LITERARY | What do you fear most?

Tell me, what do you think of when someone asks you what you’re afraid of? Some may think of spiders, or the dark because they fear the monsters under their bed. Some may list down a list of what they fear most, could be tangible or intangible—like to be let go by someone you hold so dear. Either way, each human is a marvel; our minds are wired differently from one another and that makes us the most beautiful animals to ever walk the Earth.

But if you were to ask me, I’d say nothing. I feared nothing—not the spiders, nor the dark, nor to be left by people I love most. It was a luxury to have one. I was bold and wise beyond my years for what I’ve endured during childhood. The walls know, and my dolls, too, heard that distinct language that used to take refuge in the cracks of my home, and it echoes (tik, tak, tik, tok.) That same language that was used as a barbarous weapon to a five-year old for an ickle of a mistake. That same tongue used to cut through the frail skin of a six-year old for not being brave enough. That same vocabulary that used to wound the mind of a seven-year old for not being bright enough. I wasn’t allowed to have a fear of my own, I was only allowed to not make mistakes, to only be brave, to only be clever. Everything else that contradicts these is a sin.

(that same girl at the age of ten swore she would never use such a mother tongue despite its familiar tingle on her tongue.)

Then I heard about the tales of the boggart in an Irish lore whose very being mirrors someone’s fear. Curious as I was, I wondered, if I were to have a boggart what would it be? I wondered what my boggart was until it took the form of a mirror and it spoke my language. And it not only spoke to me, but it sang—it sang in the melody using a language I long detest. Each note is a cut to my ear—I refuse to hear! (i refuse to hear! i refuse to hear!)

I’ve been humming the lullaby I once hated. Vicious words were the inheritance I’ve sworn to bury. The boggart didn’t turn into my fear—I did. It was all of me; the language I never unlearned, and the child that hides with it.