Edward Nygma | The Riddler (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
questionslinger) wrote2013-11-27 10:18 am
questionslinger) wrote2013-11-27 10:18 am
Entry tags:
Burn Out
Or, “What happened to the tattoos Eddie got during “Riddle Me That”?”
Edward loathed exam rooms. He couldn’t remember them, or anything specific about them, but the creeping dread that slithered over his skin when the attending nurse instructed him to disrobe to the waist could not be denied. Places like this made his heart race; glass cylinders filled with swabs flickered sickly yellow and green, heralds of another time and place. He made his hands work on the buttons of his shirt as he tried not to think of unspooling bandaging, a soft voice saying Hush, Edward. Hush.
“Mr. Nygma?”
The voice drew him back to the here and now so hard, the spasmodic tremor of his hands jerked a button loose. It hit the floor, skittering away to parts unknown. Goddamn it, he didn’t say.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dr. Goldstein.”
“Ah, come in.”
Dr. Goldstein was around Eddie’s age, mid-forties, though he knew he didn’t look it and she did. Her eyes were brown, her hair starting to gray and covered with judicious application of dye. She smiled at him, and he tried to return the gesture of friendliness, but all he could think of was how he didn’t want to be here.
“You don’t need to be self-conscious,” she said, putting her clip board and pulling up the exam room computer. “Though I know how difficult that can be, considering my specialty. Can you finish removing your shirt so I can see the extent of the work?”
Edward rolled his shoulders, holding his breath, turning his back to her. Dragging his shirt down he let her get closer.
“I’m going to touch you,” she said, and then he could feel cool latex gloves on his skin. It was a thin barrier between him and the warmth of her fingertips; how long had it been since he was touched by a woman? He tried not to think on that. “These are relatively new?”
“Just over three years old,” he said.
“And if your records are right, almost two years of that was in a coma?”
“Yes. Eighteen months, a year rehabbing, and they were inked six months before that,” Edward said. He kept his eyes on the wall. Best not to think about the time lost.
There was a generic landscape hanging on the wall, probably meant to be generically comforting. To the left of it was a tall mirror; he was aware of his image in the glass, of her gloved hands on his skin – over scars and under the tattoos he was here to remove.
She began to explain the procedure, and spoke of the lasers that would do the trick, but Eddie didn’t hear her. His eyes were tracking the black shape of question marks dotting his reflection; the eroteme he’d taken as his symbol ran up his arms like a shirt sleeve. They spread out over his shoulders, spacing out further: one after the other marched onward till they dappled his shoulders and worked down his back like a cape.
That’s not who I am anymore.
“What did you say, Mr. Nygma?”
Shit! He spoke aloud. He kept his embarrassment off his face, though his smile was tight and false. “Nothing important. Please, continue.”
Dr. Goldstein backed away, her gaze soft. She had the eyes doctors practiced to have; welling with bounteous compassion, even as she snapped off her gloves. “You can dress now.”
He pulled his shirt back on, eager to be covered again but wary of losing another button. Dr. Goldstein kept her eyes on the computer as she made notes on the extent of his tattoos.
“You know, it’s very brave of you,” she began, not looking up, giving him the safety of not being judged by her gaze, “to do this. I—follow the news. Reinvention is no easy thing.”
Edward didn’t feel particularly brave. He ran his hands over his shirt, leaving it untucked for the moment, and didn’t answer.
“It’s what most people come in here for. They want to start over, have new lives and careers without their past holding them back. It’s why I got into this business in the first place,” she continued as she made notes, before she glanced up to give him a smile. He supposed it was meant to be encouraging. “Did your therapist suggest this?”
“No,” Edward said, trying to keep the muscles from jumping in his throat. He choked down his irritation. “No, this was entirely my decision.” Not simply because he’d ditched his therapist months ago. His state-mandated visits to the shrink’s office wereover.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad. I think this will help you start over. Our procedure leaves minimal scarring and tissue damage, and thankfully you’re not trying to get rid of pen-ink prison tattoos.”
“No, God no.” He couldn’t remember which artist he’d seen, who’d been fool enough to take the Riddler’s money after the— the criminal mid-life crisis, the—what was it? What had it been?
“Mr. Nygma?”
This time he went scarlet, lips pressed into a thin line. He was doing it again. He was better, he was. Getting distracted wasn’t going to help anybody.
“I’m sorry, I just have—” gaps where my memories should be, he didn’t say, “a lot on my mind. Can we set up the first appointment?”
“Yes, of course.”
He folded his arms over his chest—hiding where his button was missing, and told her what days he’d be free to burn the last remains of the Riddler out of his skin.
Edward loathed exam rooms. He couldn’t remember them, or anything specific about them, but the creeping dread that slithered over his skin when the attending nurse instructed him to disrobe to the waist could not be denied. Places like this made his heart race; glass cylinders filled with swabs flickered sickly yellow and green, heralds of another time and place. He made his hands work on the buttons of his shirt as he tried not to think of unspooling bandaging, a soft voice saying Hush, Edward. Hush.
“Mr. Nygma?”
The voice drew him back to the here and now so hard, the spasmodic tremor of his hands jerked a button loose. It hit the floor, skittering away to parts unknown. Goddamn it, he didn’t say.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dr. Goldstein.”
“Ah, come in.”
Dr. Goldstein was around Eddie’s age, mid-forties, though he knew he didn’t look it and she did. Her eyes were brown, her hair starting to gray and covered with judicious application of dye. She smiled at him, and he tried to return the gesture of friendliness, but all he could think of was how he didn’t want to be here.
“You don’t need to be self-conscious,” she said, putting her clip board and pulling up the exam room computer. “Though I know how difficult that can be, considering my specialty. Can you finish removing your shirt so I can see the extent of the work?”
Edward rolled his shoulders, holding his breath, turning his back to her. Dragging his shirt down he let her get closer.
“I’m going to touch you,” she said, and then he could feel cool latex gloves on his skin. It was a thin barrier between him and the warmth of her fingertips; how long had it been since he was touched by a woman? He tried not to think on that. “These are relatively new?”
“Just over three years old,” he said.
“And if your records are right, almost two years of that was in a coma?”
“Yes. Eighteen months, a year rehabbing, and they were inked six months before that,” Edward said. He kept his eyes on the wall. Best not to think about the time lost.
There was a generic landscape hanging on the wall, probably meant to be generically comforting. To the left of it was a tall mirror; he was aware of his image in the glass, of her gloved hands on his skin – over scars and under the tattoos he was here to remove.
She began to explain the procedure, and spoke of the lasers that would do the trick, but Eddie didn’t hear her. His eyes were tracking the black shape of question marks dotting his reflection; the eroteme he’d taken as his symbol ran up his arms like a shirt sleeve. They spread out over his shoulders, spacing out further: one after the other marched onward till they dappled his shoulders and worked down his back like a cape.
That’s not who I am anymore.
“What did you say, Mr. Nygma?”
Shit! He spoke aloud. He kept his embarrassment off his face, though his smile was tight and false. “Nothing important. Please, continue.”
Dr. Goldstein backed away, her gaze soft. She had the eyes doctors practiced to have; welling with bounteous compassion, even as she snapped off her gloves. “You can dress now.”
He pulled his shirt back on, eager to be covered again but wary of losing another button. Dr. Goldstein kept her eyes on the computer as she made notes on the extent of his tattoos.
“You know, it’s very brave of you,” she began, not looking up, giving him the safety of not being judged by her gaze, “to do this. I—follow the news. Reinvention is no easy thing.”
Edward didn’t feel particularly brave. He ran his hands over his shirt, leaving it untucked for the moment, and didn’t answer.
“It’s what most people come in here for. They want to start over, have new lives and careers without their past holding them back. It’s why I got into this business in the first place,” she continued as she made notes, before she glanced up to give him a smile. He supposed it was meant to be encouraging. “Did your therapist suggest this?”
“No,” Edward said, trying to keep the muscles from jumping in his throat. He choked down his irritation. “No, this was entirely my decision.” Not simply because he’d ditched his therapist months ago. His state-mandated visits to the shrink’s office wereover.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad. I think this will help you start over. Our procedure leaves minimal scarring and tissue damage, and thankfully you’re not trying to get rid of pen-ink prison tattoos.”
“No, God no.” He couldn’t remember which artist he’d seen, who’d been fool enough to take the Riddler’s money after the— the criminal mid-life crisis, the—what was it? What had it been?
“Mr. Nygma?”
This time he went scarlet, lips pressed into a thin line. He was doing it again. He was better, he was. Getting distracted wasn’t going to help anybody.
“I’m sorry, I just have—” gaps where my memories should be, he didn’t say, “a lot on my mind. Can we set up the first appointment?”
“Yes, of course.”
He folded his arms over his chest—hiding where his button was missing, and told her what days he’d be free to burn the last remains of the Riddler out of his skin.