The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

2

"I'm so sorry," Harleen stammers, smiling apologetically as she takes a seat beside me. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," I try to reassure her. "We were just making small talk."

"You don't find Doctor Crane kind of... intimidating?" She asks.

I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. "Should I?"

"No, no..." She trails off and unwraps a sandwich. "I mean, he's working in forensic psychiatry now. Deals with the worst criminals, but... somehow they all end up afraid of him."

"Really?" I think for a moment, back to the way Doctor Crane spoke about the concept of fear with such passion, with such... reverence. "I guess his methods must be effective."

"You're working on your dissertation?" Harleen asks conversationally.

"I haven't even begun." I pull a face. "I've been procrastinating it too long, and my supervisor from my master's degree has retired... I've been in a bit of a rut. What was your experience like?"

Harleen shrugs. "Easy. As easy as it can be, I suppose. I was already interning here, so I did my research on personality disorders and used existing client files as the base of the study."

"Maybe I should do something similar," I murmur, leaning back in my seat. "Make it simple and easier for myself."

But Harleen shakes her head, finishing her mouthful of bread and salami. "You have to be into it. It has to excite you, or it'll be an uphill slog and you'll never finish. I loved everything about my research, and the process still had me crying in the bathtub every night by the end."

"I'm glad I have that to look forward to."

She smiles. "You'll be fine. Especially if Doctor Crane helps. Scary though he might be, he's super good at what he does."

I stifle a laugh. "Doctor Crane seems like the least scary person in this asylum. And speaking of, is Basil Karlo the actor?"

"One and the same," Harleen answers happily, unperturbed as she licks her fingertips clean. "Baz Karlo. They tried to remake Dead Castle, you ever see that one?"

"Yeah, I saw it with my boyfriend Matt when we first got together."

"Well they recast Baz. Tried to have him in an advisory role instead, but he lost his shit. Donned some villain costume and killed all the cast. He's being held here for evaluation before his trial. That means you and I will be evaluating and, if you're up for it, providing expert testimony in the case."

I engage in my own expertise to fight the overwhelming waves of terror threatening to overcome me. Identify and observe your thoughts without judgement. I am overwhelmed. I am aware of the parallels — the man who murdered my family also donned a costume. Also killed. This is triggering my PTSD. Breathe in for four, hold for three, out for five. I am safe. I am present. Basil Karlo is not the man who killed my parents — he's too young. Though he was never caught, I saw the murderer, through his burlap and straw. He must have been at least fifty years old back then. He's probably dead by now. I am safe.

When I first began employing these techniques, it would take me two hours to calm down. Now, after so many years, it's over in less than thirty seconds.

"You don't have to decide right now," Harleen says, mistaking my pause. "I know a courtroom can be overwhelming."

I manage a smile. "Let's get through this evaluation first, shall we?"

***

Three hours later, Harleen and I walk back through the Arkham halls together to the sign-out desk.

"Any initial thoughts?" Harleen asks.

"Hard to say. We'll need another two, maybe three sessions to ensure we've covered everything for a forensic trial. But at this stage, I'm almost certain of narcissistic personality disorder. I wouldn't rule out depersonalisation at this stage, particularly given the nature of the rampage. You?"

"A mirror of my own suspicions," Harleen says, logging her exit time and handing her identification badge lanyard to security personnel. "I want to explore substance use. All those celebrity parties, we can't rule out the influence of drugs until we know for certain."

I hand in my own lanyard. "Agreed."

"I'll give you my number," Harleen says as we walk through the entrance hall. "You can call me anytime to discuss the case."

"Sure," I say, and we exchange phones to enter numbers.

"You need a lift?" She asks.

I shake my head. "I prepaid for the train. Might as well take it."

"See you tomorrow!"

***

It's dark by the time I get home. I perform the usual safety precautions before entering — check from a distance to make sure there's no suspicious individuals or activities. Inspect the doors and windows the ensure they're locked and secure — nobody's broken in. Keys ready in my hand, so no fumbling at the door. Quick entry. Double check the door is locked behind me, disarm the security system, look out the window at the flashing red light of the electric gate. Matt's parents bought him this house in one of the nicer gated communities of Gotham — but sometimes that's even more incentive for robbers to break in.

And as always, Matt himself sighs and rolls his eyes as he comes to greet me. "You're paranoid," he says, putting an arm around me in a half attempt at a hug. "It's like you think there's a stalker always watching through the windows. I've told you — this is the safest place in the city. Nobody can get to us here."

I sigh. "Thanks, Matt. How was work?"

Matt grins. "We took Wayne Enterprises public."

"No way!" I smile, genuinely pleased for him. "It went well?"

"So well. A few of us from the office are going out for drinks to celebrate." He swings a blazer onto his shoulders.

I wait for the invitation to join him. Like always, it doesn't come. We just do our own thing, I remind myself. We focus on our own lives, but we always support each other.

"I'll be out late," he says. "Don't wait up."

A brief kiss on the cheek. A jingle of keys in the lock. The motor of his car starting up outside.

My phone beeps and Harleen's sent me a meme — an angry looking dog captioned 'hello Pavlov, you remember me?'. I snort and pour myself a glass of wine and settle in at the type-writer, staring at a blank piece of paper that should be covered in the smeared-ink draft of my dissertation. When I can bear it no longer, I slip into bed, where I spend the night half-awake, my mind surely playing tricks on me after Matt's words. The security alarm hasn't gone off. There's been no beep of the security system announcing someone's unlocked the gate.

So, there can't be any other reason why I imagine a set of eyes watching through the gap in the curtains.