The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

17

Doctor Crane's fingertips are gentle against the soft flesh of my wrist as he takes my pulse. "I'm told you did well at the trial yesterday."

"Thank you," I say quietly.

I'm sat in the clinical chair in his office once more. My hair tumbles across one shoulder, tickling my bare arm where I've pulled up my sleeve. I wonder if Doctor Crane believes me to naturally have an elevated heart rate — it always seems to spike during his observations.

"You read my preliminary research," he says. It's not a question.

"Yes."

"I'm curious to know what you think."

I decide to omit the fact it gave me nightmares. He must already think I'm hovering on the brink of weakness — no need to hammer the point home.

"It was enthralling," I answer honestly. "And illuminating. But... it didn't tell me much about you."

His lips tug into a smile as he lifts his head, looking at me for a moment before pulling his hands away and making note of my pulse. "That's because it was research, Sienna. It's not personal."

"This feels personal," I point out.

"I do not record identifying details of our sessions. That includes the specific nature and history of your phobia beyond the general."

"Doctor Crane..." I hesitate. "Is it ordinary for these fears to get worse? Or perhaps, to manifest in new and more intense ways, during the process of healing?"

He removes his glasses slowly. "In some cases, yes. Why do you ask?"

"I've been having strange dreams," I say slowly. "Seeing... Symbols. Sometimes I worry I'm going mad."

"Good." Doctor Crane's eyes shine. "That is part of the process. The catharsis can feel like insanity. I would argue it is impossible to be cured without it. Fear is a form of madness, is it not? And to heal from fear, we must embrace it. We must become it."

"So in order to heal... I need to go insane? That's my only option?"

He considers me for a moment. "Do you recall our conversation about the alter ego?"

I nod. "You mentioned a patient could compartmentalise his illness into a separate identity. That way, he can still function without it."

"Tell me, Sienna. If he does this... is the alter ego still truly him?"

"Are we talking about dissociative identity disorder, Doctor Crane?"

He shakes his head, dark curls moving. "No. The alter ego is not a splitting, or separation, of self. It is an extension. It grows, breathes. Desires. Much like a beloved hero putting on his mask, it allows us to transform. We can purge ourselves of every action and impulse, the ones our conscious ego chooses to block. We have an outlet for insanity, for madness. We become our full potential. And still retain our humanity."

I absorb his words. If anybody else spoke like this, I'd have cause for consideration. But with Doctor Crane, I'm enthralled. His mind is so brilliant — he is so brilliant. I find myself wanting only to please him. To understand.

After all, we're going to be creating super humans together. That's the whole point of this. To help the human race, so they never need to feel fear and terror like we have.

I need to trust him.

I think for a moment, then ask, "Do you have an alter ego, Doctor Crane?"

He smiles, almost sadly. His fingers twitch, and he glances at his briefcase before putting his glasses back on. "Once again, Sienna, I must remind myself as much as you that we are here to focus on your research."

"Of course."

"We aimed for a single word in our last session, and you managed four. Shall we aim for four more this time?"

I nod. He smiles, makes a note, and looks at me. Legs crossed. Hands clasped. Waiting.

But my brain refuses to go any further. Like a jammed video tape, it sticks in one spot, refusing to move forward. I exhale my frustration and try harder — metaphorically smacking the television set, blowing into the VHS, hitting rewind.

Hitting rewind.

"We had a farmhouse," I say quietly. "Cornfields. Right outside our front door. We weren't farmers. Nothing grew. But the scarecrow was still there." My throat tightens. "He used to scare me. In the dead of night, he'd look so real... I had to watch him. Make sure he didn't move. Then one night he did. He moved. I ran through to tell my brother Warren. He didn't believe me. Not at first. But I was hysterical. I woke my parents. Made them go downstairs to investigate... That's when the screaming began. Warren took my hand. Warren... he... my hand..."

But my brain jams once again.

"I'd like to try again with the fear toxin," I say.

Doctor Crane stands up from behind his desk. His face is a blank slate, and then he kneels on the ground beside me. Wraps his fingers around my palm as he takes my hand in his own.

"I'm so proud of you, Sienna," he murmurs. "You continue to amaze me. But, like Icarus, I would never forgive myself if we were to soar too close to the sun and burn."

"It would help, Doctor Crane," I plead. "I know it would."

His eyes glance to my lips then back again. "I see you've experienced how addictive the fear toxin can be. The ecstatic potential it contains."

I nod fervently. For a moment, I think he's going to give in. My heart races in anticipation. My stomach clenches. I can feel it — I'm ready to master my fear. This time, I won't stay hidden in the broom cupboard.

But then Doctor Crane pulls away. He stands to his feet.

"We're so close," he tells me. "We must be patient. It is a rare and beautiful thing, to have responded as well as you have." He takes the seat behind his desk once more, hands clenched, as though physically holding himself there. "Would I be right in thinking you have already experienced enough of the draw, the desire, of the compound, to begin drafting your introductory essay on the ethics of our research? On the aspect of free will among subjects?"

I try to hide my disappointment. "Yes, doctor."

"Good." He clears his throat. Avoids eye contact. Takes a pen and begins to write. "Our time is up for today."

I wait a moment longer, confused by his sudden change in demeanour. "Goodnight, Doctor Crane," I finally say quietly.

I pick up my bag, sling my coat over my arm, and get ready to leave.

"I've been meaning to ask," he speaks again before I can go. "How have you found your sessions with the Joker?"

I try to keep my expression neutral. Is there any chance he knows I went to the Joker for advice?

"Nothing I can't handle, Doctor."

"What do you make of him?"

"He's a patient," I say slowly. "He needs care. I want what's best for him."

Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "You believe he can be successfully treated?"

"I believe he deserves the same chance as anyone else."

Doctor Crane nods. "Goodnight, Sienna."

Only after I leave, do I wonder if I misinterpreted Doctor Crane's questions.