The process of thawing

Avascular Necrosis. Bone tissue death from blood supply loss—a fate Isaiah might face if his wife didn't abandon her desperate need for comfort. He could only blame himself. Well, maybe his wife's unwarranted fear, for the resulting hand amputation he'd face if she kept clutching him.
"Fear is just an anatomical response..." he began, but Clara rolled her eyes, pulling him along. He also blamed her obsession with a social life and the delusion he needed one too.
Isaiah sighed as they joined the others. "How much longer?" he muttered, squirming when a bull-like man bellowed, "Come on! We've only been through two!". Clara intervened, claiming he wanted something scarier, but even her customary effort felt half-hearted. The group, used to his antics, moved on, absorbed in their chatter.
Isaiah felt fresh resentment for their annual tradition at this haunted house convention.
"Move," a voice grunted, shoving him through another doorway. The ordeal resumed—smoke-screens, jump-scares, screams. His hand amputation was became inevitable, though he couldn't deny that Clara's reliance on him quelled some of his shame for depending on her social aptitude.
Attention Deployment. A med school emotional regulation strategy to shift focus in moments of crisis—useful to avoid unpredictable hormonal infractions in favour of numbness, a skill he employed to manage crisis like navigating human interactions.
Three rooms later, he noticed his hand slacken, his wife absent. Her shriek cut through the crowd, her costume flashing at the far end of the room. Rushing over, he saw her between two women clinging to one another. With every scream, they jumped closer together, holding onto each other that much tighter. Supporting each other. While he was clearly left behind.
He retreated. Choosing to wait outside by the exit.
Abandonment. To condemn something (to an unspecified fate) by ceasing to take interest in them. Isaiah had long expected it, but still, when the group walked past him, it stung. Before he could settle into self-pity, he felt a punch on his left elbow.
"Booo" a voice wheezed into his right ear.
Isaiah intuitively decided to ignore the tactless moron, knowing that it couldn't be anyone of importance.
"Alone tough guy?" asked the voice, which was now distinctly female.
Silence follows.
"Too macho for the rest of us, huh?" a female voice taunted, close enough to disrupt his personal space. Silence stretched, but her stare didn't waver.
"Don't you know how to have fun?".
Isaiah let the silence prolong, hoping the presence would take the hint and leave. Instead, he felt a stare boring through him. 
The line moved five paces.
"I don't understand how you call this fun", a different voice uttered in barely a whisper. Which Isiah realized too late was his own.
"Fear is a purely anatomical response to threat, and yes it produces adrenaline and endorphins as byproducts but I do not see the appeal in wanting to put your psyche through chaos without reason." Words tumbled out. "Besides, these crowds and set designs don't even induce real fear."
Needing to stop his rant before he got mocked by another air-headed thrill seeker, he fell abruptly quiet. 
"A controlled fear also catalyses social bonds. This fluctuation of adrenaline along with the safety a large crowd represents, ultimately perpetuates mass euphoria.", Her unexpected insight intrigued him.
Limerence. An involuntary attachment, driven by neurochemicals like oxytocin, dopamine. The obsessive pull struck him immediately, a striking intellectual connection rarely found. She was petite, brown-skinned, with close-cut black hair, a no-frills look mirroring his own simplicity. She nodded toward his group. "It's okay to fit in. Just sometimes." 
He watched her return to her group, free-spirited, and couldn't help but follow, fascinated by her disregard for decorum, a freedom he envied. For the next ten minutes, he trailed behind her group, laughing at her antics. Rational thought fading, he trailed her outside.
Guilt. The fact of having committed an implied offense that threatens one's internalized standards of conduct. A feeling that arises when a Clara's grip abruptly yanked him away from his pursuit of the mystery woman. She dragged him back to their group, who were already at the next haunted house, an post-apocalyptic hospital. They turned into a gruesome room with a blood-soaked corpse spewing from every orifice.
A friend recoiled, asking, "You're a cardiac surgeon, right? Does stuff like this ever happen?"
"No..." Isaiah started condescendingly, but noting Clara's embarrassed glance, adjusted. "But if it did, I'd need better stain remover." His mediocre joke threw the group off for a moment before laughter spread. A weight lifted, The night resumed full of sarcastic comments and teasing jabs with occasional laughs that followed the expected regimen of jump-scares, smoke-screens, and screams.
Agency. The feeling of being in control over actions, guided by his own choices. Isaiah felt an unexpected agency over his actions, celebrating a personal milestone as they prepared to leave.
"I'm dropping all of you. Wait for my car," he declared, revelling in his newfound confidence as he walked to his vehicle, savouring the warmth growing inside him—maybe joy. One he hadn't expected.
 
Later, heading to his car alone, he mused on tonight's success. Maybe instincts weren't so bad. Then, a rustle nearby sent a surge of electricity through him, an unfamiliar awareness of the dark quiet around him. Just as he heard —
"Boo!"
Isaiah shrieked, flailing, and his arm hit something solid. He turned to see the mystery woman clutching her stomach in a wince, and smirking. "Gotcha!"
Euphoria. An intense unfiltered pleasure, rare for Isaiah, filled him with manic laughter, doubling him over in glee. Feeling liberated, alive in a way he had never experienced. As he regained composure, he looked up, knowing she'd disappear into the night. Desperate to hold onto this moment, he called out, "Who are you?"
She froze, then walked away without a word. As he scrambled after her, he stumbled upon a small stack of notes she'd left behind. Case file: Dr. Isaiah Williams.
Deceit. Isaiah felt an uneasy dread. He flipped through photos of himself, chronicled over months. Panic set in—she was a stalker. But one line stood out, chilling him:
 
Employed by Mrs. Clara Williams.
Rage built within him, a potent mix of betrayal and inadequacy. The need to lash out warred with the urge to compensate. But through the turmoil, a familiar pattern emerged: numbness. He retreated inward, wrestling with the profound uncertainty of his situation.
 
Juncture. His choices now would shape the rest of his life—or at least until the next once-in-a-blue-moon event was orchestrated.
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