The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

28

I wake in the morning to an empty bed.

Unsure at first why I take note of the fact, my brain still waking up and kickstarting functioning for the day, my fingers run across the sheets. Almost like something's missing.

Then I remember.

My spine clicks as I snap bolt upright, clutching the comforter to my chest. The fluttering in my chest quickens — at this rate, I'm going to need a pacemaker before I'm thirty-five.

Did that really happen?

I quickly glance down, as though expecting to see a freaking calling card. Instead, I find myself wearing the same underwear I wore to bed last night — the lace still intact. Unripped. Undamaged.

My eyes narrow in suspicion. I run my hand across the fabric between my hipbones. Do I imagine that it looks just a little too not-faded by months in the laundromat, that the hems are just a little too crisp, almost like they're new?

I glance across to the nightstand, but the glass of orange juice is gone, not so much as a ring condensation to prove it was ever even there at all.

But there is something else.

A crow feather.

My stomach leaps, and it's unlike anything caused by the fear toxin, unlike any fear or thrill or anything I've felt before. It's a realisation. A sensation of thoughts and ideas slotting into place in my mind, a possibility I've been refusing to consider until now, when it glares me in the face.

What if the Scarecrow's real?

Impossible, I try to dismiss. The Scarecrow takes the form of Doctor Crane in a mask. Which means...

A soft laugh escapes my lips. I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head. I'm still recovering from the nightmare, that's all. If it can even be called a nightmare anymore. I certainly wasn't wanting it to end.

It had just been spectacularly vivid, I reason with myself. One of those that, when you wake up, you think you're still in it. In fact, I check the palms of my hands, studying every line. Count all my fingers. Check the time on my phone, then check it again.

Everything's consistent. I'm definitely not dreaming, not anymore.

Because Doctor Crane cannot be the Scarecrow. I try to imagine bringing it up with him — his eyebrows furrowing together, him blinking slowly as I stutter and stammer and try to unpack the fact I've been fantasising about him in a scarecrow mask. The way he'd clear his throat, raise his eyebrows, and take a moment to think through his words before responding.

"Heightened emotional responses are not uncommon, Sienna," he'd say kindly.

And the whole time I'd be so mortified, I'll be mentally preparing to pack a suitcase and book a train ticket and flee Gotham so I never have to come face-to-face with him again.

I try to evaluate it from a psychological perspective. What conclusions would I draw if I were to treat a patient who came to me with this?

I'd need to rule out schizophrenia, though that seems unlikely in my case. There's PTSD implications, along with hallucinogenic after-properties of the fear-toxin. What are the differentials?

I'm looking into it too deeply. Release a small, frustrated sigh. The simple answer is likely that I have created the Scarecrow in my mind to answer all the unknowns in my life. Crime bosses. Dead ex-boyfriends. Court cases that never go to trial. Grocery deliveries. The human mind hates not having answers, and will often cling to anything it deems a suitable solution to remove the stress of the unknown. It's why fake news spreads so quickly. It's why people turn to religion.

It's why I've invented the Scarecrow.

Even so, with my decision to push the matter from my mind, my underwear feels unnaturally crisp as I get out of bed and head to the shower.

***

"Who needs the bodega when we have all the ingredients at home?" Harleen calls out happily.

She's at the stovetop wearing a frilly apron over her work clothes, turning bacon and cracking eggs and checking on the ciabatta toasting in the oven.

Surrounded by plumes of black smoke and a blaring fire alarm.

I cough, waving the smoke away as I reach up to silence the alarm. "Harleen, are you doing eggs in the cast iron?"

She blinks. "Am I not supposed to?"

My eyes widen. "And you've got bacon on full heat in the non-stick?"

"Don't you worry about my process," she insists, taking me by the shoulders and marching me to the counter. The bacon, almost completely black, gives a small, futile squeak. "You just relax and enjoy the experience."

I decide an open window might help the experience not end in a lungful of carbon monoxide, and cover my mouth inconspicuously with my sweater. Harleen pulls the organic grass-fed butter from the fridge — seriously, how much money does my over-generous food donor have? — and rips apart the ciabatta trying to spread it.

"Okay," she announces, a wide grin across her face as she carries the plate across the kitchen and places it in front of me. "Eat up!"

I pause, knife and fork in hand, glancing down at the egg sandwich coated in charcoal and possibly Teflon. "You know, I really don't have much of an appetite in the morning..."

Her smile quivers, then begins to drop.

God dammit. Only for you would I do this. "But this looks so good, I'm gonna have to eat it anyway!"

She beams once more and grabs her own sandwich, sitting happily beside me to read the paper. I take a cautious bite — almost breaking my teeth on the bacon, while still-sloppy egg whites droop from the sides.

"Mm. Oh, that's really good," I tell her with my mouthful, fighting the tears that come to my eyes.

"Yay!" She takes her own, unbothered, bite. "I've been thinking, and I've been such a bad friend that the spirits had to intervene. From now on, I'm gonna cook for you every day, Sienna."

"Oh, you really don't have to—"

"I won't hear another word about it," she declares, through another mouthful of egg and bacon. "I'll pull out all my grandma's old recipes. Steak and kidney pudding, duck meat pancakes..."

"Maybe we should use up the spirits' food stores first," I quickly interject.

She nods. "Good idea. I'll do the steak tonight, and roast chicken tomorrow."

I try to hide the half-sandwich left on my plate as I cross the kitchen to clean up. "Actually, I'm out for dinner tomorrow. Doctor Crane..." I pause in my tracks. Staring at the refrigerator. "Harleen, have you had any orange juice?"

"Hmm? No. Why, you want some?"

I can't cross the room to the fridge door fast enough. I fling it open, heart hammering, certain I'm about to find proof the Scarecrow exists. Nobody else has touched the orange juice. But he poured me a glass last night.

I pull the bottle free. Check the liquid level. The lid.

It's still sealed.

"No," I murmur. "No, I just... wanted to check something."

I place it slowly back in the refrigerator. But despite the mountain of evidence suggesting I'm only hallucinating, I cannot shake the feeling in my stomach that I'm not.

"Hey, pour me a glass, would you?" Harleen calls out. "And I can see you haven't finished your sandwich, miss! At least three more bites, or you're grounded from your creepy baby research."

I roll my eyes and choke down the rest of breakfast. Her words ringing in my ears, reminding me that I have a session with Doctor Crane after work.

I'll have to look him in the eyes and remember how it felt to have him inside me.