Vulnerability – the sensation:
Iβm in a brawl. Many people are fighting at once. I feel punches and kicks hit me, but I donβt know exactly who hits me or where they come from. They arenβt very hard or solid, but enough to leave me feeling bruised and battered afterwards.
It smells like sweat, blood, urine and grime. I can feel the tension as things wind down a bit, but when the fight flares up ,I stop really thinking.
I donβt feel.
I donβt smell.
I donβt act – I react. I have to protect myself.
The noise is so loud. A cacophony of swears, shouts, grunts and whines.
Iβm exhausted, and I donβt have anything left to resist with.
I let the punches continue to hit me as I withdraw.
Vulnerability – the character:
He smells like decayed organic matter. It reminds me of spring at first, but thereβs something putrid in the scent of it. He is skeletal in appearance. Cheeks and black, emotionless eyes sunken.
He smiles widely, showing yellow and broken teeth. The smile doesnβt extend to the rest of his face.
He is cold, and he looks like Death himself. When he finally speaks in a hoarse, raspy voice, itβs like he knows how to scare me.
To hurt me.
His words struck all the right notes.
He tells me how I am going to be left alone.
And how I will never love anyone –Β no one will ever want me.
Donβt get close to anyone. Nobody really cares. Why should I care about myself?
Always smiling.
I run.
Vulnerability – no resistance:
I stop running. My legs feel heavy, and for once, I let them. The skeletal figure follows, his black eyes unblinking, his smile stretching too wide. He waits for me to flinch, to recoil, to sprint again into the noise and the chaos. But I donβt.
I sit.
The air still stinks of rot and spring and something foul beneath it, but I breathe it. His words echo, sharp and cutting β You will be left alone. No one will want you. Nobody cares. I let them land. They sting less than I imagined.
He tilts his head, confused. Without my resistance, his teeth look less like fangs and more like fragments. His voice, though raspy, loses some of its weight when I donβt fight it.
The longer I sit, the more I realise: it isnβt his smile that unsettles me, but my own fear of it. His promises of loneliness are not prophecies β they are shadows. And shadows lose their shape when faced directly.
For the first time, I wonder if he is not Death, but a mirror. A broken one, showing me the parts of myself Iβve tried hardest to bury. By staying, I see that his words donβt define me. They only reveal where I feel unworthy.
And in that realisation, his power thins.
He leans closer, lowering himself to the ground so we are face-to-face. His grin fades into something else β not softer, not kinder, butβ¦ waiting.
What will I do with him now that he has no fangs left?
