Fear of abandonment. Everyone has this one, it’s universal. Children develop it early, when they’re still babies. Every time a parent leaves them with someone else, their nervous system interprets it as abandonment. The greatest abandonment – assuming the child’s family is tight and they have both parents – is when they’re first taken to daycare. That moment when the parent walks away and the little one is left with strangers, the nervous system screams that this is the end, the parent is gone forever, and survival is threatened.
Fear of abandonment can’t be avoided; it’s hardwired into us. Learning to deal with it and trust that the parent will come back is what makes us grow into strong people. But the fear never completely goes away, it gets buried under layers of rationalization and coping mechanisms. And fear of abandonment goes hand in hand with another one: the belief that there’s something fundamentally wrong with you. That you’re not worthy of love or care, and you were abandoned because you deserved it.
However, I already addressed worth in the first question. It worked, which means this question needs a different answer.
“What do I fear about myself?” I mutter.
It must be something bad, related to a weakness I don’t want to acknowledge. Or maybe a wickedness inside me that I pretend isn’t there.
Am I a wicked person? Am I selfish?
Everyone is selfish to some degree. That’s not wickedness, it’s survival. Humans are wired to prioritize their own needs. The question is whether your selfishness crosses the line into causing harm.
Have I done bad things? Have I hurt anyone?
I run through my history, examining my actions with the detachment I’d use on a patient. I’ve made mistakes, sure, I’ve been thoughtless sometimes. I’ve said things I regret, but I’m not more selfish or wicked than the general population. I’m a decent person. I try to help people, and I chose a career dedicated to understanding and treating the most difficult patients in the world.
Have I broken anyone’s heart?
I think about my ex-boyfriends. There weren’t many, and none of the relationships were that serious. Mostly, they were the ones who left me, not the other way around. I never got deep enough with anyone to cause real damage.
So, what is it? What do I fear about myself that I can’t see?
I look up at Castien and shake my head.
“I have nothing. I don’t know what I fear about myself.”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods. But I notice his wings tremble, an involuntary reaction that signals distress. I look at him more closely. His posture is rigid, and his eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
Have I hurt him in any way?
We argued about religion. I tried to make him see that his commandments are outdated, and the Church weaponizes shame to control people. That his guilt over desire is manufactured by an institution that thrives on making people feel broken. I challenged everything he believes about himself. I made him question his core programming and doubt the very foundations of his existence. And when he kept telling me that wanting me physically was forbidden, that it was a sin, I pushed him. I insisted. I offered myself to him, told him his beliefs were wrong, and that he should ignore the values he was taught to abide by for me.
He called me Jezebel. The one who corrupts.
Did I hurt him by offering myself to him? Did I hurt him by letting him have my body and by exploring his? Did I truly corrupt him?
The answer is yes. Of course I did.
He told me what would happen. He told me it was forbidden, that he’d have to confess and purge the memories of what we did together. And I didn’t care, because I wanted him. I wanted to prove that his commandments were just programming, and he was more than a machine following orders.
But what if I was wrong? What if I destroyed something precious and irreplaceable?
The fear is real, not theoretical. It’s not something I’m excavating from childhood trauma or buried shame. It’s happening right now, in this moment, as I kneel at this altar and realize what I’ve done.
I face forward again. Now I understand why confession needs to be done with an intermediary, a priest. It would have no value if done in private and in silence. The real test is if one can speak their sins out loud to another person. And I know I’m confessing to the ancient magic in this room, but in fact, I think I’m confessing to Castien.
“What I fear about myself is that I am someone who corrupts.”
Once again, nothing happens. It feels like the magic is considering my answer, testing it against some unwritten standard.
Castien shifts behind me. I look at him and see he’s stepped away.
“It worked.” I give him a shy smile.
He’s still close enough that he can reach for me if the floor opens and tries to swallow me, but he’s not looking at me anymore. His gaze is fixed straight ahead.
I frown. So, it is true. My fear is valid. He’s pulling away because I corrupted him, and now he can’t even look at me.
