Fear Awakened [Jonathan Crane / Scarecrow]

001

Potential trigger warning applies to the entirety of the story for mentions of physical abuse, psychological trauma, and mental illness. Strong triggers will be notated by chapter.

Robbed of his vision by the pitch blackness of the room, Jonathan found himself no more comforted by the compensation his remaining senses were attempting.

The dirt floor of the basement was damp beneath his bare feet, the smell of mold and wet earth nothing short of repugnant. He felt almost ashamed that he was not more accustomed to the scenery by then, his sixty fifth visit to the cellar if his counting served him correctly.

"Fight or flight reflex. A physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack, or threat to survival. First described by Walter Bradford Cannon..." he whispered frantically but quietly to himself, repeating all the information he had absorbed on that particular subject as he rocked in place and willed his time to pass more quickly.

He had to be quiet, lest she hear him. At best, the vile old hag would leave him trapped down there even longer if she heard so much as a whisper from the direction of the basement.

Worst case scenario?

She'd force him into his grandfather's old tweed jacket and take him back there, to the one place more terrifying than the place he was forced to call home.

He physically shuddered at the thought, embarrassed by the hot tears that pricked at his eyes. Even the most vague thought of that place brought on vivid recollection of the beating of so many pairs of wings, the shrill cries of angry crows, their beaks sharp and shrieking.

No, that he did not want.

Things won't always be like this. Wait and see, Johnnyboy, that awful voice from deep inside spoke up. He swallowed bile in his throat at the sound of it; he was never ready to hear that scratchy, foreign sound when it decided to make an appearance.

Not that he had been given much opportunity to practice the art of tuning it out. At the age of seventeen, he'd only been hearing Him for a few months, and still found himself planted firmly in denial of the phenomenon.

The last thing he needed in addition to the trials of living with an unpredictable religious zealot was to voice the idea that he was hearing things no one else could.

It would have no doubt been attributed to demonic possession or some other fanatically theistic nonsense by the old woman. It would amount to just one more thing to attempt to beat out of him.

He screwed his eyes shut tightly and wrapped his arms more securely around himself, trying to focus on the chemicals which caused the brain to engage the fight or flight reflex, all along knowing neither response was an option for him.

"Epinephrine, norepinephrine, cortisol, adrenaline, testosterone..." his quick whispers barely a breath even to his own ears. Over and over again he chanted the words as though they were some sort of prayer, a mantra on his lips.

Any moment now, he thought, it must be over. He had to believe it, despite having no proof. After all, he wasn't even sure how long he'd been locked in the darkness, time distorting rapidly with no way to properly gauge it. But if he gave up the idea that it was almost over, he'd begin to believe it would never end.

Just wait and see, Johnny. Just wait and see.

He ignored the voice again, his breath going still as the door opened. White light spilled down the staircase, silhouetting the hunched, frail figure of the woman at the top of them.

"If you're ready to be a good boy, Jonathan, if you've prayed for forgiveness," her withered old voice croaked, "you can come out, now."

Slowly and methodically, he rose to his feet, dusting the dirt from his ripped khaki pants and dutifully trudging towards the stairs.

There were times when he felt he could no longer do as the voice told him, times when he felt that waiting to see was an unbearable life sentence.

That moment - ascending the staircase with his head bowed - was one of those times, precisely.

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