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Fear
What is fear? According to most people it’s what they feel when exposed to something they find ‘scary’ or ‘frightening’. But what is frightening? It is something that causes fright or simply fear.
That is the manner of our language, to have our definitions run in circles.
Fear to scientists is a reaction in centers of the brain that causes the flight or fight sense, which causes the heart to pump faster in preparation to run and the adrenal glands to create adrenalin.
To me, fear is a beautiful thing. I admire fear. I love the control the brain holds over the rest of the body. It is why I do what I do. To see the raw fear in the eyes of people as they see what no one else can…is invigorating.
You may call me what you wish; it does not matter. My given name died long ago, with the people who knew it. I now go by the name Angerona.
Merely for the purpose of explaining to you my meaning and to help your puny brain comprehend my goals as much as it can I will tell you of my past. You will not live to tell anyone else anyways.
My first memories are of fields that stretched on for acres and acres. In all directions you could see nothing but tall stalks. I lived with my grandmother on Chandrila, where she farmed as her mother and her mother’s mother had before her. My grandmother was the most evil woman you could imagine. She was hateful and decrepit. Her eyes, her eyes. I could not begin to describe them. To this day they haunt me.
I was a good child, obedient and quiet, and content to do what was asked of me. But all children are apt to get into trouble at times, even if it isn’t intentional. If I made a mistake or got a bad mark in school, I was forced to sit out on a tower in the fields, smothered in some foul concoction my granny stirred up in her kitchen. The birds became my only company in those lonely hours up in the tower as my stomach ached and the scratches bled. But the birds were my tormenters almost as much as granny was, for they attacked me and I feared them.
I went to school in long clothing at least a size too big most days, to hide my gaunt figure and scratched arms. I wore the clothing of farmers, the denim jeans and plaid shirts and the holey boots. I had a hat I loved also and it was always perched on my head to hide my greasy head. The children in my grade level teased me mercilessly. They made fun of what I wore and the way I acted, always the ‘teacher’s pet’ simply because I did my work and had an unquenchable thirst to learn. They called me ‘scarecrow’. Maybe it was true that I looked like a scarecrow in my old stereotypical clothing. Maybe in the way the despicable birds followed me everywhere due to the lingering odor of my granny’s concoction, I was a backwards scarecrow. However they scared me instead of the other way around.
I soon gained a morbid hobby of wondering what scared people. I would look someone up and down and wonder what haunted his or her nightmares. These thoughts took me far away and I’d drift off during conversations. This habit earned me the nickname ‘Crazy Crow’.
It was after a particularly hard beating from my tormenting classmates and a longer than normal exile to the fields from grandmother that I realized the solution to my problem: I needed to simply make people fear me. If I am feared then what do I need to fear?
I still had the morbid hobby of wondering what people feared and this soon extended to how I could exploit their fear. I found my answer in the brain, neurotoxins specifically. I threw myself fully into my scientific studies, focusing on chemistry.
By this time I was in my last years of secondary school. My extracurricular studies helped me in my actual schooling, and therefore gained the attention of my instructors. Believing in my success wholeheartedly, they recommended me to several off-planet academies. Seeing a chance to get away from my unfortunately still alive grandmother, I took it.
Nothing of note occurred during my years at the academy. It was only after I graduated that I perfected my serum. And then I had to try it out. So I returned to Chandrila to visit Granny. Nothing had changed, much to my chagrin. I should have expected it, honestly, and maybe I did, but as I walked up that dusty road, I laughed. It was the dry, humorless laugh I always did. I had gotten my first taste of the big city and I was hooked. Sure, I liked the country, but the city was so new and so full of opportunities right then.
I found Granny sitting in her rocking chair, reading from a children’s fairy tale book. Her eyes snapped up when the heavy door slammed behind me. I try to forget her side of the conversation, but I remember what I did quite well. I walked up and took the book. Reading to her, as I had been instructed to often when I was young, in a quiet voice soon put her to sleep. The canister strapped against my arm became an annoyance, as my senses heightened with anticipation of what was to come. I pulled a hood over my head, prepared with a rebreather inside to filter out the toxin. Then, in the quiet of the room and the farm outside, I released my revenge on my grandmother as she slept. Her eyes flew open in terror as she breathed in my toxin and it hit her brain. Her screams fell on deaf ears, for I didn’t care and no one else was around to hear. The fun only lasted a few minutes before her heart gave out. The hospital would rule it a heart attack and then death by natural causes. Only I would know the truth, and the truth is beautiful. Everyone has his or her addiction, the one thing that makes your heart race and your skin crawl with goose bumps of anticipation. For some it’s drugs. For others it’s alcohol. For me, it’s fear.
Fear is beautiful. What is yours?
Do you know?
Tell me.
Now experience the most beautiful thing in the world!
Ah, yes, scream louder precious one, no one can hear you out here. Only me.
What is fear? According to most people it’s what they feel when exposed to something they find ‘scary’ or ‘frightening’. But what is frightening? It is something that causes fright or simply fear.
That is the manner of our language, to have our definitions run in circles.
Fear to scientists is a reaction in centers of the brain that causes the flight or fight sense, which causes the heart to pump faster in preparation to run and the adrenal glands to create adrenalin.
To me, fear is a beautiful thing. I admire fear. I love the control the brain holds over the rest of the body. It is why I do what I do. To see the raw fear in the eyes of people as they see what no one else can…is invigorating.
You may call me what you wish; it does not matter. My given name died long ago, with the people who knew it. I now go by the name Angerona.
Merely for the purpose of explaining to you my meaning and to help your puny brain comprehend my goals as much as it can I will tell you of my past. You will not live to tell anyone else anyways.
My first memories are of fields that stretched on for acres and acres. In all directions you could see nothing but tall stalks. I lived with my grandmother on Chandrila, where she farmed as her mother and her mother’s mother had before her. My grandmother was the most evil woman you could imagine. She was hateful and decrepit. Her eyes, her eyes. I could not begin to describe them. To this day they haunt me.
I was a good child, obedient and quiet, and content to do what was asked of me. But all children are apt to get into trouble at times, even if it isn’t intentional. If I made a mistake or got a bad mark in school, I was forced to sit out on a tower in the fields, smothered in some foul concoction my granny stirred up in her kitchen. The birds became my only company in those lonely hours up in the tower as my stomach ached and the scratches bled. But the birds were my tormenters almost as much as granny was, for they attacked me and I feared them.
I went to school in long clothing at least a size too big most days, to hide my gaunt figure and scratched arms. I wore the clothing of farmers, the denim jeans and plaid shirts and the holey boots. I had a hat I loved also and it was always perched on my head to hide my greasy head. The children in my grade level teased me mercilessly. They made fun of what I wore and the way I acted, always the ‘teacher’s pet’ simply because I did my work and had an unquenchable thirst to learn. They called me ‘scarecrow’. Maybe it was true that I looked like a scarecrow in my old stereotypical clothing. Maybe in the way the despicable birds followed me everywhere due to the lingering odor of my granny’s concoction, I was a backwards scarecrow. However they scared me instead of the other way around.
I soon gained a morbid hobby of wondering what scared people. I would look someone up and down and wonder what haunted his or her nightmares. These thoughts took me far away and I’d drift off during conversations. This habit earned me the nickname ‘Crazy Crow’.
It was after a particularly hard beating from my tormenting classmates and a longer than normal exile to the fields from grandmother that I realized the solution to my problem: I needed to simply make people fear me. If I am feared then what do I need to fear?
I still had the morbid hobby of wondering what people feared and this soon extended to how I could exploit their fear. I found my answer in the brain, neurotoxins specifically. I threw myself fully into my scientific studies, focusing on chemistry.
By this time I was in my last years of secondary school. My extracurricular studies helped me in my actual schooling, and therefore gained the attention of my instructors. Believing in my success wholeheartedly, they recommended me to several off-planet academies. Seeing a chance to get away from my unfortunately still alive grandmother, I took it.
Nothing of note occurred during my years at the academy. It was only after I graduated that I perfected my serum. And then I had to try it out. So I returned to Chandrila to visit Granny. Nothing had changed, much to my chagrin. I should have expected it, honestly, and maybe I did, but as I walked up that dusty road, I laughed. It was the dry, humorless laugh I always did. I had gotten my first taste of the big city and I was hooked. Sure, I liked the country, but the city was so new and so full of opportunities right then.
I found Granny sitting in her rocking chair, reading from a children’s fairy tale book. Her eyes snapped up when the heavy door slammed behind me. I try to forget her side of the conversation, but I remember what I did quite well. I walked up and took the book. Reading to her, as I had been instructed to often when I was young, in a quiet voice soon put her to sleep. The canister strapped against my arm became an annoyance, as my senses heightened with anticipation of what was to come. I pulled a hood over my head, prepared with a rebreather inside to filter out the toxin. Then, in the quiet of the room and the farm outside, I released my revenge on my grandmother as she slept. Her eyes flew open in terror as she breathed in my toxin and it hit her brain. Her screams fell on deaf ears, for I didn’t care and no one else was around to hear. The fun only lasted a few minutes before her heart gave out. The hospital would rule it a heart attack and then death by natural causes. Only I would know the truth, and the truth is beautiful. Everyone has his or her addiction, the one thing that makes your heart race and your skin crawl with goose bumps of anticipation. For some it’s drugs. For others it’s alcohol. For me, it’s fear.
Fear is beautiful. What is yours?
Do you know?
Tell me.
Now experience the most beautiful thing in the world!
Ah, yes, scream louder precious one, no one can hear you out here. Only me.
[OPEN] Black Fire
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