I know I should update my other stories before writing new ones but I was in a really bad mood yesterday and wrote this. It's just a short half story, half poem one-shot about Jonathan Crane as a child and is based on the Scarecrow: year one comics.

I can't remember the bullies' names and I don't have the comics with me right now. I think one was Bobby. If not I will change it at some stage.

Warnings for mental illness and implied child abuse.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything

He sat silently in his room, staring at nothing.

His stomach screamed for food and his body ached

but he didn't respond.

The evening sun streamed through his window.

Jonathan hated it.

His great-grandmother was in her room,

singing a hyme.

He hated her too.

The welts on his back stung.

Bad boys have to be punished.

But it wasn't his fault his glasses were broken.

He thought perhaps he might hate the bullies,

even more than Granny.

And he hated the dust

and the birds

and the corn.

And he hated the farm

and the schoolhouse

and Bobby's pack of matches.

He hated his ragged clothes

and his Sunday suit.

He hated it all so much

he thought he might explode.

But he didn't.

He sat on his bed and nothing happened.

The anger and hate built and built,

until his small body shook with the force of emotion.

Still he made no sound.

Jonathan's fingernails dug bloody crescents into his palms.

The old woman's singing seeped,

seeped through the walls of the old house.

Outside the dry corn rustled in the wind.

Something broke inside the boy's mind,

a thin crack spreading outwards,

slowly,

inevitably.

He did not move from his bed

as he watched the shadows

crawl across the wall.

A scarecrow looked out

from behind his eyes