being scared - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I know I'm scared when those old fears run through my head, when I hear the taunting laughter of years past, when I was a skinny kid and punchline of teenage jokes. I know I'm scared when these bad memories cut loose their chains and invade my confidence, eroding the person I have built since those dark days. The fear comes most when I'm tired and flees in the nighttime, vanquished by the time I awake. So when my thoughts tumble into that abyss and the rope ladders burn, I put down my phone, turn off my computer too, and curl up where it's dark and warm. For my dreams are my helicopter, my dream-self is the pilot, and she's waiting to take me out of here the moment I let it all go.
Fear is as ubiquitous as sunlight on these cracked streets. There are the marks that cower in their homes, terrified of the gang violence and kerosene bombs. There are the young inductees who's only experience wielding knives is spreading cheap margarine, rejecting the mamas they need, keeping secrets that kill them a slice at a time. There are the leaders who watch for the end they know must come, who in their lifestyle grows old? It is the fear of the prey or the fear of the street soldier, the arena ever changing for both yet forming a prison. Being scared is so normal, so inescapable, that it is ignored by the majority and crumbling is pilloried as a weakness. The strange thing is that the rare ones who get out fall apart anyway, as if the sudden release of pressure did more harm than good. Not me though, I'm gonna be different...
She couldn't breath, it felt as if someone was choking her. Her heart was racing and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for someone to save her. But no one would, no one was there. A choked cry for help forced itself up her throat, and she felt a drop run down her cheek. It seemed as if this was the end of the road for her.
Suddenly all I see is Tyson, literally. Everything else falls away. I no longer hear cars speeding down the street. I can't notice the cold rain or even chew the gum that sits on my frozen tongue. Every natural body movement is on hold and so I must force some that mimic what I should be doing: a smile, a fist bump and a "What up?"
He couldn't believe his eyes. He didn’t want to anyway. He never saw something like that even in his worst nightmares. But that was only because his brain always woke him up before such a horrific image covered his mind. And now he was seeing something his eyes won't ever be able to erase.
The adrenalin flew over his veins like a carp through the river, but he couldn’t move a single muscle, not even to scream. The absolute horror completely paralyzed him, and the more he thought about run away, or simply moving a bit, the more he felt discouraged and utterly terrified.
He didn’t remember being that scared in his life. And that was just the beginning. That idea only made it worse. If that was even possible.
It had all seemed like so much fun at the start. It had been easy to be all hyped up in a group, egging each other on, grins wider than a photoshopped monkey. But in the bleached hygiene of the pharmacy Grace turned cold. The air conditioning was on but she knew the blood had run from her face. The assistant glanced up and smiled warmly, "Oh, you're looking a bit peaky, dear, flu?" She stopped dead. She could hear her pulse banging in her ears and there was sweat dripping down her back. She tried to return the smile, but her lips barely twitched. She wrapped her fingers around the revolver in her pocket and glanced to her left. Rory had entered. He was her distraction while she stole the drugs, she waited for him to throw his fit. Then he did. Collapsing on the tile, convulsing, thrashing, pretty impressive. She hesitated. This was it, school's over, criminal life had begun. As the assistant rushed to her stooge she dashed behind the counter throwing anything in. Then she fled.
Mila crouched in the shadow. In an hour it would dissolve into the blackness of the coming night. Until then, every sound about her was analyzed repeatedly until something else demanded her attention. The evening was cool, but her blood was icy and her muscles tense. She had lost any sense of how long she'd been there, each second was an eternity praying that the Night Patrol would not pass by. Her legs began to cramp from crouching too long but she dare not move even to ease the pain and she cradled the parcel on her lap. She hadn't volunteered for this, she wasn't one of those brave people who relished danger and craved leadership. She was a mouse, a little black haired mouse that happened to be the best runner and climber in the state. And so it was natural that the resistance had come knocking, they had peddled their story well and her mother could not resist the reflected glory. Now her heart hammered and her brain was short-circuiting with anxious thoughts.
I'm scared to fail; I'm scared to succeed. I don't want to be lonely; I feel tense in a crowd. There's something about blending in that feels safe; there's something about never standing on a stage that would just kill me. I love to be with friends; I worry about what they think. We're all supposed to want to be popular; I can't breathe in large social groups. Every step I take is a path between two fears, being scared is just part of the course.
Copper huddled under the table, hugging his grazed knees. His hand working back and forth over the newly healed scars on his legs, all the while watching the matron move back and forth. His only way out was to steal the buns and get away with it, get caught and he'd have new scars, fail and he'd have more bruises than a stolen pig. If she didn't get out of the kitchen soon he'd vomit, already the bile was collecting his otherwise dry mouth. His legs felt like they were no longer his and he began to tremble the same way they did in deep winter cold.
The rock falls away beneath my feet. I know there is a ledge, otherwise I'd be falling, but I can't see it at all. If I turn my head too far I could unbalance and the drop is further than I can see. Already the adrenaline coursing unchecked, urging me to do what I cannot. Sure my muscles are stronger and I'm more awake than I've ever been, but this isn't a situation where running hard for a long time is going to help. There are hand holds here, I know it. I just have to think back to my training. It's so easy in the gym with the air conditioning and the smiling staff. Out here there's no safety rope, no soft mats to land on. I wish the human body was wired differently, I wish I could get the increased strength without the urge to run but I can't. All I have is the rock, the wind and a long way down. How could I have thought this would ever be fun?
“There’s someone at the front door”, I explained in a cowardly whisper, fingers to my lips, our hands I hid behind. Snuffling in closer to him, egging him to get up by pushing and tugging slightly at his sides, I watched Sam shut his eyes and shake his head as I heard the knocking sound again – those deep, wood powered, knuckle hits and Sam, as off with the fairies as he could be – not seeming to flinch.
Something about Parker reminded Jackson of suspects in the interrogation room. Every now and then he snuck a furtive glance to figure out what it was. For starters his skin was too shiny - there was a cold sweat that no right to be there. At first he gave him the benefit of the doubt, Parker must be sick. But then Jackson's eyes fell on his hands, one finger constantly tapping his leg like he did before they entered the enemy compound a month previously. He was scared, but why? They were back at home in their own base, surrounded by well armed soldiers. His own stomach turned uneasily. If Parker was a double agent they needed to know...
"Every time I lessen the fear in Rain's life she goes right out and seeks more. It's like she's hard wired to need it. It's like trying to bring a deep water fish to the surface, ya'know, like without the external pressure she'll just explode. But it isn't like she copes with it well, she's on a damn hair trigger all the time; say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and she's ready to sell your guts to the slaughter house. I really dunno what to do, one day she's just gonna run off with some thug just to repeat her youth."
She was helpless , even when the bullies threw punches she wouldn't dare move nor say a word in her defence. Once confronted she would cower back the felling of weakness boiling inside of her. She would be destitute and unable to move. Her memories were filled with horror and monotonous feeling.
I keep trying to dial the fun and playful me but she won't pick up the phone... why is that? Oh yeah... I'm scared; time to stop feeling the storm and be a hurricane.