The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

1

Academia frequently drives one to madness.

A strange parallel, I think to myself, as my heels tap across the tiled floors of Arkham Asylum. The Styrofoam cup is warm in my hand, the coffee a bitter swoop across my tongue, and I chastise myself internally. After a decade studying psychology, with half of that completing my doctorate, I ought to know better than to throw terms like madness around, cavalier and apathetic.

But I've also come to learn that there are varying degrees of madness. Up until now, I've interned at the Youth Service in Gotham city, helping young people feel better in themselves and stay out of crime. And despite the many and varied diagnoses I made or helped make in that time, I never once looked at an adolescent and thought, you're mad.

Maybe that's because I'm mad, too.

A critical evaluation of my own psyche would lend me to make a diagnosis of the following — complex post-traumatic stress disorder, following the murder of my family while I hid in a broom closet at just nine years old. History of depressive and anxiety disorders. Typical co-morbidities in my case. Add to that a healthy dose of childhood bullying, and at this point, I'm just thankful there's no substance or alcohol use disorder thrown in the mix.

But then the corrupt powers that be found excuses to shut down the Youth Service, and I took a position here in Arkham as a Junior Psychologist while I finish my doctorate. And in just a couple of days, the concept of madness has been well and truly put into perspective.

I guess there's nothing like entangling with the criminally insane to broaden your horizons.

Most of the other staff are already in the break room when I enter. The steamy scent of warmed up pumpkin soup floats through the air, while the vending machine churns out snacks in quick procession. The rustle of a pack of peanuts, the clink of an energy drink can. I head over to the refrigerator and pull out my salad, lingering for a moment to glance at the pinned announcements on the notice board.

Upcoming training session on patient management.

Updates to visitor policy.

Equipment maintenance - this Friday.

"Should say Equipment maintenance, every Friday."

My head snaps round to glance beside me, where a dark-haired man in a suit is tipping a sugar pack into his coffee. He meets my gaze expectantly. I become momentarily distracted by his mesmerising eyes, the colour of glaciers and oceans, filtered through his glasses as he waits for me to respond.

"I wouldn't know," I say, returning to my senses and shaking my salad. "I'm new here."

"So you are." He extends a hand in greeting. "Doctor Jonathan Crane. I'm a leading psychiatrist here."

I awkwardly place the Tupperware on the counter before taking his hand in my own. His skin is soft, warm. "Sienna Moore. Not a doctor."

"Nurse?" He asks, tilting his head slightly.

"Junior Psychologist. I'm still finishing my PhD."

He smirks, just slightly, but I catch it and my eyes narrow in response. "What?"

"Nothing," he shrugs, rearranging his face.

"Let me guess. I'm a laughingstock to your profession, right? Because I cannot prescribe medicine, only therapy. You think what I do is useless."

"I think nothing of the sort." But he smirks again. "Though, I doubt you'll find therapy has much impact here, Miss Moore. We deal with the most dangerous criminals in Gotham. I'm afraid talking it out pales in comparison to the medication our patients need."