Made of Fear
Are you ready? Good, let us begin. We are talking about you right now, not me, you. You are born to fear, that is what you are made of. Oh, you didn’t know that? You think of your life as perfect, but it is as fragile as a snow globe. Yes, your life is like a snow globe. A small, perfect, compact house, as you see it. The snow that is swirling and billowing around, your small, perfect, compact house, is fear. Your mother taught you the art of fear when you were born. She taught you to be scared of spiders, and humans. Scared of your kind. She saw this coming. Now that you are grown, you have no children, and no wife. No family.
Fine by you. You walk cautiously out of your house each day, like a child being naughty, and make sure nobody is around or watching. You look left and right, two times, just like crossing the road. Wait, but you are crossing a road. You are crossing a road of thoughts, teachings, spiders, fears, and especially humans. Every day, in your head. A road you must cross, but only it’s in your head! You can’t get hit! The cars are thought, feelings, and fears. You wrinkle your nose at that thought. Humans are gross, you think. They are terrible creatures, that roam this planet waiting to strike! Wait, but you are a human, well you don’t think yourself as one. Please don’t look at me like that! Don’t get mad, because it is the truth. You were born a human, and are a man. Your mother made you a fragile angel. Any second you could just shatter, and everything you used to know would be gone. Just like that. But that is what living, and being made of fear is like.
Fear is fragile, but you toss it around like a ball. You wanted a job that doesn’t have to be around anything, or anyone that you fear. So, you are a mailman. You deliver the packages that humans send to one another. No humans, no spiders. Well except for the occasional daddy-long-legs. You sometimes consider yourself as a bat. Blind to humans, but can see them, and sense them like moths. You are nocturnal, so you only come out at night, when the streets are empty. Your mother taught you all the terrible things humans do, as she cocooned you in a blanket of thick fear.
I remember the day when you first got next to a human, your sides brushing with theirs. The teaching came to you, and you strike. Quick like a serpent, you darted under their legs, screaming as you felt their cold skin. You rolled into a small ball to avoid the feet, and scurried away into the shadows like a scared dog, with your tail beneath your legs. You cannot forget the face of confusion, on the female.
Her forehead was creased with concern, and her cyan eyes blinked twice. Her thin vermilion lips squeezed tight together. She approached you slowly, and you let out a yelp, and avoid her gaze. You close your virescent eyes. Remember? Oh, of course, you do, it blanketed you with another blanket of fear. You should learn to take that fear off, you might get too hot. You sit in on your dilapidated sofa, and snuggle under your downy blanket. You are reading a book. The Sword in The Stone. One of your favorites. Sir Ector and Sir Grummore are your favorite characters and are sharing a drink at the pub.
The only place you love, and will ever love humans, is in books. Your compact cottage is full of shelves, and shelves of books. You have read them hundreds of times, too scared to venture to the bookstore, and smell the grimy books. You love books, and rarely watch the television where your eyes can see the humans themselves, unlike in books, where the humans are your friends. You do although have a small box television, to the right corner of the room, where you watch the news on Sundays. You prefer the radio, but you have run out of batteries. You chuckle to yourself as you trace your fingers over the inky letters. T.H. White, you love his books. His versions bring the story and characters together. Your feet are chilled, as you curl your toes together, but you sit up straight when you hear low murmuring outside of your small cottage.
“Oh Joseph! Did you hear about her!” A deep man’s voice rings out.
You see a small man with tiny beetle-like ebony eyes is glaring at an extremely thin man with small spectacles on. His chestnut eyes were dark with worry.
“Yes, London I did. Teaching her children that,” He said clicking his tongue.
You freeze at the sight of them in front of your house. The thin man is wearing very démodé clothing, and you turn away in disgust, a fresh wave of fear drowning you. These men have the power to kill. The power to overtake you.
“That’s why she is in jail. Did you see how she lashed out at her boss!?” The small man exclaimed.
“How long again?” Ask the thin man.
“And counting,” Winks the thin man. They depart ways, and you mutter darkly to yourself. Mother was right, men do lie. She isn’t in jail, for she is in Scotland working on a photography project. You have been made of fear for much too long, young one. Please listen to me. Take it off, you are a man. Don’t give me that face! It looks like you just ate something nauseating! I see. You are made of fear, and you haven’t learned to change.
You peek around the corner anxiously, as your mother comes back into view, caring a plastic cup, with a brown parcel of paper over it. She brings the cup further into the damp, darkroom, and sets it down on the wooden table. She smiles at you, but you are too busy trying to peek into the cup to see.
“Remember what I taught you?” She asks.
You nod vigorously, as she gently tips the cup over. You scream in horror, as to your opinion, a prodigious, sable spider skitters out of the cup, it darts towards you, and your feet underneath you take off. You dodge the table, and run upstairs to your room, under the bed. You lay there shivering, as you hear your mother call,
“Max!!! Time for a story.” The tension inside you reduces as you scamper downstairs.
Your mother is sitting on the brand new, floral sofa. She is flipping through the tattered book, that she wrote, all the stories of men. You snuggle up next to her side, as she reads the terrors of factories, and how men pollute the skies, with splotchy spots of dismal coloring, and the talk of men put a look abhorrence on your face.
When your mother finishes the story, she tells you. “I’m proud of you Max. I have made you of fear, and you have learned. When fear is enveloped in a human, they follow the rules. That is why you are made of fear.