The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

69

I'd been expecting it. But still, I stifle a sob as I enter the hallway of our old apartment building in the city.

I don't know what exactly the time masters changed and what they kept the same. But I figured it would be less suspicious to come here first if my memory's meant to be wobbly than to head to our old house near Jonathan. The one we'd just finished renovating. With Harleen's room decorated in red and black diamonds and hearts, and old circus posters on the walls, where everything felt as though you'd stepped into a pack of playing cards meets Alice in Wonderland.

And the purple room, which she refused to acknowledge was decorated with the Joker in mind, all purple and glittering jewellery strung from the walls and a huge blueprint canvas with digital sketching capabilities for planning his heists.

And the nursery. The vintage rocking chair Harleen had dragged all the way uptown from a flea market. Stripped back, bleached, and reupholstered for, in her words, resting while she reads goodnight stories to her favourite creepy fear baby. All pretences of us raising him in a clinical environment, of close research and observation and science, had gone out the window at that point.

We all loved him too much.

It feels like remembering details from a past life. Recalling a dream from years ago, everything hazy and muffled.

And now none of it's there anymore.

I'm guessing if I went to that house now, I'd find the previous owner. A raised eyebrow. A threat of calling the cops if I didn't leave. That place, which we'd made our own. That place, where Harleen had gone crazy with a sledgehammer to knock down walls after a bad fight with the Joker. Where Jonathan had installed a state-of-the-art security system worthy of any government building, his face alight with excitement, shooing me from the room each time I pressed him on figuring out how, exactly, it worked. I'm keeping our baby safe, he'd murmured. I'm keeping you safe. It didn't matter that he was five minutes away. It didn't matter that I spent more time at his house and this was basically Harleen's place, anyway.

Jonathan is nothing if not thorough.

I wipe a tear from my eyes and the door closes behind me. He might still remember, I tell myself fiercely. It'll come back to him. It has to.

"...Sienna?"

The sob I've been suppressing chokes in my throat at the sound of Harleen's voice. I tear through the apartment, finding her resting on the couch, toe separators decorating her bare feet, and fresh pedicure polish still wet. She's reading a magazine. Sipping on a soda through a straw.

At the state of me, she drops the magazine and grazes all colour from her toenails as she jumps up to wrap me in a hug. She's warm. She's real. She knows who I am. I pull away, hands clutching at her face, trying to compare her with everything in my memories.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her eyes suddenly darkening. "Is it that rude janitor from Ward Q again? Oh boy, I am not afraid to beat him with the handle of his own mop!"

I sob even harder because I know exactly which janitor she's talking about. Everything's the same.

Everything except Jonathan.

"Harleen." I finally stammer out her name, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. Fighting to control my voice. "How long have we known each other?"

She frowns. "Like, a year now? How long have you been at Arkham?"

I glance around the apartment. "Why did I move in here?"

"You're having regrets?" Her nose wrinkles. "I know sometimes I burn the egg sandwiches. We can start ordering from the bodega if you want—"