The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

30

My voice shakes through the phone. "You still want margaritas? I'm thinking tequila."

I half walk, half run, as quickly as I can to the train station. Having decided staying on the phone to someone might be the best idea, I called Harleen — and a night of drinking tequila seems like the perfect excuse not to go home while it's dark.

Not to see the scarecrow.

Doctor Crane.

"Tequila's on!" I hear the bustling streets on Harleen's side of the phone. "I'll meet you at the bar on the corner."

"No," I say quickly. "Actually, I was thinking, could we go a little further uptown? There's some place near Wayne Tower that's meant to be amazing."

"The Iceberg Lounge? That the place where they serve amphetamines in the ice?"

"Yep, that's the one," I say, though I have no interest in drugged ice cubes. The train pulls into the station just as I reach the platform. I glance nervously around, but Jonathan's not here. "I'm getting on the train now."

"Is everything okay? You're usually out later than this making creepy fear babies."

I tell Harleen that everything's fine and then, surrounded by witnesses on the train, say goodbye.

I told her everything was fine.

I'm protecting him.

Because, in spite of everything that's happened, the thought of Harleen unleashing her black belt on Jonathan causes a sear of pain in my chest. A sadness associated with heartbreak.

I close my eyes tightly and lean my head against the window, just beginning to mist with gentle raindrops. A war wages in my mind.

He had a briefcase of your freaking things.

It's not like there were pictures of me sleeping or anything!

...He had your freaking underwear?!

That's nothing worse than what I wanted him to do last night.

You didn't know it was real last night.

Stop lying to yourself.

Myself.

Whatever. This is getting confusing.

This is more serious than a pair of soaked panties. He killed Matt.

We don't know that.

His name was on the list.

Matt's death was a suicide.

He was talking about the scarecrow on that train.

He deserved it.

I snap off my thoughts, horrified. If I'm going to start thinking like that, I'm turning into an absolute psychopath.

Am I?

"Stop it," I mutter through clenched teeth, ignoring the sideways glance a woman in a business suit shoots my way.

I don't know what I'm going to do. I just need to get through tonight without seeing the Scarecrow. That gives me all tomorrow to think it over and decide. With any luck, I can convince Harleen to stay doing tequila shots until the first light of early morning, when the Scarecrow's witching hour is over.

You're still lying to yourself. The reason you're avoiding the Scarecrow is because you know you'll still want him.

I bang my head softly against the glass, and decide I'll make an extra large donation to the Women's Centre from this week's pay check to try and make up for my lack of feminism.