Horror movies don't scare me. They used to. They used to give me awful nightmares. Cold, sweaty, jerky nightmares. I never screamed though. I woke up silently, so no one came to comfort me. It was sick irony. Like a flower that can only thrive in the Winter. Or a miscarriage.
But now I sleep. I realize that each artificial Hollywood sequence is devised within a set of uniquely bullshit circumstances, and my own life is too fucked to accommodate them, so there's nothing to fear. It's a hollow reality I exist in, not one of wet and exciting plot lines. It only scares the viewer, never the character.
Her face rises to show eyes squinting. Ink black hair whipping around her head in the wind. Fat drops of sweat wander down her skin like rats leaving a sinking ship. They mix with the rain. Tongue slips out between chapped lips and jaw expands, clenches, releases. She imagines her teeth shattering into a million pieces and getting stuck in her throat. Somehow that would be better than going on. She sinks back into the grass, glistening in the dark moonlight. The rain is over now. Sweat becomes one with the dew and she is entangled in her own despair, guitar solo echoing around her addled brains. Nothing compares with the amped snow. And the Stardust.
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