Chapter 1

It is, by nature, unnatural. The dull hue of the fluorescent light offered nothing of the nourishing savor of the mother of all nature, the sun. Rather, the overhead fluorescence was nothing more than a luminous emptiness mimicking the soulful hollow of the woman lost beneath the light.

Poison Ivy lay in the heart of the asylum, the stainless, lifeless steel walls cradled her, lulled her further into the desolate depths of her silent isolation. There she rest, dormant, planted deep within Arkham Asylum akin to a fledgling seed within the soil, or perhaps, a corpse buried in the dirt.

For a time, her voice bled with shrill cries for freedom. Her struggles to be heard carried no further than the reflective echoes enveloping her. The four walls now had become her adversaries, enmity between her and the steel palms smothering her breathing and strangling her throat. It was as if, in her most dire need to be heard, the world had grown deaf after a lifetime of telling her, in its vile and raised voice, who to be.

No one could hear her, trapped in her cell. No one could hear her, trapped within herself. Over time, she stopped screaming.

She was alone in every way a human being can be alone. No, not alone, she quickly convinced herself. She was not alone, not completely. She had a friend, a lover, a mother, a part of her sharing in this fragile life. Through the misery and melancholy, she held fast to the one, the only one, who truly understood her. As she lay curled in fetal position on the metallic floor in the middle of the cell, Poison Ivy, mind and body, clung to her flower pot.

While her thoughts roamed, her eyes remained fixed on the plant. There were glimpses in time in which she would admit that the flower had become all too much like herself. Like Ivy, the rose once was beautiful and sterling, embracing the adoration and affection of those fortunate enough to be granted even the faintest glance at its majesty. Before being caged here, before all this, her rose grew proudly in her garden, nurtured by the sun and tended by her own hands.

As is the unenviable fate of human beings, roses too, are not immune to change. Where it once bloomed with healthy red petals and a firm stem, the delicate flower now teetered between life and death. The few remaining petals were now a murky, menstrual dark brown red, while the desiccated stem sickly curled into an almost twisted question mark shape, permanently orienting the rose petals to face down. It did something to Ivy to watch her flower slowly deteriorate before her, coming closer and closer to its final day on Earth. She was helpless, always helpless to do anything to stop it.

Ivy knew, in her heart, that her rose would never be the same without the embrace of the sun and the enduring kiss of falling rain. Upon her re-sentencing to Arkham, the doctors and the warden had offered to allow her to plant her flower in the outdoor garden and tend to it for an hour each day. At first, the offer seemed irrefutable; the one thing, the only thing, she truly enjoyed in this sad life was being amongst nature. Something about the way the grasses gently sway back and forth as the passing wind weaves between each blade or the soothing aroma of a bed of roses in late April that had always drawn her to nature.

It was more than that though. Certainly, she adored nature cosmetically, but more sincerely, she respected nature. Although plants and animals, each in their own fashion, prey on each other, they only act as a function of their nature. Their behavior is driven by the ultimate desire, that of survival. Nature, though savage and bloody, is never cruel. No, cruel is this cage she is prisoner in. Cruel is motivation out of self-propagation, gluttony, and greed.

To that end, she instinctively wanted to accept their offer. However, as she deliberated more on that option, a daunting thought impeded her decision. A gnawing feeling jarred her conscience as she realized that despite the fact that her flower needs to see the sun to truly grow, she couldn't help but feel that so much can happen, so much can go wrong outside.

She would only be able to see and care for her flower for one measly hour each day. For 23 hours, she began to worry, for 23 hours her precious lover would be alone and unprotected. She just could not bear to have a doctor, or the warden, or even more infuriating, a guard, dryly tell her that her flower, her wonderful, alluring rose had been trampled while she was confined to her cell.

She would be even more helpless if she planted the rose in the garden outside, and so Ivy declined their offer, and instead opted to dote on her rose within her cell. A part of her realized she had acted against her better judgment, but it was something she had to do.

It was a wild flower, or at least it was meant to be that way, but things, as Ivy had experienced all too often in her life, seldom ended the way they were meant to be, no matter how hard you seem to try.

Soon after she finished that notion, her cell door creaked open as she heard the rusted turn of the guard's key rattle in the lock. It was the same guard as always, and as always, she entered carrying Ivy's stale dinner, placing it on the bed. Without so much as a word or even an exhale, the female guard roughly turned back around and walked towards the door. Nevertheless, the female guard habitually did something that mildly irked Ivy. After putting her meal on the bed, for a flashing second, the female guard stole a glance at Poison Ivy, and then exited. Her eyes tore through Poison Ivy as if she were looking for something hidden inside Ivy's very soul.

As the female guard walked towards the door and left, Ivy briefly began to think about her. Her coarse stride defied her natural figure. Under her guard hat and thick, layered uniform, Ivy sensed a woman beneath it all, a strand of femininity suffocating below the weight of the world. Looking deeply at her, Ivy could tell, perhaps, had things been a little different this female guard could have been someone different entirely. In another life, this woman could have been a glamorous model, or a glorious princess, but instead, she was here. Ivy lamented what could possibly have happened in that young woman's life to doom her to a life here, in Arkham.

After a second, Ivy then considered, "much the same she probably wonders about me."

Abandoning that vagrant thought, Ivy's eyes drearily focused on the inedible mess laid on her bed. Fed like an animal, a disgusting filthy animal, they toss food into her cell and treat her with no more dignity than they would scraps of garbage lining the streets. A plant and an animal, prisoners in a world of fools; but Ivy knew she was not the real animal. It was so depressing to her that she was here, caged like this, helpless to stop the true animal, man.

There were times she would question, what is the point of it all? She had tried to make a difference, she had tried to do what was right and be the person she had to be. She thought she could be the voice for the silent, the voice for nature and the planet itself. But no, she had failed; after all, she was here.

She cannot fight the whole world, what hope was there? In the confines of her cell, the days unraveled stillborn, one after the other, nothing seemed to matter anymore. She had nothing to remember, and nothing to look forward to; no past, no future, and a present she wished to return. Curled in fetal position around her wilting flower, Poison Ivy lay waiting, for what, she did not know anymore. To be released, for something to happen, for a change? In grim honesty, a part of Poison Ivy lie waiting for death to finally take her.