The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

3

It takes me three whole days, and the exasperated encouragement of Doctor Quinzel, before I can pluck up the courage to visit Doctor Crane.

"What are you waiting for?" She asks in a hushed whisper over lunch, as Doctor Crane pours his coffee, nods at me from across the room, and heads straight back out. "Did I get in your head with all the intimidating stuff?"

"A little," I admit.

"He's practically offered to supervise your thesis," Harleen says.

"No, he was being polite and said I could stop by to talk," I point out.

"Sienna, your research is like the long-lost lover to his own," Harleen replies. "Combined, it could change the world."

I have to admit she's right. I've spent the past few days reading almost every paper Doctor Crane's written, checked out from Gotham University and read by lamplight each evening while Matt's out partying or networking or whatever it is he does. And I've found myself fascinated, enthralled. His work on phobias and trauma is the missing piece I've needed for my own research — the fear toxin is backed by enough evidence I can assume it to be the treatment of choice for my own ethical investigations.

Maybe that's why I find myself so nervous. I know I'll be disappointed if Jonathan Crane isn't interested in my dissertation after all.

"You're gonna do it this evening," Harleen says. "And if it goes terribly, I'll be your supervisor. But I don't know shit about this toxin thingy."

I roll my eyes. "Fear toxin."

"See? You guys are just as creepy as each other."

***

I pace the hallway outside Doctor Crane's office, wringing my hands together, plucking up the courage. Before I can back out, I force myself to knock on the gleaming walnut paneled door while my stomach performs backflips.

Doctor Crane opens the door. The first thing I notice is how good he smells. The second, his eyes, appraising me through his glasses.

"Miss Moore," he greets me. "I've been hoping you'd stop by."

My mouth dries. "You can call me Sienna," I say. "I'm... I mean, I'm not a doctor or anything. Not yet."

He smiles. "All in good time, yes?"

I nod and he beckons me into his office. It's minimalist and clinical, with clean lines and few ornaments. Dimly lit with dark woods and fabrics, a functional desk, bookshelves lining the walls and stacked to the ceilings, partially obscured by a blackboard. My eyes rake across his framed certificates and credentials, landing on a posture of the anatomical structure of the brain.

"I must say, I find your research subject most intriguing," he says. "I've been able to think of little else since our discussion. I've always felt there was something missing from my experiments... ethics," he says, rolling the word from his tongue. "Super humans. Genetic inheritance. Fascinating."

"Thank you, Doctor Crane. I've read your papers, and find them enthralling. To say the least." I frown. "But there's one thing I don't understand. Why the need for fear toxin at all? Could not the argument be made that exposure therapy is treatment enough, far more cost effective, and without the introduction of an unregulated pharmaceutical?"

"In fact, the argument was made," Doctor Crane agrees. He rests his hands beneath his chin. "And as I told the board, exposure therapy has its limits and weaknesses. Take for example, patient D, with thanatophobia — the fear of death. This particular patient feared his wife dying. He could barely function when I met him. How can we expose him to the death of his wife, without actually killing her?"