Time-Out on Terror
The pulse of my shower feels like fingers snatching at my hair. The shower curtain flutters and I feel the presence of a person sneaking. I think about that Psycho scene, the stabbing in the shower, where Janet Leigh’s body drains hot chocolate. I used to have clear sliding shower doors; although the warped pattern made images blurry, I knew when someone was in the room. But the curtain I am not used to, and now whenever it grazes my leg I peek out the side just to make sure there is not a guy with an awful face holding a knife. I used to not be afraid of horror movies. I remember watching Child’s Play when I was little with my sister; she had a bad reaction to it, and cried until my father turned the screen off with a static click. And then I started carrying on because I wanted to finish it and no one would let me. And maybe that is the reason why, now, horror movies really do the job for me. But it is an addiction—both watching the movies and the