(So basically, hi, sorry for falling off the face of the planet. I didn't mean to do that. D: How's everybody doin? I haven't written jack crap diddly shit for a while. So, bare with me if my writing is a little slow-paced or boring right now. I've got a ways to go before I'm up to par, again. So, as always, review, share, favorite, tell me what I'm sucking at so I can improve? Thanks for reading! New chapters coming soon, [I hope!].)

A buzzer from outside pulls me from a lethargic stupor, likely put on by large doses of morphine, a cocktail of pills and a bit too much bedrest. "Bobby. How are you feeling?" a voice calls from outside. Scottish accent. It's Doctor Smith.

"Oh," I gasp, "A little better than yesterday." Some time had passed since the Jokers visit. The bruise healed. The unease in my stomach had passed. My limbs had grown weaker, and my voice had grown tired. Much of it went by in a blur, you see. Time will do that with the aid of drugs.
"... Bobby?" the accented man had asked again, his tone sounding urgent. "Bobby, are you with me?" I looked up at the man, who now looked tired, and somewhat thinner. Perhaps working with the patients had him worn… "I asked you how the drugs are working. Do you feel well?"

"I've been telling you" I wheezed, "I don't need the drugs. I'm perfectly sane." the Doctor nods, and scribbles something into his notebook, before placing it at his side, tucking his pen away, and pressing the intercom button,

"I believe you, Bobby. I do." With that, he walks away, and watching his trail, I notice a rather beat-up Riddler, resting on one of the beds. I wonder when he got here. It seems like so long since I've seen him. His usually clean-looking hair was scruffy, and unkempt. Five o'clock shadow was sprouting from his jawline, and his cheeks looked somewhat sunk.

I lifted my hand at him, to which he scoffed, and turned. What's his problem? I felt a bubbling in my chest, at that. Why would he ignore me like that? Why would he do such a cruel and insensitive thing? Bastard. Probably doesn't even realize. No, he probably does realize and not give a shit. He doesn't give a single fuck about anybody. Not even himself. If he gave a damn about himself he'd be better. He wouldn't be so fucked up. He'd be healthy and clean and not beat like a little bitch.

An alarm goes off, and red lights begin flashing overhead. I pull myself from my thoughts and see that the glass had begun cracking. The riddler's eyes were somewhat wide, and I noticed a doctor coming near to the room, pressing a button, and from there, it all went a little hazy. I got tired, I suppose… I got tired, and I fell asleep…

"The situation with Bobby has worsened since her arrival at Arkam." I hear a low voice murmuring. A slight disturbance in its tone. "Yes we've administered the drugs. Yes, we've taken steps. What?" the voice is silent, for a moment… "You can't be serious," the woman behind the voice sighs, as my vision becomes clearer. What happened? "Alright. I'll set up an interview." she says, "It'll be difficult. Bobby is hardly equipped to start walking, yet." You know, now that she mentions it, I do feel somewhat weak. It's been quite a while since the incident. I can't remember a whole lot since then… I remember a visit from the Joker. I remember his card being twirled around his fingers… That grin, god, that ugly, defiling grin. I attempt to prop myself up with shaky elbows. After a long struggle I manage to be at an obtuse angle. Looking down, I see that my legs are mostly skin and bone. My arms are as well. My hands had shrunken in size, and my ribcage was showing. Dear god, how long had I been out?