Fear Assignment

Young Fear.

When I lean and push open the heavy front door, face against the cold, shiny brass doorknob, I leave a print on it, a dull patch on the shine, from my cheek. I wonder briefly if the police will keep it as evidence, so I breath on it softly, with a 'ha' sound, and polish it quickly with my sleeve. Then I see my Dad standing in the hallway, and stop dead.

'Well?' he says. But his voice is strange, and it's like he's someone else now, not my Dad. I can feel my heart beating faster. I can hear it in my ears, and I feel a little dizzy. He must know! For some reason, I hold on to the doorknob, as if it can save me. I stare stupidly at him. I want to say something - I want to say 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry!' - but nothing comes out. I feel like my heart is trying to say it, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry', lots of times, really fast, sort of like a train sound. But something in my throat is stopping it getting out. So I just stand looking at him.

He looks angry - his face is all red, and his arms are crossed.

'In here!' he says, in the strange voice, the angry voice. He pushes open the sitting room door, and waits for me to walk in, past him. I let go of the doorknob, and leave it with fingerprints all over it now. I feel like I'm watching TV. It's like I'm watching another boy walking through the doorway. I think he's going to hit me, when I walk past. I think - that's why he's waiting there in the doorway, and as I go by, I trip on an edge, where the dark wooden hallway floor runs under the sitting room carpet. The one that looks like a spaceship engine. Then I almost think he has hit me, and I feel a cold, icy feeling, and it's even more like I'm watching another boy. But he didn't hit me. He never has. I just thought he would, because I know I've been bad. I wish I hadn't. I wish everything would go back to normal, but I don't know how to make it better now.

'Ok Jon, sit down.' He points me to the settee, and I go and sit there. I'm sitting very straight up, with my hands on my legs, not like I normally sit. I don't know why I'm sitting like that, but I just can't help it. Then he sits next to me, and the settee sinks a bit, and I have to shift and lean to stay sitting straight.

Then his hand comes to my shoulder. 'Now, you know what this is about, don't you?' His voice seems back to normal now. He's holding me up now, and I lean on him a little. He looks like my normal Dad again, and I rest my head against his arm. His sweater is soft. But I still can't speak. I look up at him and nod. And then I start to cry.

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Older Fear

Now what was I supposed to do? Trust Sarah to be away when something like this happened! Two toy soldiers. Two bloody toy soldiers, that somehow found their way into Jon's pocket, but not out of the toyshop. No - they were too sharp for that. They phoned me right away too - everyone knows everyone in this town. I thought I was angry, but I wasn't. There was a metalic taste in my mouth. I didn't know what to do! I knew before he even got back home. I almost wished he'd gotten away with it, then I wouldn't have to deal with this. And I couldn't remember anything it said in the parenting books about stealing now - my mind was a complete blank!

I remember thinking 'I have to handle this right. Get it wrong, and he may grow up thinking stealing is alright. Get it wrong, and he may grow up thinking you're weak, pathetic. Who know's what he'll think, if you get it wrong!' I couldn't get it wrong. I was going to get it wrong. I knew it suddenly. I was going to get it wrong, and my son was going to grow up and hate me! There was a kind of full feeling in my throat. I gulped, but it didn't go away.

I didn't want him to hate me. Then I heard him push open the door. He was messing with the doorknob, in another world, as usual. He'd just been caught stealing, and he'd already forgotten about it?

Trying to sound reasonable, but strong, I said, 'Well?' and he stopped. His eyes were huge and blue, and his mouth hung open a little. He'd been thinking I wouldn't know. He didn't say anything, and I was thinking - 'he's going to deny it. He's going to lie to me too!' I was thinking 'Don't let him hate me. Don't let me mess this up!' But, in the end, he didn't say anything. He just looked at me a little strangely, and in a panic I felt a kind of gulf opening up between us.

'In here!', I said. Perhaps I was a little gruff. I was still trying to work out what I should be saying. I was so busy thinking about that, that I didn't have time to catch him when he tripped on that stupid mozaic carpet in the sitting room. That shook me a little. A little more I should say. But he caught himself.

I pointed at the settee. 'Ok Jon, sit down'. He sat and looked too small for the settee, suddenly. I'd been going to sit opposite him, look him in the eye. I was going to have the hard, man-to-man talk. Then I remembered getting that from my own Dad. And he looked so small. And, after all, how many chances do you get in life, to get things right? I went and sat next to him. I knew how he felt, now. I knew what to do. I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him in a little. 'Now, you know what this is about, don't you?' He nodded, and sniffed, and I squeezed him a little harder. Suddenly, I felt better. I think we both did.