The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

14

I take my seat in the large auditorium for the gymnastics tournament. Though two seats beside me are empty, the air is thick with body heat and perfume, while Gotham's pageant moms and generous sponsors chat to each other, alongside families and photographers and journalists. I note the policemen stationed at every entrance and exit with a frown. Of course they make the effort, once the rich people are here. They never bother for the rest of us.

The woman closest to me releases a short gasp and turns to her husband. "That's Bruce Wayne. Martha said he'd returned to Gotham..."

In spite of myself, I can't help but turn and glance at the billionaire playboy as he smiles, more arrogantly than gracefully, and weaves his way through the seats with a supermodel on each arm.

I roll my eyes and fix my attention back on the stage, waiting for the competition to begin. Harleen can buy the first round of margaritas to repay me for this, I think grumpily.

"Hello, Sienna."

Doctor Crane's voice startles me. I try to recollect myself, and luckily he's glancing downward as he unbuttons his blazer and takes the seat beside me, unaware of the flash of fear through my eyes while I dismiss my nightmare of him in burlap. It's ridiculous. Just a dream. Momentarily, I concentrate instead on the deep black colour of his hair, the softness of his skin. No scarecrow hood, here.

Unfortunately for me, he decides to glance up unexpectedly while I'm staring. I clear my throat and quickly look away.

"Doctor Crane," I say. "What are you doing here?"

"Harleen invited a few members of staff. Many of them were too busy to come, so I thought I'd show my support."

His answer surprises me, though I don't know why it should. "That's very kind."

We sit in silence for a moment. It's strange to be here with him, in a situation that's neither academic nor clinical. I realise we've never established a relationship outside of those boundaries.

"Do you do anything like this?" He asks, gesturing to the stage.

"You mean like hobbies?"

Doctor Crane glances at me. "Yes. I suppose. Hobbies."

I shake my head. "I used to dance ballet when I was young, but I haven't had time for anything like that since undergrad. I guess my work is my hobby now."

"Surely you can't work all the time," he points out. "Is there nothing you do in the small moments between? Ways to relax?"

I think for a moment. "I like to watch movies. Read. I used to enjoy walking, but since moving to the city, it doesn't feel very safe. How about you?"

Something flits through Jonathan's gaze. "Much like you, my recreational activity of choice is my work. But I also enjoy movies. Horror films, in particular. I also have a greenhouse, where I tend a number of plants with psychoactive properties."

"Here in the city?" I ask, puzzled.

He smiles softly. "I maintain a residence on the outskirts of Gotham."

Before I can ask further, my phone pings with a message from Harleen. Meet me in the bathroom. Emergency.

"Everything alright?" Jonathan asks smoothly.

"It's Harleen. I better go make sure she's okay." I stand to my feet. "Excuse me."

The police officers stationed at the auditorium door appraise me silently for a moment, then let me pass. I walk through the empty hallway, heading towards the bathroom. A round of applause sounds through the walls, vibrates beneath my feet, the sound of the competition starting.

My palms press against the cool steel door to the women's bathroom, and I push it open. Scan the plain linoleum, the plastic cubicle walls, the porcelain sinks.

Empty.

"Harleen?" I ask.

My fingers reach into my pocket to text her, then a sharp shove knocks me into the wall.

A hand knots into my hair at the base of my neck and rips my head back, while a palm covers my mouth to keep me from screaming. I freeze, wide-eyed, as the hand leaves my mouth and presses the cool metal tip of a gun into my abdomen.

The man has chestnut hair, thick heavy eyebrows, and when he grins, most of his teeth are missing.

"You the bitch giving testimony for Karlo in the morning?"

At first I'm terrified Harleen will walk into this and be in danger. Then I realise -- this is a trap. She never texted me at all.

"Answer me!"

"Yes," I manage to breathe. "I'm delivering the recommendation to the court."

He presses the gun harder into my abdomen. "My boss needs him at Arkham. And you're going to recommend he stays there. Aren't you?"

"Mr Karlo isn't insane," I say as my voice threatens to tremble.

"And you still have all your limbs," he says threateningly. "Isn't it remarkable, how quickly things can change?" He spits on my face, and my eyes scrunch up in disgust. "Tell the Judge to keep Karlo where he is. Or I'll come back for you, and your bendy little friend."

I wait with held breath, refusing to look at him. Refusing to speak. To give him any further incentive.

He shoves me to the ground and his footsteps thunder through my skull as he leaves the room, stopping suddenly on the other side of the door rather than trailing away. I hear a muffled voice, and then applause from the auditorium once more.

My knees shake as I stand. I'm aware of the scrape of paper towels against plastic as I pull them free from the dispenser. The tap water sloshing in the sink as I wash my face and hands.

The cold patch of my stomach where a gun had been pressed just moments before.

But I don't cry. I don't descend into hysterics. Instead, jolts of anger begin in my navel and spread all through my body like shocks of electricity.

I don't care who he is, or who his boss is. I'm not going to be bullied into being a pawn. I'm not going to lie and forsake my career.

Then I remember his threats to dismember me, and my resolve weakens.

I leave the bathroom and walk into the auditorium, no longer buzzing with applause, but quiet and enthralled by the musical number and male acrobat flipping across the stage.

As I try to find my seat, I search for the dark hair of Doctor Crane to guide me, ready to make up some excuse for my absence. For my skin, white as a sheet. But I cannot see him.

I do see the pageant mom, and after checking my ticket and the seat numbers, find my way back once more, quickly and stooping and trying to be discreet so as not to spoil the show.

But Doctor Crane's gone.

I suppose it's a blessing, I decide, once enough time's passed that my concern has dissipated. I won't have to worry about him noticing my distress and asking any questions about the bathroom incident.

But I'm also disappointed. It might have been nice to ask him for advice on what's more important — my integrity, or my remaining limbs.