He left home without breakfast for probably the third day in a row.

The cup of tea he had taken on an empty stomach left him with an acidic feeling, but it wasn't new for him. He lived in the Narrows, and he was used to the acidity around him.

He didn't feel any better than usual before starting his day at work. It only added to the discomfort of seeing others, interacting with them, and being in their company until work hours ended. By the time he reached the research center, his head was throbbing with pain, and he needed to eat something before it got worse.

"Mister Crane, you're here much earlier today."

He looked up at the familiar voice, discarding his long trench coat that he had placed in his locker. Isaac Owens, the department's head researcher, stood before him. He must have reached just a bit earlier than him, as he was also taking his stuff out of the locker.

"Am I? I thought I was running late..." Jonathan didn't bother to check the time as it didn't matter anymore.

He filled himself a glass of water, fetching an antacid from his bag, but Isaac's voice made him halt again, "Have you had breakfast?"

"Uh... No." He felt slightly self-conscious, thinking whether he should have lied instead, and replied with a yes. But his worries subsided when he saw that there was no trace of suspicion on the man's face.

"Good then. We were all thinking of going out for breakfast anyway. Would you join us?"

He took the pill with that water to give himself some time to think about the offer without feeling awkward. The antacid took fifteen to twenty minutes to work, and he would have to wait until then before consuming anything.

"That's very kind of you, thank you. Unfortunately, my stomach's been a bit unsettled lately, and I don't think breakfast is a good idea for me," he replied politely, excusing himself.

"If you want us to bring anything..." He offered but didn't complete the sentence, feeling that Jonathan would still decline.

"I'll just grab a sandwich later. Please, enjoy yourselves."

Isaac shrugged, knowing he had at least tried to include him. "Alright then. We will be back soon. If you want to rest, feel free to use the lounge. Here."

He gave him the keys to the staff lounge, which he took with an affirmative nod. "I appreciate it."

Jonathan turned to see the rest of the researchers file in, and they offered him polite smiles and greetings. Tim was right: they were good people, especially Isaac. But all that kindness sometimes overwhelmed him.

They looked excited and happy even at the prospect of having breakfast with the team outside. It made Jonathan wonder whether he intentionally pushed them away sometimes and how long it would last. If he kept isolating himself, they would eventually stop asking and inviting him.

Tim wouldn't want that, he thought. The boy always insisted that he wanted Jonathan to work with them and not feel that they were any different from him. They were just colleagues; he often reminded himself that they wouldn't hurt him or vice versa.

Before his thoughts took a darker turn, he occupied himself with the key in his hand, deciding to lay down for some rest until the others returned.

The lounge was a quaint and comfortable room designed for the team to take a break or rest during their work. All that experimentation was no hocus pocus, and it would often exhaust the researchers, so that lounge had recliners, a game table, and a bookshelf all squeezed inside.

Jonathan navigated his way to the recliner, lying down and propping a cushion underneath his head to help with the acid reflux. The medicine would take some time to work, and he decided to go to the cafeteria when he felt better.

***

The methodical ticking of a grandfather clock shattered the hollow silence engulfing him. He opened his eyes, trying to look around, but only darkness met his vision. Sweat slicked his skin despite the cold and damp atmosphere. When he tried to swallow, his throat felt like sandpaper.

Slowly, as his vision adjusted, he recognized the basement of that old house where he once lived with his grandmother. Realizing he was in the very basement where she had died sent a chill up his spine.

"Died? You ought to be humoring me," a cackle sounded from the shadows, making him crawl away from the voice. "Shouldn't you say the basement where she fell to her death-when you pushed her?"

That voice could belong to only one entity, and Jonathan was afraid to say that name out loud. He wanted to be free of him, but he never let go, holding onto him like a parasite leaching out his life.

"Miss me, Jonathan? Or is it more the other way round?"

"You don't exist... You're not real..."

Scarecrow took a menacing step out of the shadows, the straw of his costume rustling like skeletal fingers, each trying to reach out to Jonathan and confine him into an unbreakable cage. "You know who I am. You are afraid of saying it. Thus, it confirms that I am real. And I do exist, thanks to you."

His eyes darted around, looking for the stairs so that he could climb out of that wretched basement and never return. Years ago when he had left that house, he had promised never to step foot inside it again. He knew if he was there, it could only be in a nightmare, but he couldn't break out of its grasp.

He couldn't wake up.

"Patients suffering delusional episodes often focus their paranoia on an external tormentor. Usually, one conforming to Jungian archetypes. In this case, a scarecrow."

The scratchy voice threw his own words back at him, reminding him of a time he would rather erase from his memory.

"Isn't that right, Doctor Crane?"

He had to think of something else, he reminded himself, recalling a session with Doctor Fischer. Nightmares were a part of his subconscious, and he could control it. He just had to divert his focus.

But it was easier said than done. With the Scarecrow in control, he couldn't think of anything else.

Nothing could bring him back to normal.

"You think you can be normal now? That therapy can erase me? You're fooling yourself. First, it was Timothy, now this Fischer woman... You surround yourself with fools and this is what you get as a result!"

The stench of mildew and decay filled his nostrils-the smell of a grave. Something had grabbed his ankle, making him crash onto the floor. Much to his horror, he saw a bony hand locked onto his leg, his grandmother's thick silver ring stuck to the decomposed flesh around her bones.

"No... No! Let go of me!" He shouted, kicking away that bony shackle to free himself. His voice was hoarse with terror as he felt his way around in the darkness, "This is just a dream. It can't be real!"

"Dreams? Reality? In this realm of our own making, the lines blur. Don't you see? I will always be a part of you, as much as you are of me."

He had to seize control and he had to do it fast. It was his subconscious, he could bring things to a halt if he tried hard enough.

"You can't get rid of me. I will always take control, I am only waiting..."

"I won't let you control me! You have no power over me now... I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want to listen to you, and I certainly don't want this miserable life that I was leading before due to you! Understand!"

Scarerow's ominous cackle drowned his words but Jonathan raised his voice higher, trying to stop that horrible sound.

"Just leave me the fuck alone!"

He found the stairs at last and rushed up the steps but couldn't reach the door as Scarecrow materialized right in front of him. The tattered burlap mask, stitched with a nightmarish grin, seemed to pulsate with an inner light. Its empty sockets bore into Jonathan, a chilling reminder of the monster that lurked within him.

Scarecrow lunged forward, and he scrambled back, losing his footing on the steps. But just as he was about to hurtle down the flight of stairs, the grandfather clock chimed, shattering the nightmare.

"Tick-tock, Jonathan. Time is running out."

The voice faded, and he gasped, feeling he would hit the ground after that fall. Instead, he sat bolt upright in the recliner where he had fallen asleep. He was in the staff lounge at Wayne Laboratories and Research Center, not in that grimy old basement.

He had woken up.

He let out a sigh of relief, taking in deep breaths to calm himself down.

It was just a nightmare, he repeated to himself silently over and over again to drown the chilling voice that raged in his head.

Just a bloody nightmare.

***