The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

41

"I hope you're not disappointed," Jonathan remarks, as we take our seats in the centre orchestra of the theater. "I expect you've seen Swan Lake plenty already."

"I could never tire of it," I answer honestly. "It's a classic for a reason."

"It was difficult to find tickets. But I wanted to bring you to this performance specifically."

"Why?"

His eyes shine behind his glasses. "Duality. Transformation. Light and dark."

"The alter-ego?"

He tilts his head. "Would you consider Odile the counterpart to Odette?"

"You know your Swan Lake," I remark.

He turns to me and smiles, but does not reveal how he has come to know so much. Saying instead, "You look phenomenal."

"I can hardly take the credit. You picked out the dress."

It's black and structured, with long sleeves and a low neckline, and a slit up one thigh. I have my hair straight down my back, and even tried using some of the nicer makeup at the dresser in the closet — after a crash course in colour correcting the purple bites across not only my own neck and chest, but Jonathan's jaw, too.

"Thank you," I tell him once more. "You've been very kind with your gifts... and way too generous."

He says simply, "I plan to give you everything, Sienna."

Before I can respond, the lights dim, and the first notes of Tchaikovsky's enchanting score fill the air. I lean forward in my seat, transfixed, as the curtains rise to reveal the dancers.

The ballet unfolds before us and I don't believe I move a muscle beyond twitching and breathing — that is, until the pas de deux, when my hand unconsciously finds Jonathan's. I'm filled with the emotions of the ballet — the pain of Odette's captivity, the allure of Odile's deception — and pure admiration for the dancers. I remember all too well how it felt to unpeel my pointe shoes after a performance, wincing at all the blood and blisters and bruising, the hours of ice and massage and stretching before doing it all over again.

Just as Odette and Siegfried find solace and unity in death, Jonathan brings our joined hands to his lips, kissing my knuckles softly. I'm jolted back to reality, rather than existing in the world of the story, and my stomach swoops as I glance at Jonathan and meet his gaze.

I realise in this moment how hard I am falling for him. How this was never meant to be so personal — a science baby. A weird kink to get over my fear of scarecrows. That's it.

Instead, I find myself wondering if I, too, would die for him.

And the answer is a disturbing, resounding, yes.

The curtain falls and the audience erupts in applause. The swooping in my stomach has fallen like a barrel of lead. Much like the swans, and much like my own duality, an argument breaks out in my mind — just as it had on the train, after I opened Jonathan's briefcase.

He killed Matt.

He deserved it.

If you believe that, you are beyond redemption.

Morality is an abstract that doesn't exist.

How many people do you see rooting for the Black Swan? There's a reason for that.

It's a freaking ballet.

And this is your life.

He tortured people to insanity.