Vulnerability

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The dictionary defines “vulnerability” as “the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.” In one sense, vulnerability is a defining characteristic of the human condition; however, definitions and applications of this concept are diverse.

Early jockeying of groups defined as vulnerable in research ethics guidelines, those who are sick or impoverished, and those who belong to a minority group, implied that vulnerability could be considered a product of both internal factors (e.g., a limited capacity to consent) and external factors (e.g., a subordinate position). More recent research indicates that although often characterised in an unfavourable light, vulnerability is not necessarily a negative attribute. To be human is to be vulnerable. This fact does not relieve society of an obligation to address it. It mandates an ethical duty to create just and equitable social systems that promote autonomy, foster engagement, enhance cultural safety and support the well-being of all.

After the military, I got into a little trouble on the street and was referred to Dr Sara Beckelhimer, a therapist, to explore and possibly treat my social vulnerability issues. I fell for the line and became a regular patient of Dr Beckelhimer, with a regular Tuesday afternoon appointment.

Dr Beckelhimer, I learned later, was excited by the idea of treating a writer, and she turned a lot of our time together into writing exercises.

I met with her for a couple of months and was beginning to think there might be something to this whole song and dance when, one Tuesday afternoon, she told me that she thought it could be beneficial if I were to write about a recurring character from her dreams.

Her character, she told me, should be named Annie and that I could make up whatever family name I chose.

I would choose a hyphenated name, “Martine-DuBauer.”

Her character, she told me, was a very charming, charismatic, and persuasive woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She was very aggressive and lied incessantly. Anything that might go wrong was someone else’s fault, and she always needed to be in charge.

I told her I would work on it, and she was pleased.

“I look forward to reading what you come up with next Tuesday,” she said.

I left her office, returned home, and promptly forgot my assignment until Monday afternoon. Panicked, I sat down at my desk with a bottle of single malt and scribbled out the story of Annie Martine-DuBauer. She was all the things that Dr Beckelhimer had suggested, and she was a serial killer. It was a great story that compelled me to write until well after midnight, then dragged myself to bed and passed out in a drunken stupor.

It was early when the phone trilled, waking me from my self-induced somnolence. I found the phone and slurred into the handpiece, “Hullo.”

A sultry feminine voice came back to me across the line, “Good morning, sir,” said the voice, “I’m trying to reach TN Kerr.”

“Speaking,” I replied.

“Mr Kerr,” she continued, “my name is Detective Martine with the Harbour City Police Department. I need to ask you some questions about an incident we believe you may have witnessed last week on the corner of Beach and 16th. Do you have a few minutes?”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Detective Anne Martine, Harbour City PD,” she repeated, and my eyes widened.

“Is that a hyphenated family name?” I asked.

“No, Anne is my first name,” she said, “Martine is my last name, but it is hyphenated, though I seldom use it as such. It’s actually Martine-DuBauer. And my friends call me Annie. I’m in the neighbourhood and wondered if I could stop by and chat.”

I gripped the phone tighter and put my hand on my forehead, “Yeah, maybe we should do that.” I said, “Do you know how to get here?”

“Of course I do,” said Annie, “I’ll be there in ten.” She hung up the phone. I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee.

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