The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

22

As awareness seeps back into my senses, I become acutely aware of cold leather beneath my back. A throbbing pain in my head, ripping through my skull in time with each unstable beat of my heart in my chest. My eyes hurt so bad, at first I think there must be a blinding light directly above me, shining down.

Only when I blink them open, do I see there's no light beyond the dim lamps of Doctor Crane's office. The sky outside is pitch black. I'm covered in goosebumps beneath my crisp shirt — air here in the asylum gets cold at night. Unnerving. I'm not a superstitious person, but I swear when it gets dark in Arkham, and things rattle and shake and crash, I can understand why people believe in ghost stories.

My face pulls into a wince as I push myself upright. The pain's still there, still searing.

Memories come flooding back.

"Careful," Doctor Crane says. "Don't get up too quickly."

My aching eyes snap to where he's sitting a distance away, behind his desk once more. Appropriate. Clinical.

He asks me, "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," I admit.

He smiles politely. "That is to be expected. But I'm asking how you're feeling about our research?"

The word flashes through my mind. Scarecrow.

For the first time in almost twenty years, the word brings me no fear.

I don't think of hiding in a broom closet, or the deaths of my family. I think of Doctor Crane in a burlap hood. His hands at my waist. His body pressed against mine.

Heat floods my cheeks and I have to look away. How the heck am I supposed to tell him that my catharsis seems to be a hallucination of him in a freaking scarecrow hood? That's before getting into any of the tingling, pleasant feelings rushing through me at the thought.

I'm even nuttier than before. His treatment must have failed.

As though he can read my thoughts — which I sincerely hope he cannot — Doctor Crane says, "Remember our work is not yet complete. There is still your secondary fear to master, and that is always more difficult. Especially in your case."

I blink. "Why?"

"Nightmares," he says. "We cannot use exposure therapy and fear toxin in quite the same way. That would mean being asleep, for a start, and your conscious mind would be at rest. It would be less effective, and entirely unethical."

I frown. "But—"

In a rare moment of impatience, Doctor Crane says, "If you even think about taking fear toxin without my express permission again, I will punish you severely. Do you understand?"

My voice is small. "I'm sorry."

"You could have been badly hurt, Sienna." His voice threatens to break, his eyes dark and lowered. "I could have lost you."

"You have an antidote," I say quietly.

"But I cannot always control the scarecrow."

My brows pull together. "Of course you can't. He exists in my head."

Doctor Crane smiles as though he knows something I don't, nodding as he stands to his feet. I quickly become suspicious. My eyes slide across to his briefcase, still unclasped on his desk.

"Mind if I take a proper look in there?" I ask him.

He raises an eyebrow. "If you dose yourself again, there won't be an antidote in the world that can save you."