The Unafraid

She is not afraid of you.

What is there to be afraid of? she asked.

Everything, little girl, you told her in your Jersey accent - something she's always wondered about, because you're not from Jersey.

(come to think of it, where are you from?)

I've danced with devils and sung with sirens and wed the vilest of the undead, she said, glancing at the ring tattooed on the wrong ring-finger, a reminder of her latest dark conquest, a ghostly man who, in her opinion, is far more frightening than you. Looking back to you, she smiled and meant it when she said, I am not afraid of you.

Oh, but you think she should be.

You don't want her smiles and rib-caged butterflies; you'd rather concave screams and endless nightmares.

You cup her chin with death-cold hands. I think it's time to strike some fear into your heart, little girl.