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Jonathan Crane was born into a heavily catholic family, led by a matriarchal grandmother, who abused him violently and psychologically. She enforced worship, and isolated the family as much as possible- even from one and other. Family meals were silent affairs, and outside of a select few other events, Crane never really saw his other family members. He spent a lot of time out in the fields, the chosen farmer of the family, a role given to him due to his smaller stature and thinner frame. His grandmother told him it was to 'strengthen him for the lord', but in reality it was a ploy. Every time he failed, every time he couldn't fulfill his grandmother's requests, he was beaten.
It was during this time that Crane first began to experience his musings on fear. He had broken a scythe while toiling in the wheat fields, and his grandmother had responded in kind. She dragged him to the centre of the field, tying him up to the large scarecrow that sat in the middle of the field. His feet barely touched the ground, and as she beat him, he was stuck staring into the cold, uncaring eyes, painted crudely onto the burlap face of the scarecrow. Crane was left to think. Staring at that scarecrow, a thing with the sole purpose of causing fear. He found himself pitying the poor thing. It never asked to be made a monster, made to stand all day, all night, scaring away the crows. He felt a sort of kinship with it. He was not unlike the scarecrow- he never asked to be made a monster. Made to work. All day. In the fields.
Over the next years of his life, Jonathan spent much of his time out of the house. His grandmother got weaker as she aged, and Jonathan got stronger as he worked. It wasn't uncommon for him to spend hours each day sitting beneath the shade of the scarecrow, eating whatever rations he'd been given with his friend. He repainted its face- with care, this time. He gave it new clothes, generally the clothes that he outgrew. His grandmother teased him for it, as did his brothers.
“You’re in love with a scarecrow, aren't you Crane?”
“Still playing pretend, Crane?”
“Maybe I should rip down that fake boyfriend of yours, shouldn't I Crane?”
But his brothers would never risk drawing the ire of his Grandmother. And the foul woman was now too weak to leave the house. Crane was, in truth, only really safe when he worked. Toiling in the fields, with his friend. And in his home, Crane was beginning to be seen differently. He was the strongest. Tall and lean, yes, but strong. But Crane had another strength. One that he held a close secret. He was smart. His Grandmother refused to teach his family, so as he had grown, Jonathan began to quietly sneak into town every few weeks, buying as many books as he could. He hid them the only place no one would look. The chest of his beloved Scarecrow. In the evenings and mornings, he would read. At first he learnt basic things- science, maths, english. But Crane was a bright young boy, always was. Soon, his taste in literature evolved. Chemistry, biology, psychology. It was a game he played- diagnosing his family whenever he got to see them, silently of course. He liked that feeling. That superiority that came with knowing what was wrong with the people in his life.
He only ever made one comment. That was all it took- one stupid comment, one snide remark, to ruin everything. It was at dinner. Easter. One of the few times the family would speak to one another. It was all very boring- asking how the weather's been, how is the farm, how are the animals. One of his brothers made some stupid comment. Whatever it was, Crane couldnt silence himself before delivering a soft, stabbing remark about said brother’s use of alcohol to deal with his (what in Crane’s mind was obviously) repressed homosexuality. The table went dead silent. Crane knew then and there his mistake, and rather unsubtly, made an attempt to leave. While the details of the following conflict remain foggy in Crane’s mind, he did remember a few things of that night clearly. Being dragged by his brothers into the field, Grandmother slowly following behind. His Scarecrow being torn down, ripped open, his books being thrown in front of the matriarch. He remembers her fury, burning in her eyes as she quietly ordered the boys to prepare a bonfire. That he remembered clearly. The bonfire. Being made to watch as they burned each and every one of his books. His grandmother silently hissing in his ear
“Repent.”
And every time, his own hissed back response.
“Never.”
Crane spent the night tied to his scarecrow again, for the first time in years. He spent the next night there as well. And the next. The family sent out his brothers to feed him scraps of stale bread and dirty water once a day, enough to stave off starvation. And each day, his grandmother would slowly creep out into the field, through the growing wheat, so high now he couldn't see his own home. Every evening, without fail, she would stand there.
“Repent.”
“Never.”
And every time he refused, she would leave him for another night. She heard him telling the boys to reduce the water they gave him, less food for every refusal to repent. Just enough to keep him alive. Enough to keep him suffering, she would say. She kept him out there for two and a half weeks. His wrists bled from the rope digging into them. His knees were bruised and grazed, from days upon days of being forced to kneel. His bruised face was sunburnt and his back was aching. But he refused every day. Even as his scraps of bread became barely more than a crust. Even as his water became barely enough to parch his dust dry throat. Even his brothers, who were not quiet about their hatred of Jonathan, began to quietly try to suggest they free him. But his grandmother wouldn't budge. Repent. Repent. Repent. Every evening. Every day. For eighteen days. Eighteen times she said that word. Eighteen times Crane would hear the crackle of snapping wheat, eighteen times he would feel the blistering crack of her cane against his back, ripping through his shirt. And eighteen times, he said never.
It was the nineteenth day that he felt the rope snap. The sun was beating down on him, though the feeling of his skin burning had long since gone dull to him. He weakly pulled against the binds that held him, a ritual that had become a daily relief to his boredom. But today, he felt something give. The soft sound of rope fibre severing. He refused to hope, at first, slowly dragging the rope up and down, the splintered wood ripping through the tattered rope. His hands came free- wrists burnt, rope soaked in his blood. But he was free. He stood, slowly, shakily. He balanced against the scarecrow- his scarecrow. Its face looked down at him, pitying, sympathetic. It knew his pain. It sat here, tied up, day after day. Like Crane. So he would free it as well. With shaking hands, he reached up, wrenching the Scarecrow down from its wooden prison, feeling its weight in his arms, looking down at that simple, burlap face. No mouth, no nose. Just eyes. Crane stared into those dark eyes, and he felt them stare back. He would free them both.
The clothes on the scarecrows back still fit, if a little tight. His own tattered shirt was good for little more than a sort of shawl, covering his shoulders. His boots burned his feet, his knees stuck to the jeans he wore, blood seeping through. But the mask over his face was perfect. The burlap itched his face so comfortably, so nicely. It sat, snug over his head. The Scarecrow's face, now Crane’s. Two in one. How ironic. He walked briskly through the grain, ignoring the burning in his calves, the agony of his sunburnt back. None of it mattered now. He stopped when he neared the house, waiting out of sight in the grain, crouched low. He sat for hours. Waiting, Watching. His brothers walked around the house, doing their chores. His father sat on the balcony, smoking. His mother cooked inside. And above it all, peering out the window, his grandmother loomed. So he sat. And watched. And waited. Nothing could draw him from his hiding place, not even the smell of food as they served dinner. He knew what he was waiting for. He knew, as the sun set, he would be given his chance. Like clock work, his grandmother stepped out of their small home, collecting her cane. His brothers followed, holding a small glass and a plate. He’d been demoted to chicken bones, he could see. Scraps of fat and flesh all that was left. As soon as they passed him, he surged out of the wheat, rushing for the house. It would take them about fifteen minutes to reach where he was supposed to be tied up and return to the house, give or take a few minutes, depending on if they bothered to search. It took him five minutes to loop around to the back of the house, clambering through into his fathers room through a window. It took four minutes to silently creep inside, reach under the bed, and tug out the small safe hidden there. It took three minutes to climb back outside with the safe, and put in the code. It took two minutes to load the revolver inside the safe- only five rounds shots. Mum, dad, two brothers, and of course, Grandma. It was as he slid the fifth bullet into the cylinder that he heard his brother's idiotic drawl, yelling as they approached the house
“Johnny's up’n gone!”
His Grandmother hissed something, shutting him up. They didn't care. Exactly as he had suspected. He crept, slowly, silently, around the house again. His family talked quickly. Grandmother told them to watch the door, ready if Jonathan showed his face. But Jonathan wasn't wearing his face today. That thought made him smile. He peered around the front side of his house- the shadows hiding him. His father was still there, smoking, peering into the dark. Beside him sat Jonathan's mother, now nervously tapping her fingers on the wooden balcony. His brothers were clearly inside. Jonathan knew he needed to move quickly. He stood, stepping out into the light of the porch. His mother rose quicker than his father, starting to ask who was there, who he was, what he was doing on their property. His father got it faster than she did. The glint of the pistol in his hand, the scarecrow's face staring at him. He grabbed Jonathan's mother, trying to shove her aside. Not that Crane cared. His first shot rang out through the fields as he fired it, killing the man who had brought him into this world in one singular moment. His mother started to beg, to plead for her life. Crane looked down at her, and in her eyes saw something that would forever change him. Something beautiful. Something intoxicating.
Fear.
Jonathan had never drank before. Never taken drugs, in his seventeen years of life. Of course he hadn't. But that moment, seeing the fear in his mothers eyes as he raised the gun again. It was a high like nothing else. The second shot rang out, but the fear stayed, frozen. Though not as potent. Crane made a note of that as he stepped over his mother and into the house. His brothers rushed into the dining hall, eyes wide. They weren't afraid, much to Jonathan's dismay. They were alarmed, yes, but not afraid- not yet at least. His eldest brother didn't get the chance to speak before a bullet ripped through his forehead, sending him tumbling to the floor. There it was, in his younger brother's face. Fear. Not as much as his mother, curiously. No matter. Jonathan didn't bother taking in his brother's fear this time. He shot him through the head as well, nice and quick. All was silent then in the house. He could hear a soft creaking from above, as well as the ever so gentle dripping of blood onto wood. He stepped out into the hall, hand resting on the banister of the staircase as he climbed upwards. The hall opened up before him, the end door opened to reveal his grandmother, sat, staring. Her brow furrowed as Jonathan stared at her, pistol at his side
“You worthless little heretic."
Jonathan said nothing- after all, a scarecrow doesn't talk.
”You are nothing but a freak, do you understand that, Jonathan?”
Jonathan slowly started to walk down the hall, each creak from his footfall echoing throughout the house
”What is it you want? Do you want me to apologize? Do you want me to beg? What? What is it, Jonathan? I won't give you the satisfaction, you dirty little sinner”
Jonathan clicked the hammer of the revolver down as he crossed the threshold into his grandmother's room
”Damn you, Jonathan! Speak! Talk! Say something, god damn you!”
With one swift movement, Jonathan brought the pistol level with his grandmother's head. His eyes stared into hers, and finally, as she looked back at him, he saw it. That sparkle. Fear. His mothers had been intoxicating, a rush of sudden adrenaline. But this. This was something else. A punishment. Divine. That was when it all clicked in Jonathan's mind. This power. This was what it was to be god. That fear. That terror. It was, truly, divine. He pressed the cold metal barrel into his grandmother's forehead, drawing a wince from her lips. He leaned in. Slow. And in the softest tone, the Scarecrow whispered to her
“Repent.”
It took months for anyone to find The Crane Family. Enough time that no one would be able to connect Jonathan Crane, the newest prodigy at Arkham University, back to the massacre. Legally, Jonathan Crane didn't exist. Neither did anyone else in the family. The crime faded into nothingness, just another cold case, another bunch of dead hillbillies.
But Jonathan never forgot it. Never forgot what he learned that night. Fear is god. And he could harness it.