His Trophy | Jerome Valeska

forty two

TW: Violence and adult language

It is in moments of great stress when human beings resort to their true animalistic forms. The sweet and sharp liquor of fear slowly trickled down the back of their throats, triggering their instincts into 'fight-or-flight.' Despite Jerome rarely ever finding himself truly afraid to a point where he regressed to his carnal state, he relished in watching others slowly sink back into small petrified animals. He watched with drunk delight as his brother writhed underneath the thin and immovable restraints. Scarecrow was gripping the jaw of Jerome's mirror image with the same decided power rush. There was something so glorious in being in the shoes of the preditor, especially when said preditor is about to devour his tediously chased prey.  Jeremiah's eyes rolled to the back of his head as he passed out from fright, his head flopping back onto the ridged back of the chair as Scarecrow released him. 

It was in these small moments of torture that Jerome loved: watching his victim's realization of death dull their eyes, listening to the last attempts of bravery fade in the face of losing all hope; or that sweet second of disbelief when the body is about the give out to the overwhelming stench of terror. These moments were euphoric, they fed the ever-growing worm of insanity in Jerome's head, and they helped provide moments of clarity for him. It was as if the world would stop just for him to take a deep and luxurious breath. That split second of time tasted even better on Jerome's tongue when dosed in the cold broth of revenge. The excitement filled him, knowing that his brother- the boy who caused him so much pain, who abandoned and betrayed him, who forced him into a bleak, dark and unforgiving world- was about to experience the same fear and torture that Jerome had once suffered. 

The red-headed mad man let out a low giggle as he watched his brother slump into his restraints. 

"Let him regain consciousness, Johnny, I want him to be wide awake for our game," Jerome guided his costumed companion. Scarecrow let go of Jeremiah's jaw and pulled the syringe out with the same forcefulness as he would a knife. 

What had been pushed into Jeremiah's veins was a small dose of the chemical formula Scarecrow had started to work on. Jerome watched his brother's body start to shiver, sweat, and crumple as the poison slowly started to work its magic. Jerome imagined the strange lilac liquid crawl through the thin space of his twin brother's veins, causing neurons to fire and adrenaline to start being released. He pictured the formula causing a vibrant, colorful firework display underneath Jeremiah's skin, leaving behind a black and soot-like trail as it burned through his brother's blood; he envisioned the poison slowly dripping into his brother's brain, gradually trickling its way into the frontal lobe, ready to create mayhem. 

"How long will it take to work?" Jerome asked, feverish with anticipation. 

"With such a small dose I can't be sure but it should take an immediate effect," Scarecrow responded, chucking the needle on a metal table that was positioned to the left of Jeremiah. 

Jerome stared at his unconscious brother with wide, excited eyes. He watched for twitches or steam, something which would indicate the effects of the formula was taking effect. The mad man was given nothing, not even a murmur from his brother. With a deep frow, Jerome approached his victim and prodded Jeremiah's face with his finger. All that did was cause his twin's head to flop to the side. Jerome pulled back and quickly looked to Scarcrow with a quizzical expression. Scarecrow merely shrugged in response. 

"You don't think he's dead do you?" Jerome asked in a joking tone, his face keeping its confused expression. He then looked at his brothers sleeping face and slapped it. A small groan came from Jeremiah's lips and he quickly winced his way back into consciousness. Jerome let out a loud cackle, jerking back from his brother as he laughed.