Agoraphobia.



Isolation: the action of setting apart from others, of staying away from the crowd to submerge into solitude…or into melancholy. Isolation was the action of a husband that set apart his wife from the crowd and threw her to loneliness and melancholy. Isolation was the same destination for Mrs. Laneford every time her husband went out of town. Either that he left her at home or took her along with him; Joachim didn’t allow Eileen to venture to the world, at least not beyond his restrictions.

If she ever appeared in public whenever she and Joachim travelled together, was beside the man she married sporting some uninteresting outfit (the lace dress at the museum being an exception) and a face of absolute seriousness (unhappiness?) upon her face, giving the impression that she was another insignificant housewife to an important man. And that night at Gotham art museum wasn’t the exception.

After her embarrassing experience with Mr Wayne, something not unusual whenever she “dared to break the rules”; she rushed to her room at the Nottingham where she stripped from her dress, her make up and her earrings - a common offer of peace from Joachim - , leaving nothing but the persona she showed to the world everyday: A taller than average woman with dishevelled hair and a dismal aura surrounding her tree-like frame.

That image either reflected on the mirror or on people’s eyes, was the least thing that Mrs. Laneford liked to see; however she used to feel it like a ghost haunting her, determined to torment her endlessly; and since a long time (actually less than ten years ago) she resigned to the submission and self-loathing her married life caused her.  

A soft gesture around her neck took Mrs. Laneford out of her divagations and made her turn to her husband, with the expression he used whenever he pretended to make a truce.

- Why did you do it Joachim? You were the one who took me to the exposition – questioned Eileen with a sad expression.

- I guess that I…got a bit jealous, said Joachim without showing any sign of regret or shame.

- In which sense? – She asked crossing her arms – because he was talking to your wife or because I was talking to your client?

- If I choose only one of the two, I’d be lying to you and you know it.
- Joachim, I’m not the kind of woman that cheats on her spouse, and I don’t have anything that’d make me desirable for a man. – said Eileen while starting to cry.

- You’re wrong…you’re completely wrong –concluded Laneford before sliding a little box to Eileen’s hand.

They stood quietly as she opened the box and a pair of baroque earrings appeared in front of her:

-  When was the last time you gave one of these? – asked her breaking the uncomfortable silent.

- Two months ago, on the convention at Saskatchewan.

- When we discussed - continued Eileen as she played with the earrings between her long fingers - about my problems and the subject of those men.

- Sooner or later they’d get what they deserved; I just leaded them towards the road of consequence. As for your little incident, you were the only one who got on that mess, and you were the one who chose whether to stay in the suffering or to solve it… - answered her somewhat upset husband.

- And you weren’t there to support me…just to criticize me. Why?

- Oh, Come on Eileen! You’re smart enough to realize that you alone were the one who could get yourself out of that mess, not me. Can’t you understand that? – replied a visibly impatient Joachim.

- It seems that I don’t understand anything about you husband…Nor you do about me –finished her wife as she shed the veil of tears on her theatrical eyes.

The room’s silence, delicately mixed with the faint notes of a distant piano, became the witness of that unfortunate moments; yet Joachim tried to fix the damage when he hugged his Eileen, while telling her that he was leaving early the next day and he wasn’t coming back till late hours, something that made the woman slightly relieved.

Mrs Laneford sat in an armchair, merely answering that she would be staying at the room all day long “…as I always do”.



        *************************?******************************

Every fragment of Riddler’s plan was on its respective place; his victim studied over and over, his physical wounds healed and his rage mutated to sadism.

Over his desk, there were several papers and photographs containing information about his target: Medical histories, newspapers, school reports, among other things.

After checking for nth time a wedding picture of the Laneford marriage, perhaps looking for an interesting detail, Riddler breathed deeply and reproduced in his mind what he was about to do:
He was about to harm somebody in a way he never imagined himself to, he was about to open Pandora’s box, he was about to commit a crime that not even the Joker would ever dream of…and he didn’t give a thing about him.

- Curious reaction coming from myself, he thought, after so many years waiting for the perfect plan to bloom, and it leaves me as cold as a stone…why? Am I loosing the touch? Is this idea nothing more than a sad cry for attention coming from my weakest self?

The mere thought of his entire plan being a simply panacea for his hatred disgusted Riddler, as he would had degraded himself to the level of a serial killer or a rapist.

And yet, he never committed such crimes in his entire career; Kidnapping? Yes, of course. Torturing?  Absolutely! Such thing was unavoidable in the world of crime; as well as theft, hacking, extortion, attempted terrorism and so many other things. Serial murder and rape, however, were actions coming from cowards and deviants, and he wasn’t any of that…was he?

- Ridiculous! He concluded.

*********************************?*********************************

The next morning Gotham city was greeted with beautiful layers of plum and pink clouds in the sky, similar to a shy Sunday or a coquette spring; however its citizens didn’t seem to be impressed for it, partly due to their “impervious to small marvels” nature and everyone had important duties that particular day. Everyone save, perhaps, Mrs. Laneford.

Unable to sleep during late night, Mrs. Laneford stayed in bed as she looked over the vast hotel room, stopping by the desert of a ceiling time on time, and finished in the head of her sleeping husband. By not being able to see his face, she felt something waking on her inside, something that fuelled her with an indescribable sorrow and a craving that felt like a days’ thirst.

By the time dawn scrapped against the curtains of the bedroom, Mrs. Laneford had 8 hours awake. Her eyes were shut and her head was laid on the pillow as she was having the rest of her life, however dream abandoned her completely, being replaced by that bittersweet craving. Her husband, believing that she still was asleep, dressed quietly and gave her a kiss in her tangled hair before taking his briefcase and leaving the room.

Twenty five minutes later, Mrs Laneford dragged herself out of the bed and into the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, several threads of hair fell though her tired face, veiling her eyesight and reminding her that she had forgotten to wear her ringlets before going to bed, negligence she thanked to herself, for she possessed a real excuse to get out of the room without Joachim harassing her afterwards.

Three minutes later after calling service room, Mrs. Laneford was already dressed and checking the presence of any message in her account; having a desk job could’ve been degrading for her but it had its advantages: most of the job just required a computer and a calculator, yet it still was something an ordinary secretary without any preparations could do.

Old memories passed through her head while she closed her account, shameful and bitter memories that mixed with the craving and poisoned Mrs. Laneford’s mind as the bell rang and the breakfast was at her door. She sipped the coffee from a Ming porcelain cup while her mind finally understood that hammering craving that was drying her mouth and fluttering like a moth in the depths of her numbed spirit; she needed to do something about it as soon possible, unlike her many other projects that ended unfinished and left to rot in her oblivion.

After taking her breakfast, Mrs Laneford put herself a burgundy dress with a short jacket and took a little hat ornamented with a mauve ribbon; however, she remembered that she made an appointment for the hotel’s beauty saloon so she put off her hat and tenderly took it along with her purse as she walked towards the door.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, Mrs Laneford was outside the Nottingham hotel, wandering the streets of Gotham city and sporting an absent-minded expression upon her face, adding to the rest of her persona the image of an eccentric art teacher or a character from a French movie rather a cryptographer turned into a captive housewife. A toddler in the catwalk even dared to ask to his grandmother if the lady with the nice hat was like that witch who twitched her nose on TV.

During the next hours, she went from museum to museum, from gallery to gallery, as she was looking for anything to distract herself, but she was merely taming her soul’s thirst one fragment at a time.

One particular feeling Mrs. Laneford wasn’t able to decipher until the very end of her “trip” and that bothered her since she left the hotel room, was the anxiety of being watched or more correctly being followed, as if a shadow besides her own would be hanging over her.  

While to trying to calm herself, Mrs Laneford didn’t realize that several of her belongings were falling from her purse, from her nervous hands to the ground and creating a particular pattern as she went by the streets; neither had she seen Mister Wayne passing her way until she bumped with his persona. Giving a stuttering apology, Mrs. Laneford tried to continue her non-lineal way but he stopped her.

- Mrs. Laneford, are you alright?
- Eileen, if you please…, answered her with her voice tired for the nerves.
- You seem to be altered, Eileen. It’s everything ok? Asked Mr. Wayne.
- I- I’m fine…just a bit—
- …lost?
Mrs. Laneford tried to answer him, but she only managed to low her head in shame, at which he smiled kindly and drove her by the hand to a nearby café.

There, the two had a conversation, in which Mrs Laneford was rewarded with a temporary peace and Mr Wayne with her fresh smile. Perhaps the afternoon would’ve pass entirely for the both of them in that cordial environment of childhood stories, of sipping tea, of freeing themselves from Joachim and from their own solitudes; fate, however, turned the tide against their wishes when Mr. Wayne’s phone rang and a desolated Eileen was left – with her craving and her agoraphobic loneliness- to wander the streets again.

Exactly an hour and fifteen minutes later, her terrors of pursuit took shape as a pair of masked men who swept her off her feet, leaving a question marked card on the very spot where she was standing.