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 feeling of being petrified.
When I am done
watching a thriller I am careful to leave each room with a glance over my
shoulder. I am not really sure whom I
expect to see, or what, but I imagine it is something terrifying, something
that will paralyze me just by the sight.
And it is the worst in bathrooms; if a shower curtain is closed, a
compulsion to draw it open ensues my being—I just have to check and make sure
no corpses are hiding behind the screen.
* * *
In preparation for these Halloween festivities I have been
frightening myself completely by having a “movies based on true serial killers
and murders” marathon.
So far I have watched the 6 movies listed below:
*Natalee Holloway
*Dead Beat
*Heavenly Creatures
*Murder in Greenwich
*Karla
*An American Crime
This post is in honor of all the human beings who were
killed, and who lost out on living (esp. Sylvia Likens—because what happened to
her was human brutality at its most disgustingly vile and hideously horrifying. And in fact, it was extremely inhumane).
R.I.P. Cookie |
In 1965 a sixteen-year-old Sylvia was brutally slaughtered.
Do you know where your children are?
Down there, burning the girl in the basement.
And a decrepit asthmatic is their monster.
Do you know where your children are?
Practicing Judo on a human punching bag,
and obeying the orders of a deteriorating asthmatic
as she engraves a lewd message on the girl’s skin.
Beating, punching, scraping the human punching bag.
They make her eat her own defecation and taste a coca cola
bottle between her legs.
And there's the beast branding the girl’s decaying skin.
And as her brain leaks and drowns they wash their red hands.
They made her eat her own defecation and taste a coca cola
bottle between her legs.
They kept burning their cigarettes butts out on her arms.
The children, they let her brain drown while the asthmatic
washed her own bloody hands.
In 1965 a sixteen-year-old Sylvia died.
Do you know where all the parents were?
* * *
On a much lighter note, I had an epiphany from all this ("epiphany—I love that word—it sounds like icicles breaking" - Maggie Grace as Martha Moxley in "Murder in Greenwich"), I am going to donate
money to a child abuse organization. And I decided that I want to definitely do something in
the mystery/thriller/horror sector of publication. There was always a reason for me loving this
man:
Here is one of my favorite short stories by the man, Stephen King: http://www.krypta-smierci.neostrada.pl/ebooks/Stephen%20King%20-%20Night%20Shift%20-%20The%20Man%20Who%20Loved%20Flowers.html
* * *
Formula for Fear (The Stock Character
of Murder)
Does it always have to be either a
sunny or shitty day? Can it not just be
an autumn day with the leaves spewed in fading colors, where a subtle chill
soaks the breeze in the sky that is sunny anyway? Or is that not exactly what you wanted?
Is it always a path you take your
mother to, or a desert where you drop off your latest lover? Can it be that local drugstore off of route
89, where Sal makes your morning coffee?
Who is it, that hunky teenage-dream
postered on your wall crooning with caked makeup and a fake mole? Or that fat-fuck crusty bulbous man who lurks
in school parks? Or the janitor at the elementary? Maybe though it is those two sister Christians
calling that the time has come? They don’t
look any more devilish than the men do, do they?
Now that it is all set up for you,
you choose.
*It is important to me that I did not offend anyone with this post. I have been completely disturbed by the information I uncovered from my mini movie marathon and research, and I just had feelings and writings to share on these subjects; I hope that they come across compassionately.
All I hope is that this made you think, for even a second.
I thank you all for reading.
Comments
Post a Comment