I'm Not Afraid
Holly L. Bradfield
Holly L. Bradfield
When I was six, my mother would make the tea and play “When I’m five” by David Bowie.
I would scoff, stick my nose in the air, puff out my chest. “I’m six,” I’d say, “I’ve already read the magazines in mummy’s drawer. And I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Nothing at all?” My Mum would ask with a knowing smile. “Nothing at all.” I’d cross my arms in defiance. Because I laughed at the people who scream at long legged spiders, scaling the wall, I would scoop them up with my hands, and say “Look, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” She would sigh in defeat, and we’d go back to dancing, hand in hand, around the kitchen.
When I was eight, my little sister was born. My Gran picked me up from school to take me to the hospital, and I tapped my feet and chewed my nails the whole way to Kilmarnock in the car. “Are you worried?” She asked me. I scoffed. “I’m eight years old. I’m not scared of anything.” I said. She took my hand, and I didn’t let it go until we’d been in the ward for a whole twenty minutes. I replaced hers with my sister’s miniature one, and as her whole hand curled around my index finger, I thought to myself, I’m a big sister. I’m not afraid of anything. My Mum was watching me from her high hospital bed, conspicuous tears dripping down her face.
When I was ten, I sat in a therapist’s office. “What are you frightened of?” The lady asked me. “Nothing.” I shrugged, pursing my lips. She looked up at my mum who, with a shaking voice, began the endless list of all the things that were wrong with me. The lady took notes in a big black book. I tried to get a good look at what she was writing but I could only make out the headings. She told me that the good thing about Panic Attacks was that they couldn’t hurt me physically, they were nothing to be frightened of. That’s not true, thought a far away voice. But I’m not afraid, said a closer one. My mum shouted at her, and pulled me out of her office by the wrist. She came to see me through the school gates every lunch-time after dropping my sister off at nursery.
When I was twelve, I needed six teeth out for braces. Four adult teeth and two baby teeth. It was too overcrowded. Needed straightening up. My mum held my hand as I walked in. I was shaking. “It’ll be fine.” She said. “I’m not frightened.” I replied, a silent tear glistening on one cheek. But when they came into the waiting room and called my name, I flinched, and as I stood up I felt sick, and feint. I’m not afraid. I thought to myself. And I stumbled forward like a cowardly lion.
When I was fifteen, I fell out with my best friend. My only friend. Four years of memories turned to dust in the space of a week. I was all alone. I had always been lonely, but alone is different. Alone gnaws at your mind and soul like rot and acid does enamel. It was agony. I’d never cried like that before; a mouth-open, heart-screaming vat of salty silver liquid. I didn’t know what to do with myself, that endless span of hours, weeks, months ahead of me, alone with my own mind. I’m not afraid. I told myself. But I was. I was afraid. I was terrified. My mum brought me breakfast in bed for nearly a week. “I’m fine.” I told her, pretending. It went away eventually, and I moved on, learned to be happy alone and now it’s nothing more than a midnight stain in my memory.
Last week, I watched the news. The virus death toll grows ever-higher as it mutates, adapts, evolves to kill. It’s craving blood and anguish. I took my mum’s hand, and thought of my little world. My future. The exams I probably won’t sit. The things I won’t get to do as a teenager. My Gran and Grandpa, who are most at risk, whom I haven’t hugged in almost a year. My friends who have lost loved ones. Those who have terminal illnesses and these years of solitude are their last on this earth.
“I’m afraid.” I said to her. She looked over at me. “I know.” She squeezed my hand, turned off the telly and put on David Bowie. We listened to him in silence while I realised that being afraid was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
I would scoff, stick my nose in the air, puff out my chest. “I’m six,” I’d say, “I’ve already read the magazines in mummy’s drawer. And I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Nothing at all?” My Mum would ask with a knowing smile. “Nothing at all.” I’d cross my arms in defiance. Because I laughed at the people who scream at long legged spiders, scaling the wall, I would scoop them up with my hands, and say “Look, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” She would sigh in defeat, and we’d go back to dancing, hand in hand, around the kitchen.
When I was eight, my little sister was born. My Gran picked me up from school to take me to the hospital, and I tapped my feet and chewed my nails the whole way to Kilmarnock in the car. “Are you worried?” She asked me. I scoffed. “I’m eight years old. I’m not scared of anything.” I said. She took my hand, and I didn’t let it go until we’d been in the ward for a whole twenty minutes. I replaced hers with my sister’s miniature one, and as her whole hand curled around my index finger, I thought to myself, I’m a big sister. I’m not afraid of anything. My Mum was watching me from her high hospital bed, conspicuous tears dripping down her face.
When I was ten, I sat in a therapist’s office. “What are you frightened of?” The lady asked me. “Nothing.” I shrugged, pursing my lips. She looked up at my mum who, with a shaking voice, began the endless list of all the things that were wrong with me. The lady took notes in a big black book. I tried to get a good look at what she was writing but I could only make out the headings. She told me that the good thing about Panic Attacks was that they couldn’t hurt me physically, they were nothing to be frightened of. That’s not true, thought a far away voice. But I’m not afraid, said a closer one. My mum shouted at her, and pulled me out of her office by the wrist. She came to see me through the school gates every lunch-time after dropping my sister off at nursery.
When I was twelve, I needed six teeth out for braces. Four adult teeth and two baby teeth. It was too overcrowded. Needed straightening up. My mum held my hand as I walked in. I was shaking. “It’ll be fine.” She said. “I’m not frightened.” I replied, a silent tear glistening on one cheek. But when they came into the waiting room and called my name, I flinched, and as I stood up I felt sick, and feint. I’m not afraid. I thought to myself. And I stumbled forward like a cowardly lion.
When I was fifteen, I fell out with my best friend. My only friend. Four years of memories turned to dust in the space of a week. I was all alone. I had always been lonely, but alone is different. Alone gnaws at your mind and soul like rot and acid does enamel. It was agony. I’d never cried like that before; a mouth-open, heart-screaming vat of salty silver liquid. I didn’t know what to do with myself, that endless span of hours, weeks, months ahead of me, alone with my own mind. I’m not afraid. I told myself. But I was. I was afraid. I was terrified. My mum brought me breakfast in bed for nearly a week. “I’m fine.” I told her, pretending. It went away eventually, and I moved on, learned to be happy alone and now it’s nothing more than a midnight stain in my memory.
Last week, I watched the news. The virus death toll grows ever-higher as it mutates, adapts, evolves to kill. It’s craving blood and anguish. I took my mum’s hand, and thought of my little world. My future. The exams I probably won’t sit. The things I won’t get to do as a teenager. My Gran and Grandpa, who are most at risk, whom I haven’t hugged in almost a year. My friends who have lost loved ones. Those who have terminal illnesses and these years of solitude are their last on this earth.
“I’m afraid.” I said to her. She looked over at me. “I know.” She squeezed my hand, turned off the telly and put on David Bowie. We listened to him in silence while I realised that being afraid was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
//
Holly L. Bradfield, born 2004, is a Scottish Artist and Writer. Her work is often quite dark and gritty, and strives to bring a realistic perspective to life and humanity. She writes all the time, seeing it as not just a hobby, but a form of necessary self-expression for the benefit of her mental health. She has experience writing Screenplay, Poetry and Journalistic pieces, as well as currently being in the process of writing her first Fictitious novel.
Holly L. Bradfield, born 2004, is a Scottish Artist and Writer. Her work is often quite dark and gritty, and strives to bring a realistic perspective to life and humanity. She writes all the time, seeing it as not just a hobby, but a form of necessary self-expression for the benefit of her mental health. She has experience writing Screenplay, Poetry and Journalistic pieces, as well as currently being in the process of writing her first Fictitious novel.