met drugs for the first time. He probably hasn't been to the public toilets that Jonathan has been to.
Which is odd. Crane had always thought high society was cocaine-fuelled sex on golden beds. If Wayne had let a couple of tracks in at the sight of a shaking, cold body and started pulling down his trousers, Jonathan would have understood. But he was trying to help in a childish, ineffectual way. He fucking cared. He's superior, but he's not society.
That doesn't excuse him, though.
When the stomach's empty, the cocaine eats the brain. Tactile hallucinations don't work anymore. Persecution mania is the perfect substitute.
«I'm ashamed.» Crane's withdrawn. Now he does not feel that he is being held by hands.
He's a doctor. And it's a terrible thing to know your diagnosis. To understand how things work and to experience it for yourself. No professional psychiatrist allows himself to touch drugs. Crane would rather snort more than admit he's not a professional.
«For what?» Bruce is bright and innocent. He wouldn't understand.
But Jonathan's talking for a reason:
«You wouldn't understand. I'm a professional. And I'm lying here on the floor, dirty. I'm not a professional then, I'm a cocaine addict. A drug addict. I'm not a doctor. They'll see me like this. They won't hire me.»
«Who are they?»
Crane doesn't know who "they" are. Other medical professionals. People in power. The president. Bruce Wayne. Mobsters. Patients. Somebody else. Everyone hates him, he knows, and he doesn't want to remember it. When everyone hates you, the fear must be constant. A man can't live in fear.
«They see that. They'll chase me away. They see it.» Jonathan gasps again. «They...»
«There's no-one here. You and me, no-one else. The door is shut tight, there's no way to see in.» Bruce speaks clearly, but quietly. He even strokes my head. «There are no wiretaps or cameras, Crane, I know the owners of the house»
Crane doesn't feel his touches at all. Knows they're there, but doesn't catch them with his brain. It's there and it's there. Bruce Wayne is the first person to stroke his head in a drug-induced psychosis.
Jonathan can feel his own thigh pretty good, though. His right pocket is burning. The feeling of fire. Agony, again. Wayne relaxes his grip and will regret it.
«They're watching.» Crane repeats over and over. «They see.»
His delusions are monotonous. Too much. It's hardly even a delusion, a statement of fact expressed in repetitive words. The other words make his throat tighten. He can't tell.
«They can't see anything.» Bruce doesn't realize who "they" are. Bruce repeats, and seems just as deliriously ill. «We're alone here. There is nothing to be ashamed of in what you have done. You're tired. You've overdone it. But it's not your fault. You'll feel better. I'm here for you.»
A bunch of meaningless phrases. He's pulling them out of a hat in random order? No, they're good phrases. Crane doesn't believe any of them. It's hard to trust a man who dragged you by the hair.
«It's my fault. I know what I'm doing, every time. Wayne.» Jonathan is shaking. He's terrified of being in these four walls alone. Therefore he repeated the name of the vise like a prayer. «Wayne, right? Wayne. This isn't my first psychosis. Let go. They'll see.»
Bruce Wayne is weak. Strong physically, weak mentally. Very weak. He's letting go. After so much persuasion, lets go. Crane exhales. The only self-defense technique he can control is close at hand. All that's left is to find the strength, and get his hands to stop emitting high pitched shivers.
«Why didn't you ask for help?» Wayne doesn't understand. When he can't make his bed, he runs to the servant. He doesn't understand what "nowhere to run" means.
«You wouldn't help a murderer.» Crane's stating the obvious.
«I'm not a heartless scum.» Bruce resists. «If i knew what happens to you when you're so... When you're gone so long at all those... Parties. I would...»
Oh, he was watching. Knew Crane was missing. Oh, they were at the same parties. So he knew Crane was indulging in luxury. Oh, until today, he didn't care. What has he learnt today?
«You are not a heartless scum.» Jonathan flicks his hand into his right pocket. «But I'am.»
The butterfly lands on the floor. The folding knife hits the tile a few centimetres from Wayne's face. The blade doesn't even pierce the tile, only makes a vile squeak. A butterfly knife is good self-defence for skinny people like Crane. Bad self-defence for junkies like Crane.
He missed because of his shaky hands. Some couple of centimetres prevented him from seeing a chunk fall off a gently smiling billion-dollar face. As the cheekbone exposed the insides of the stupid head and lay placidly on the floor.
Cocaine is a fantasy. Jonathan would be lying if he thought he didn't like the thought of cracking Bruce Wayne's skull open. He did. But he didn't.
«Not surprised.» Bruce laughs. Takes no measures to protect himself from another blow.
«What the hell would surprise you?» The tile presses painfully against his knees. Jonathan brings the knife in for another stab. «Fire show?»
Missed again. Bruce Wayne is a snake who won't admit it. Dodges the knife beautifully. He'd look good in a suit with scales.
«Crane, calm down.» The gentle tone of a child psychiatrist. Wayne knows how to calm down. But not men. «You don't have the strength to fight me. Crane.»
Funny Bruce Wayne. Jonathan smiles. He doesn't have the strength to not only fight, but to just stay conscious. Wayne's chest is muscular but soft. Not a good place to pass out. Jonathan wishes he could stab him in the chest, but his body thinks otherwise. The body is fighting for life and is not to blame for anything.