sawyer loved cape hazel tasks. well, most of the time, at least. they gave him something do to, something other than his own anxieties to focus on, and more often than not, something to channel his creative energy into. sure, writing about his fears wasn’t the same as writing and composing a song, but it was a way to let out everything he’d been feeling and keeping inside himself ‘til he felt like he could burst. with no reluctance, he picked up a journal filled with lyrics and random thoughts he scribbled down throughout the day, flipped to a clean page, and got to work.
“i think it might be easier to tell you what i’m not afraid of rather than what i am. these days, it seems i’m scared of everything, but let me try to narrow it down for you: i’m scared of failure, of loneliness, of rejection, of heartbreak, of my boyfriend realising he could do better without me, of heights and sometimes spiders, of home, of people i don’t know. of myself. all of these things scare me, and it’s fucking debilitating. sometimes i feel like there’s something sitting on my chest, squeezing the breath and the life out of me. i feel like i’m fucking screaming into a void for help, but nothing’s coming out, and no one can hear me. or worse, they can, and they’re ignoring me. how do i tell the people i love the most that there’s this fear, this sadness inside me without worrying them? how do i tell the boy i love that i don’t love him despite all of his faults; that instead i love him for him, faults and all? how do i make him believe me? sometimes, i don’t think he ever will. sometimes, i think i’m destined to end up alone, destined to let this absolute dread swallow me whole.”
in light of what's happened, the mayor and his loving husband think it's best for the citizens to confront their fears. emotions ran high, and overall, it's safe to say that it has not been a pleasant week. the zark has been retired, but there's still tension in the air. zeff thinks it may be best to write down your worst fear on a piece of paper. it should explain what's behind it so you can explore those feelings, so when we all tie it to a balloon, the weight of that fear can be lifted. (zoey 101 does not own the balloon thing, zeff checked.) please write a drabble or so about your character's worst fear and tag it as chtask013, and please have it done by september 30th!
indy had never been one to confront her fears. no—that wasn’t right. she was fully prepared to confront them, but talking about them was a whole different beast, one she didn’t often feel comfortable doing. usually she kept her deepest thoughts to herself, choosing instead to exude an air of false confidence she could only hope would fool those closest to her. zeff’s latest task, however, left no room for her to hide. she truly considered sitting this one out, watching as the town wrote about their fears without fear, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. maybe this would be good for her, she reasoned for hours on end, maybe it would make everything she held so close to her chest feel less scary. she wasn’t sure it would work, of course, but it had to be worth the risk, right?
“i don’t think my greatest fear is a physical thing. i mean, it might turn into one someday, but right now, it’s a fear of the future, a debilitating feeling that i’m going nowhere and doing absolutely nothing with my life. i’ve spent years and years working on and perfecting my art, and yet, here i am, still in cape hazel, still working dead-end and meaningless jobs i hate while my friends move on to bigger and better things in much more glamorous cities. the things is—it’s that i know i’m good. i know my art is good enough to be put in museums and showcases, but putting myself out there and facing the possibility of rejection and failure makes my breath cut short and my hands shake. i can’t do it. i can’t risk the possibility that, after all the heartache i’ve already endured, that the one thing i think i love is something i’m not destined to do forever. i’m scared of failure. i’m terrified of not being good enough. i’m fucking scared of being stuck here forever. i guess, in the end, i’m just terrified of my own future.”
there is a knock on its door that sounds like pounding in his hungover state. daniel has no idea that once he drags himself from the stained carpet to answer that insistent - good god - person on the other side, that his life is changing.
“rosa?” he slurrs.
“we need to talk,” she replies.
it’s almost too much for his brain to comprehend when his, his - what was rosa to him anyway? she couldn’t be his girlfriend. there wasn’t any level of feeling or commitment to justify calling her his girlfriend. a regular fling would be more like it, someone that daniel would call when he is horny and not completely drunk out of his mind. she never seemed to mind and she always seemed to understand they have no relationship whatsoever, so daniel can’t understand when she arrives at eleven in the morning in his apartment. who even is awake this early.
but then, her words make no sense. rosa looks at him, only twenty years old and terrified and she tells him, really puts these words out into the world.
i’m pregnant, daniel. she tells him. and i know it’s yours.
so what? she wants- wants some sort of money, so she can have this child. daniel doesn’t need to worry about it though, because rosa tells him - she’s giving up their child for adoption. which is awesome - great, even. at least she’s not thinking of abortion. but then again, how many kids do they know whose life in the system wasn’t good? and why he is wide awake and sober in the morning thinking of an unborn child?
he calls his sister. asks her opinion, asks her if she thinks he can do it, if he really tries his best and he goes to rehab. she tells him yes and bless her soul, he wants to try. so daniel calls his parents next. he’s a sobbing mess, nearly incoherent as he begs his parents to please. please help him. please help him to keep his baby.
give him a chance to be a good father. a better man.
— — — —
daniel leaves hope to rest for the night with a kiss on the forehead. he smiles. he still feels like the luckiest man alive to have the privilege to raise such an amazing little girl like hope. she gave him everything he’s proud of today. he owes everything to her.
he walks away from her bedroom, steps getting heavier as he reaches the kitchen. he pulls drawers open and retrieves a small notepad and a pen. he’s been thinking about the task their mayor put upon them, but hasn’t been able to write anything down yet.
he scribbles, my greatest fear is writing this.
the paper is ripped of course and daniel turns into a ball before he tosses it on the trash. he sighs, exasperated as he looks into the menacing page of white. writing about his feelings was always the worst part of therapy for him. because when he speaks, evidence is erased. anything you write down weights more it seems, and he doesn’t like to look inside his own fears. but then he straightens his back, taps his fingers against the island marble top and starts writing.
“i’ve grown up a kid that thought he would never know fear in his life. everything was made in a whim. the old me didn’t care about a thing - not himself, not his family, not his friends. when nothing is valuable, there isn’t a thing to inspire fear. it’s a paradox: there isn’t fear without hope.
but again, is there anything at all without hope? she inspired me and she still inspires me to be a good man. she is all the reason i’m trying to make the world a little better, just so she won’t have to grow up surrounded by cruelty. she is my everything, the only light in my life and the only thing that keeps me moving forward.
she’s getting so smart, though. she was small and teethless just yesterday and now she’s grown and so beautiful and she makes all the best questions and i adore her more every day. however she’s also asking the worst questions, like
who’s my mother?
why aren’t you married?
and i’m not ready to answer those things because up until now i could pretend i’m this amazing person. i am her knight in shining armor. i’m her superhero. but even i know that i’m not that good enough to live up to those expectations.
so my greatest fear is to disappoint my hope. i’m terrified of the prospect of seeing her losing her faith in me and thinking i’m no longer a good man, a man good enough to be her papa. my relationship with her is my most important thing. there isn’t anything in this world that can even begin to compare. it kills me to think that this can fall apart because of my past. it kills me that i might be breaking my promise.
what if i’m not a good father? what if i’m not even a good man?”
harley’s sixteen when he finishes his senior year of high school. his teachers pull him aside frequently-- some of them are disappointed, he knows. they say good luck with their mouths and you’re wasting your potential with their eyes, and whatever, what the fuck do they know?
harley’s sixteen when he graduates anyway. he watches someone else make the valedictorian’s speech. old habits die hard, and he runs his speech against theirs quietly. he claps when they finish, and then he walks the stage and he gets his diploma. people linger around the venue long after the ceremony ends, but harley doesn’t really stick around. he finds his mom, and she smiles at him and hugs him. he hugs her back. she says, lip trembling, we’re so proud of you, the first time she’s ever said it, and harley thinks about it all the way to the car. he thinks about the empty passenger’s seat when he climbs in. we, she said. are his moms finally talking again? he wonders. when they get home, is his other mom going to be there again, moved in again, part of their family again?
his mother doesn’t make it two blocks; harley hears her breathing picking up moments before she eases the car to a stop on the side of the road, and she answers his questions when she puts her face in her hands.
harley’s sixteen when he first sees his ma cry. his ma says, i miss her. she says, god, i’m so sorry. harley’s sixteen, and no one’s taught him how to make people feel better when they cry like this, but it’s his mom, which means he has to try. he tells her what he’d want someone to say to him. he tells her, you’re always gonna have me, and he tells her, it’s okay. we’re gonna be okay.
he’s sixteen when he starts picking up full-time shifts at the shop. his ma tells him, you should be in school, and he tells her, grinning, but who would you yell at to do the laundry? his ma clicks her tongue every time, but she smiles, and somewhere there harley knows there’s a thank you. he tucks away his acceptance letters away with his old folders and notebooks. he ignores the claustrophobia that mounts throughout the summer, through the clouds of smoke of people driving away in their cars, bags packed, faces giddy. people that were too old for him in school-- people that he never really knew because of it. people that make shame curdle in his stomach anyway.
harley’s twenty-two when he writes it out for the first time: i’m scared of not being enough. he’s twenty-two and he’s not a kid anymore, so there’s nothing that justifies how much he cries over that stupid piece of paper, but he does it anyway and can’t even finish the thing. he has to stick a bag of frozen peas over his eyes and sleep it off in the garage.
in the morning, he’s twenty-two and a day older, and rereading what he wrote so far feels like reading a note someone else had left behind for him. the words feel alien, but that’s fine-- that makes it more bearable. harley adds heights under it. then spiders. big spiders, he writes, but also really little ones, because then how the fuck do you keep track of where they go?, and some time later when he’s carefully traced the certainty of each letter, he folds up the paper for whenever this balloon thing’s supposed to happen and tucks it away.
then he goes back to work.
--
i’m scared of not doing enough. i’m scared of not being enough. i’m scared my friends don’t really like me. i’m scared they’ll realize they could do more and do better and that they’ll find more and find better. i’m scared my mom thinks i want to leave her too. i’m scared that she doesn’t know i love her, that i’d never ever ever do that to her. i’m scared that i’m never gonna be able to tell her that. why can’t i tell people that? how’s throwing a stupid balloon supposed to help me figure th
i’m scared of heights. i’m scared of spiders. like, big spiders, but small ones too, because then how do you keep track of where they go? i’m scared of airplanes. i’ve never been on one, but i don’t need that experience to know i’m right. i’m scared of their wheels that look like little dinosaur hands from a distance but are probably, like three times my size. i’m scared this balloon’s gonna pop in someone’s tree and they’ll read it and recognize my handwriting. if that’s what happened, if you’re reading this right now, just make sure you recycle this and save the environment and shit, okay? thanks.
sitting crossed legged on his bed, a sleeping cat purring contently at his side, tate looked down at the piece of paper he was going to be tying to a balloon and letting it go up in the air. he felt sort of bad because they were going to be putting more plastic into the air, but this was something he’s wanted to do for a while. he held so much weight on his shoulders that he tried to hide away. when he finally could manage to put the pen on the paper and start writing about it, it felt like he couldn’t stop. with his coffee steam warming his side, the sound of rain pattering on the ground below, and the comfy blanket wrapped around his shoulders, tate started to write away his feelings.
“Thinking of what to put here made me realize there are two things I need to work on. Two fears that plague me constantly. Being alone and not being enough.
The first one makes me feel bad. I know I have friends all over, and that fact makes me the happiest person in the world. Especially here in the Cape I have friends that I know I’ll never be able to let go of. But I think this and my second fear work together to make something not so nice. Who really likes me? I like everyone here, honestly. There aren’t many people I don’t like. When I’m around the people I enjoy though I wonder ‘Do they want to be here as much as I do? Do they like and care for me as I care for them?’ I worry that one day I’ll ask to hang out and no one will want to anymore. I worry they’ll get hurt and leave me alone.
Without people, my next fear would be impossible to beat. Some days it’s already too much that I feel like I can’t get out of bed. If it weren’t for my friends, what would stop me?
I love my job, I really do. I love talking to people and writing about them. Love following the lives of others, seeing their successes, their loss, their love. They inspire me so much, and writing them couldn’t be more rewarding. I feel like everyone sits back and looks at their work and thinks Is this good? I look at the stories though and at times think Wow, who am I compared to this people?
It’s a weird feeling that’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m not doing enough with my time. I feel like my writing isn’t good enough to express how lovely the people’s lives are. I feel like I’m not good enough. Who am I? Well, I’m Tate Lee, a journalist. What else though? Is there anything about me that makes people want to stick around? I know how I feel about others. I get attached easily. I see different things in every single person I meet that makes me feel like they are the best people in the world. I don’t think people see that with me. I don’t think I have something that would make them.
Writing this got way too long, which is the bad journalist habit I have, but it’s made me realize that maybe I should go talk to someone in order to solve this. I don’t want to talk to my friends because I know when others talk to me about their issues, I get sad. I don’t want them to get sad. It would be nice though to be the one talking for once instead of listening… so maybe I’ll see what the Cape has for therapists. Or maybe I should go home and talk to mom. Lolli is a pretty good listener too, but she squirms if I hold her too long. I think watching this go up in a balloon will also be nice, and I hope it brings some relief to me as well as everyone else.”
