The Essence of Fear Herself

The dark enveloped my vision as my confused limbs fumbled across the linoleum. Sounds murmured into my unaware ears, but instead of hearing them I heard the rush of blood through my veins. It felt like I was moving endlessly across this room that I had never seen illuminated. I guessed that it was a kitchen, but there was no certainty in my conjecture. 

As I slowly advanced my fear grew. There was no thought in my frazzled mind that didn’t contain the word “death”. My insides felt like the static that sounds from a radio when the channel is wrong. I had a desperate need to live, unlike ever before.

My heart stopped when my hand caressed a cool metal object. My body became smaller, and I moved back three awkward steps. I waited, my senses being wholly occupied by staying muted. I became cold with pure horror as I heard the sound of wooden boards creaking with the weight of a person. My fear became pain as I rushed back to the metal object, hoping it would be some form of defense against the unknown. Its cool surface met my hand once again, and I grabbed it with the tips of my fingers. My hands greedily scanned the surface, identifying it as the one thing I needed it to be, a knife. 

My lips curled up at the sides. This expression, now a stranger to me, hurt my face, which had previously been contorted with horror. I knew whoever was walking, faster now, knew that I was there. I was certain they could hear my heart pounding, like a hammer against rubber. The floor began to vibrate, footsteps steadily climbing it’s surface. I spastically, yet quietly, tried to find a corner (which in hind’s sight is the worst thing I could have done). My imagination build a wall around me, but it was a delusion, and there was no cover. 

Bated breath coming from the source of my immediate discomfort matched my own sparse breathing. I supposed this was the breath of a brutal murderer that would rip out my throat with vast precision and anger.

The room was filled with noise as the stranger thudded to the floor. My body started to shiver, and I was compelled to move towards the slab of clay that had formerly been a person. When my hands met the body they were greeted with a warm coat of blood, which was oozing from a wound. As they explored further, my fingers touched a familiar surface. My shaky hands tried to pull the cool object that was identical the the knife that lay next to me, but they couldn’t concentrate on the knife, they were preoccupied with fear. 

I had finally extracted the knife, slippery with blood, when the light returned to the bulbs within the ceiling. A pale woman, who was almost floating, seemed to be the one who turned them on, but uncertainty and distrust took over my mind. She slowly headed towards me, looking at nothing but my eyes. Her eyes, which were endless orbs of emerald, bored into my mind, separating my nerves and logic. I am good, they told me. I let her ghostly hands pry into mine and pull the sticky red knife from my grip, which had loosened when the light flooded the room. She then softly, but strongly whispered:

“Your fear is your friend.”