The Fear of Go

36

My mother used to slip into my room at night and ask
me to pray.

“Shannon, your grandfather has been sick. You should
pray for him.”

The room was dark. I lay on the bottom bunk, my
sister above me, each snore a gag. Why does she want
me to pray? I thought. What good do the prayers of a
non-believer do?

Left alone at night with the task, fruStration gripped
me so I couldn’t reSi. My mother interpreted my Atheism
as defiance and laziness. That was far from the truth. It
would have been much easier to believe, to go to bed
at night with hope, to get on my knees and pray like
someone was liStening. InStead, I went to bed not know-
ing scared and unsure. I would have liked to believe
that with faith, I could change my world. That through
this hope I could feel a sense of togetherness and belong-
ing. I wanted a scripture that would turn me to putty and
mold me so I would wake up certain of the differences
between right and wrong and have a map to guide me
though the chaos and confusion,

My mother decided the beSt way to make a believer out
of me was to put the fear of God in me. I would come
home from school to find news clippings on my bed of
women who were missing or raped or killed. Sometimes
I would run at dusk, which my mother hated.

I would tell her, “It’s not that late, mom”.

“RapiSts don’t have hours,” she’d say. “Shannon, if you
were walking down the Sireet and a man was behind you
and you Started walking faSter and then he Started walk-
ing faSter and then you Started running and he Started
running, would you not think, ‘Dear God, please help
me?!” I thought this an extreme way to coerce me into
my first relationship with God.

One day, when my parents were away, I went out
running. A man was behind me. I quickened my pace,
and so did he. I Slarted to sprint, and so did he. I thought,
Please God, don’t let this man hurt me, but the thought
was meaningless. The inStinctual phrase was quickly
phased out, replaced with legitimate survival tactics. I
ran like wild prey into my den to escape being ripped
into pieces and eaten from the inside out.

Sa SpSaSaSy

By Shannon Stasyk

IlluStraion by Jesse Stasiuk

My dad used to drink. He Still does, but I don’t believe
he is an alcoholic anymore, no more than the reSt of
us. It was different then. His love of cinnamon hearts
and black licorice I know was born from the Strength
of their flavors. My mom said she didn’t know he was
an alcoholic when they got together. Maybe that is the

truth, or maybe she is juSt too ashamed to admit she fell
for another one afier the firSt beat her black and blue. My
father never beat my mother; he is a good man, but just

a man like she is juSt a woman two people living. The
fighting was frequent, the soundtrack of my life. Screams
so loud, the neighbours thought us trash I’m sure. My
hySterical mother Stormed out of the house as though
escaping years of being held hoStage. She sobbed ugly
sobs as her slippers scuffed along the pavement. My dad
chased her every time, which I thought was an act of
aggression. It made me go mad until one day he didn’t