Saturday's Storyteller: "I'm not scared."
by Belinda Roddie
"I'm not scared."
She said that when I first took her out to sea in my puny sailboat, watching as the currents propelled us toward the shattered bridges of yesterday's metropolitan triumph. She also said it when she learned to swim in that same sea, and when she saw the first dorsal fin of a shark rising from the foam like an arrow pointing to the heavens. I watched her observe it all with eyes that bore a glint of vigilance, glassy irises casting a thousand rainbows against the sun.
She said she wasn't scared when she first met me. That I was different than the others she had talked to. The last time she had been in a taxi, the driver had leered at her while asking, "Where are you off to?" Her answer was, "The void," which seemed to shut him off. It was safer than saying, "home." I had picked her up from a movie theater where a date had ditched her. I had asked no questions. And that made her much more comfortable.
Of course, in the end, I could ask her questions, just not in a fiberglass chamber where everyone feels like a stranger. The first one I asked was, "So how come you're humoring me?" Her response: "Because you don't scare me."
"I'm not scared."
She said that when we first held hands. When we first went walking together. It was dark, and the only natural lighting was from the half-moon over the bay. A man played a broken violin by the ramshackle visitor center. Our town had used to be a tourist trap. Now it just trapped us.
I didn't kiss her: She kissed me. And I let her have that.
"I'm not scared."
She whispers that to me when I let my arms enfold her below the sternum, pressing her body tightly to mine. I know that this is the first time in her life she's been held with consent. She has to remind herself that I am not a monster. I don't blame her. I don't blame her at all. Because I've been scared, too.
But I'm not scared now.
This week's prompt was inspired by a lyric from Daughtry's "Deep End," which you can find here.
"I'm not scared."
She said that when I first took her out to sea in my puny sailboat, watching as the currents propelled us toward the shattered bridges of yesterday's metropolitan triumph. She also said it when she learned to swim in that same sea, and when she saw the first dorsal fin of a shark rising from the foam like an arrow pointing to the heavens. I watched her observe it all with eyes that bore a glint of vigilance, glassy irises casting a thousand rainbows against the sun.
She said she wasn't scared when she first met me. That I was different than the others she had talked to. The last time she had been in a taxi, the driver had leered at her while asking, "Where are you off to?" Her answer was, "The void," which seemed to shut him off. It was safer than saying, "home." I had picked her up from a movie theater where a date had ditched her. I had asked no questions. And that made her much more comfortable.
Of course, in the end, I could ask her questions, just not in a fiberglass chamber where everyone feels like a stranger. The first one I asked was, "So how come you're humoring me?" Her response: "Because you don't scare me."
"I'm not scared."
She said that when we first held hands. When we first went walking together. It was dark, and the only natural lighting was from the half-moon over the bay. A man played a broken violin by the ramshackle visitor center. Our town had used to be a tourist trap. Now it just trapped us.
I didn't kiss her: She kissed me. And I let her have that.
"I'm not scared."
She whispers that to me when I let my arms enfold her below the sternum, pressing her body tightly to mine. I know that this is the first time in her life she's been held with consent. She has to remind herself that I am not a monster. I don't blame her. I don't blame her at all. Because I've been scared, too.
But I'm not scared now.
This week's prompt was inspired by a lyric from Daughtry's "Deep End," which you can find here.
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