The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

12

"I always wanted a roommate," Harleen gushes, carrying one of my larger boxes up the steps to her apartment. "We can have slumber parties and pizza night... oh, we should do Taco Tuesday!"

"You know of any decent Mexican restaurants in Gotham?" I ask, nose wrinkled.

While Harleen's apartment is in a nicer area of Gotham, it's still nestled too closely into the city for me to fully relax as we traipse in and out, until finally all my things are inside. The few boxes sit in Harleen's living room, drowned out by mismatched sofas and chairs covered in bright fabrics. The throw pillows are shaped like cartoon characters or lined with comic book prints, scattered across the seating. A large vintage jukebox stands against one wall and casts a warm neon glow over the room. There's knick-knacks and souvenirs, framed posters from classical movies and circus acts, and a bookshelf crammed with psychological and medical texts as well as novels and comic books.

"There's a place downtown that does really nice enchiladas," she replies, sauntering through to the kitchen with a chalkboard wall. She writes across the top and underlines it, Taco Tuesday.

Nerves dances across my spine. I have to mentally shake myself — are things getting so bad I can't even go to a Taco restaurant, because I'm so afraid of bad people, of serial killers in costumes?

Observe without judgement. I'm afraid because people around me seem to die. Matt is dead. Because no matter how hard I stubbornly cling to the fact Oldham must have done it, it doesn't change the deeper part of me that knows it's nonsensical. Matt, to listen to some criminal, to go and take his own life?

To take a train out west, muttering the word scarecrow over and over?

Harleen's face drops as she looks at me. "You alright?"

"Yes," I say quickly, taking the nearest box and beginning to unpack. "I just... I think the funeral this morning rattled me. That's all."

"That's understandable." Harleen smiles sympathetically. "Do you think it might be good to talk to someone? A professional?"

"Like us?"

"Yeah. Like us."

I analyse my symptoms, try to assess them impartially. General anxiety. Insomnia. Reduced appetite, nervous demeanour.

I nod slowly. "I think that would help."

***

Doctor Crane watches, vaguely amused, as I wriggle into the clinical chair in his office.

"You gonna put the monitors and stuff on?" I ask.

"No, Sienna."

I frown. "Why not?"

"Because we're not going to be using the fear toxin."

"But... The dissertation..."

"We can still proceed with setting up the research," Doctor Crane continues. He pulls latex gloves onto his hands. "But I'm starting you on the twelve week preparation program."

I stare at him. "What, so you can waste time teaching me breathing exercises and DBT techniques I already know?"

"I think we would be wise to supplement the treatment in your case with additional medication."

"I don't need additional medication," I insist. "I just need practice. I'm not weak, Doctor Crane."

"Fear makes us all weak," he murmurs, as he pulls gently on my eyelids and shines a flashlight into my pupils. "You are not any lesser for it."

"You're not afraid of anything," I say quietly.

He blinks, his own eyelids fluttering for a moment as he releases mine. "Not until recently. You'd be amazed how fear manages to creep back in."

"The same phobia as before?" I ask.

"No," he says. "No. This is new. Unexpected."

"You know my fears, Doctor," I say. "What are yours?"

He considers me for a moment. Though there is distance between us, our eye contact alone gives the illusion we are touching. Then he turns away, rifling through his desk for a manuscript he hands across to me.

"The primary foundations of my research," he says. "I promised you full access once we began working together. You'll find everything you need to know in there. All my own notes."

I take the paper into my hands. Watch him for a reaction. But he seems more interested in examining me for my own.

Expectantly, I lift the pages, and begin to read. My eyes widen. I freeze.

"...Scarecrow?" I whisper.

"Imagine my own surprise," he murmurs. "We share a primary phobia. And a rather specific one. Formidophobia. Not a term officially and legally recognised, but it'll do for the purposes of our research."

"Why scarecrows?" I ask quietly, glancing up at him. "For you?"

He gives a brief smile. "I have concluded my own treatment, Sienna. We are here for yours. Why don't you tell me?"

My throat dries. "I don't know if I can."

"I understand," he says gently. "But I will not treat you with fear toxin again until we have first made unmedicated progress. I won't risk breaking your mind."

"My mind can take it," I insist.

He raises an eyebrow. "So tell me. Why scarecrows?" My jaw tightens. "Your frustration will do little to sway my decision," he says. "My patients frequently lose their temper with me. Consider me immune."

"I'm not frustrated with you," I say stiffly. "With myself. It shouldn't be so hard to talk about."

"Of course it's hard to talk about," he says gently. "We relive it over again each time we do. Over time, this grows easier. But I get the sense you haven't spoken about the cause of your fear for a long time. Perhaps not ever, in its entirety. Would I be correct?"

I'm incapable of speaking without my voice threatening to shake, so I nod.

"So we begin slowly," he says. "One word. Can you tell me just one word of what happened?"

I stare down at my palms. "Hand," I whisper, and my head sears with pain. "Warren took my hand."

I try to go further. To spill the rest, but I cannot — it's a movie I don't want to play through my mind. One I don't know I can endure. And once more the frustration flares red hot — I'm too weak for this. Too weak for the treatment I hope to write an entire dissertation on.

"That's four words," Doctor Crane says gently. He smiles. "You've progressed four hundred percent further than the ideal outcome for today. You've done very well, Sienna. Good girl."

His words calm my frustration, melting it away until I feel strangely bare. I find myself suddenly nervous in his presence, unable to meet his gaze as blood rushes to my cheeks.

"Thank you, Doctor Crane," I murmur.

"We'll meet again on Tuesday." Jonathan stands to his feet. "I'm confident you'll continue to make excellent progress."

I'm slightly dizzy and slightly dazed as I leave. A hint of euphoria as his words play through my ears, and I settle in the knowledge I've pleased him.