ext_20269: (Mood - green bugaboo)
[identity profile] annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] writing_shadows

I don’t really do fear. I probably ought to, but I usually find that fear requires more imagination and more of a capacity for pre-planning than I have. I don’t really think about what could happen. I just sort of go barrelling into things and figure I’ll work it out as I go along. And…

...this isn’t true. I’m afraid of zombies, of vampires, of chickens with their heads cut off and looking completely stupid in public, which is why I haven’t replied to an e mail from Wulf since I got so drunk I made a pass at him.


I don’t have anything to say on fear. I could list you my family (and why are they all men? Could no one provide me with a female relative? At least Peace tried but [mean things deleted]. I’m rambling now).

Anyway, that wouldn’t be enough, would it? You want me to know what actually scares me, and I’ll tell you I try not to be too scared.

I’ve learned a valuable life lesson from the bees, you see. Don’t let yourself get afraid. Don’t lash out because you’re frightened.

Bees, you see, do that. And it kills them every time.


I always was scared of dying. No one else around me seemed afraid; not my father (who knew his duty), not my sister (who died laughing, I am told) nor Korsten or Michael too. I was afraid. I cowered when someone looked set to hit me and I shot a man in the back rather than face him. I ran and I hid and I ran again. Always afraid.

But the funny thing is that when I actually met Death – when I was bleeding out in the wilderness and standing before her at last - I wasn’t afraid at all.


“I’m not afraid any more,” Rex said, and smiled his lovely lazy smile.

“Then we need to find your fear,” I said and for a moment I could almost taste the glorious rush of terror. Oh don’t tell me that isn’t mine to take. There is ecstasy in fear. I’ve found it, in the noose Rex once placed about my neck, in the rushing water that Sokol pushed my face towards, in every single touch from the fucking cat.

(Of course, I’m lying. That isn’t true fear. And later that evening, when I meet real fear, I only run away)

Miss Morris

At first my letter begins one way.

“Dear Mr Taylor,”

Then I stop. Those terribly polite words are like armour. I like armour. I wear it like I wear my skin, wrapped tight about me.

But this is Mr Taylor, with the grease stained fingernails and kind blue eyes. The armour never worked for him. He’s shown me too much kindness and that has disarms me, even though the thought of living without my armour terrifies me. But what is the point of life if once is always afraid? I’ve been afraid too long.

So I begin again.

“Dear Alfred,”


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