“I don't know…” I said. “I'm still not certain that's a good idea.”
“Oh come on!” she replied, pretending to poke my ribs repeatedly with both her index fingers, making faux stabs in rapid fire sequence. I knew my part in this game of hers and pretended to try dodging her pokes. “What do you have to lose?”
Well...I don't know…” I said.
“Everything!”, I thought.
They came at night with their torches and weapons, like they always do. Teeth bared, eyes glazed, in heat for the hunting of the less-than. Nostrils flaring for the scent of fear, intoxicated by it.
Not my fear. Theirs. Fear of the Other. Of change.
Somewhere, faintly, fear of doing the wrong thing, of being found out, shamed. Of what they see of themselves in me.
Getting out to meet the mob robs them the joy of catch and they fall silent. Staring down the leader I deckare: “I am not a monster.”