The Fear of Unpredictability

The Fear of Unpredictability

    Fear? How does one describe fear? What do you think is true fear? Is fear the sense of panic you feel when a small fuzzy arachnid creeps up on you, with spindly-needle like legs pricking your skin? Being in and out of consciousness as you feel shaking under your bed soon followed by a cold undead finger grazing your skin under your feet, seductively, is that true fear? True deep unadulterated fear does not stem from the supernatural nor man, it stems from the unknown and unexpected. That is true fear, the fear of unpredictability. The fear of survival. Elements of horror are not always ghouls and ghosts. No nightmares or hauntings. To feel truly paralysed with fear is to be tested to your limits, by the very things we as human beings take for granted.

        The cold pinches his skin, his pale ghastly complexion tainted with the rosette dots of warmth, soon to be leaving him as quickly as it appeared. The flakes of snow kissed his skin, leaving a painful peck of death. The sting of cold burns him. Lost in the East Antartic with nothing but a thin cotton shirt, blue tattered jeans, a wollen coat and snow boots. Beautiful yet painful, the wind blows with vigorous anger. His chattering teeth elegantly compliments the damp feeling of his clothes, wet and inhospitable. Alone with his sanity, held by a string, but not fully alone. A gray wolf with multi-coloured eyes, a warm honey brown to the left, with an ice harsh azure blue to the right. A great beast of nature, warmed with fur. Fur that he so greatly wished he owned at this very moment. He began to wonder with his companion, his sanity slowly slipping.

      His finger tips and his nose was the first to go, numb as if he had anaesthetic. The snow clasped to his eyelashes wishing to not fall, trying to be unique from the rest of the flakes, being above the others. This raging and bitter cold was beautiful yet deadly. He was at his final lengths. He began to feel the staccato lullaby of his heartbeat slowing down, his the warmth breath grew colder and colder. This cold was unbearable, something needed to change. He was a survivalist, he knew how to build a fire. This task proved to be detrimental as the sticks were damp and the ferms were frosted over. "Strike!" He slashed the flint and steel, "Strike!", again with shaking hands. "Stike!" A third time, finally the spark felt warm of life. The cruel mother nature has finally forgiven him of his sin, he began to place more sticks around but his unsteady hands, hungry hands, those damned numbed hand. "SHHHH!". The small light, the little spark, his saving grace with extinguished, having a second of life, just to be taken by these cursed blizzard.

      Frantically, his heart that was slowing down began to dance rapidly. This was true horror. Death danced upon his finger tips, which by now with no help from the extinguished flame was slowly turning into a brused purple. This was truly the end. His sanity just like the fire began to extinguished, mentally he began to drown in the snow, his soul felt crushed, his heart felt heavy and his breathing got frantic. Images of murder began to litter his mind as seeing his hands recieving warmth from the carcas of his companion. Hands that could hungrily grasp the innards of the wolf, using a heart beat for warmth. His mind snapped back. He began to run, what could he do now? He could feel his life slipping from his numb finger tips. He didn't know why he was running but in this dire situation, running from death seemed pleasing. On a larger scale, you would think that he had a purpose, but his deathing winter began to numb his mind. As fast as he began running is as fast as he fell. He envisioned himself among the men who would find his rotting corspe in the near future. No man should be willing to spend their days in the unforgiving Antartic. Death chased him, and now he felt deaths cold fingers grabbing his neck, choking him. If this was his end, let his life be rewarded, he could have cried but he knew that like himself his tears would freeze over. He closed his eyes not knowing if this would be his final sleep.

      Fear is a true mystery, a mistress of many and no words. One must not fear the living nor fear the dead, we must fear what we cannot control, because that is true unpredictability. The fear of the cold is one that truly is shocking and unpredictability. No matter how prepared you are, the freezing, uncomfortable, icy death will be inevitable. No one ever stops to think, how cold is too cold? So take this lesson with heed, be fearful of unpredictability, fear the possible because that is the tantalising beauty of true horror, you never know how the depths of mother nature's vengeance really goes.

By

Lilith-Edith 

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy. I am a newer writer so I hope it's up to standards.