The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

24

Harleen and I walk the street back to our apartment with armfuls of Chinese food, cackling with laughter about the Great Dane dressed in a Batman outfit we'd seen at the train station.

Both of us stop in our tracks at once. Falling silent.

Reporters have swarmed all across the pavement outside our apartment, photographers and large news cameras and journalists. Some are snapping pictures. Others are lounging about.

Waiting.

"Hey, look, there she is!" One of them calls out, a man in a slouchy beanie with dark stubble across his jaw. "Sienna! Sienna, do you believe Wayne Enterprises are behind your boyfriend's death?"

They all stand to attention at once. Flashes of light burst across the street as they snap pictures, their voices and shouting blending into one assaulting noise.

"Oh, fuck no," Harleen says, jaw clenched. She takes my hand and marches us forward. "Hey! Hey, back off, or you'll be tasting pavement! I've got a piano up there, and I'm not afraid to throw it out the window!"

It's enough to drive around half of them back, but the rest cramp around us, still getting their pictures. One journalist's hand brushes across my ass, and I turn and sink my knuckles into his face before I realise what I'm doing.

He recoils, staggering. The commotion stops. Then it resumes in double-time.

"They can't follow us inside," Harleen grunts, now resorted to swinging the bag of Chinese food around like a mace.

"They shouldn't be allowed to do any of this," I reply in horror, as a handful of overly keen photographers begin to climb the fire escape, looking for ways up to our apartment.

"We'll call the police."

"What are they gonna do? This is Gotham."

Finally we break through the crowd and into the foyer, where Harleen bangs against the glass threateningly at the cameras pressed right up to the lense, until I pull her away.

"What the fuck happened?" She asks, as we reach the apartment door.

"Wait," I warn her.

My anti-stalker precautions might finally come in handy. I check the lock, the handle. Check all along the seal of the door before allowing Harleen to unlock it.

Assessing the situation, I decide it's safest to get in quickly and lock the door up again, to prevent anybody trying to slip in behind us. Even though this means potentially locking ourselves in if somebody's already breached the apartment.

We go room to room, checking the window seals, the closets, beneath the beds.

The fear toxin works. It's clearer to me in this moment than any other — I'm not scared. Not even angry. I'm methodical. Almost as calm and collected as Doctor Crane, almost as unshakable.

"We're clear," I tell Harleen. "Get the curtains closed before they figure out which room's ours."

"Why are they here?" Harleen asks.

I grind my teeth together. "Rachel Dawes. It has to be. She warned me she'd get the truth out of me, and I'd regret not... playing nice. So much for high and mighty."

"Seems like it's personal," Harleen says.

"They'll get bored eventually and go away."

But I realise I have neither proof nor experience to back my statement. I'm speaking out of pure hope.

"Let's try and forget about it," I suggest. "I'm hungry."

Harleen nods firmly. "I'll make the margaritas."

***

I finally collapse into bed, and once more it feels like dropping onto drifting, heavenly clouds ready to lure me to slumber. I yawn, stretch, and rub my eyes. Then I peek through the curtains, down to the pavement below. Some of the reporters have left for the night. Most of them are still there.

Like a crotchety old lady in my exhaustion, I mutter something telling them where they can all stick their cameras, and sink beneath the sheets. I'll need to think of a way to deal with them tomorrow. But for tonight, I just sleep.

Midway through the night, the scarecrow visits me once more.

It begins with screaming. I'm dreaming that the reporters down below are screaming, that they're frightened. Some far off part of my mind realises it'll be all my work on fears. Maybe I'm hallucinating that they've all inhaled fear toxin.

And then, in what must be my dream, I open my eyes. Turn and peer through the curtains. See the pavement empty and deserted once more.

And almost instinctively, I snap back to glance in my doorway and see the scarecrow standing there. My heart leaps into my throat. In what is surely a nightmare — my secondary phobia — the fear is back and as intense as ever.

"You came back," I whisper.

His voice is low, gravelly, but not as distorted by fear toxin as when I last heard it. "I come every night, Sienna."

"Why?"

He takes a step into the room. But ignores my question. "The reporters won't be bothering you anymore."

Despite the rapid rise and fall of my chest, I smile softly. This isn't real. "Thank you."

"I'll always protect you, Sienna." His head tilts. "Always."

"Why?"

But once more, he doesn't answer. Just stands there, watching. Like he's waiting for something.

The dream changes, and I slip under once more. But even as my mind fills with strange shapes and images, I can still feel the scarecrow watching me. Can still hear him breathing through the mask. At one point, I even dream he runs his knuckles across my cheek, bowed over the bed beside me.

But once morning light hits, and the alarm forces my eyes open, he's gone.

I slap my alarm quiet and push myself up in the bed. It's equal parts sweet relief — the dawn after a night of terror. The safety in daylight, where nightmares and phantoms can no longer penetrate, no longer hold any power.

And equal parts disappointment. Loss. Missing someone who doesn't exist.

I groan softly into my pillow. Doctor Crane needs to hurry up and cure me of this secondary phobia. Either that, or his treatment's given me a kink for hessian fabric, which is way too weird to even begin to unpack.

I get out of bed and stretch. Pull the curtains open.

Only when I glance down, do I see all the reporters have gone. Not so much as a roll of film or cigarette butt left in their wake.

Pure coincidence, I tell myself firmly, as I stand beneath the hot water of the shower and massage the knots from my stiff shoulder muscles. Why would they hang around all night into the early freaking morning? They got what they wanted. More likely, anyway, that Rachel Dawes paid them for a set number of hours and that time ran out. Perhaps she only wanted to make a point.

Even so, in my half-asleep state, a cacophony of visions run through my mind. All of them involving the scarecrow gassing them down. Pinning them to the pavement. Ordering them to run. To scream...

I find myself needing to turn the water ice cold very quickly. Hose myself down like an overexcited puppy in the summer. My fingers curl around the shower hose, and I focus on the cool metal against my palm.

Focus on anything but the scarecrow, and all the bold thoughts of what I could ask him to do to me in my nightmares.