abjecthorreur-blog
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a collection of words.
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v. (an epilogue)
iāve had some time to think about it again. about us. about you.Ā
this movie is about the monster, and iām the main event.Ā
you didnāt make me.Ā
i made me.Ā
i stitch myself back together when i fall apart. i give myself my medicine and i bandage up my wounds.Ā
i am opening the windows of this weary old house and clearing out the dust.Ā
i make the most of this flesh and this blood, these teeth and these bones. this gift and this curse.Ā
i am finding my voice again; howling and wailing, but also singing. my heartsong is a little off-beat and just a note out of tune, but itās mine.Ā
this horrible body is mine.Ā
itās mine, itās mine, itās mine.
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iv.Ā
a few years ago, i was asked, āwhat are you afraid of?āĀ
i am afraid of so many things; puppets, most insects, fire, and even on really bad nights iām still afraid of the dark.Ā
but what really scares me the most, what i really wanted to say more than anything was simply, āthe day she stops loving me.āĀ
now i canāt help but wonder if it would be easier if that day finally came. i donāt want to be burdened by the knowledge that youāre out there, still saying āi love youā and really meaning it. i wish that you hated me. i want to hate you. maybe then i could finally feel like iām waking up from this fucking nightmare.
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iii.
love is like a house. a strong foundation and sturdy walls provide shelter, somewhere to grow. things may change; the bedroom gets painted a new color, the kitchen expands. but a house is still a house, and together we made a home. but now this house is haunted and i have no place to call home and i am getting so cold out here.
i sometimes hear your voice whispering through the trees, a quiet rustle like the wind. itās easier, i think, when it feels more like a memory than the truth. i remember how it sounded when you sang to me and the warmth of your laugh.Ā i think about calling you but i know you wonāt pick up. youāve left me a voicemail again but i canāt bring myself to listen. itās easier this way, i tell myself. a clean break, like when you fell and broke your arm.Ā
the sky falls apart and the earth opens up and yet for some reason i am still here, for some reason i am waking. but am i really awake?Ā
i find myself walking much farther than usual these days. maybe i donāt really intend on coming back. but thatās between myself and the bees and the flowers and the trees. i carve secrets into dead trees and know you will never decode them by the light of day. you donāt live here anymore, i know you wonāt see them.
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ii.
sometimes i feel like frankensteinās monster, like iām just made up of parts of someone else.Ā
i have my motherās eyes and my fatherās smile and my grandmotherās nose and my grandfatherās chin. i have my fatherās compassion and my motherās short fuse and my grandmotherās ambition and my grandfatherās sense of humor. i look just like my sister in my baby photos. i donāt look like my brothers unless we smile, but they taught me how to swear and how to win a fist fight and how to smoke.Ā
we pick up habits and catchphrases from our friends, trading them between us like pokemon cards. some of them are unconscious things that happen naturally, like when i start saying āsynergyā or āthat checks outā or when they start saying ābad larry.ā i try to remember where things come from, like how my favorite flannel came from nigel, or how chloe taught me how to kiss with tongue. but if i were on the slab in a laboratory and i was dissected and they tried to separate and label my pieces based on where i found them, they couldnāt get everything right.Ā
i donāt know how to quantify how much of you i find in me, or how much of myself i see in you. i donāt know who i am without you. who is frankensteinās monster without the doctor frankenstein?Ā
just a monster, right?Ā
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Frankenstein
Directed by James Whale (1931)
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we sleep in the basement, collecting cobwebs and dust. the spiders spin webs and we spin tales of how weāll always be friends forever. we want to believe that things wonāt change, to think that we could stay the same. like that song you told me about. but we have been left behind. you have been left behind. i feel left behind, too. maybe it would be easier if i had been.
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Ghosts No. 45,Ā February, 1976. Cover art byĀ Luis Dominguez.
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i drift now like a ghost, a wandering spirit. restless, not quite vengeful. revenge wonāt bring me peace, i know this, i know this, i remind myself. (i think about it anyway.)
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i wanted to hold a funeral but i didnāt have anything to bury.
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in folklore, a bansheeās wailing signals a death in the family. but who is there to warn you of the death of your younger self who was perhaps in equal measure your dearest and most neglected friend? who wails for your lost youth, a daze of delighted shrieks? who cries when the best parts of your soul dies, leaving you with nothing but carnage?
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i have dreams ā nightmares ā of my teeth falling out. my teeth, my horrible fangs, already too much for my mouth. down and out they fall, i can do nothing to stop them. thereās too many to count, but i donāt think anything human could ever have this many.Ā
maybe i was never human to begin with, i think, as i try to stop the bleeding with saltwater.Ā
waves crash against rocks and i call out to you where you sit on the shore. you donāt look up from your book. i try again, i try again, i try, i try, i try in vain. you donāt hear me. perhaps you never could. i let myself sink back into the cold, dark depths and beg the water to heal me.Ā
my eyes are stinging and my lungs are aching and my hands are cold, so, so cold. i open my mouth to scream and the water does the rest.
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maybe iām not so much a corpse as i am a werewolf.Ā
i am too big for my flesh, there is something clawing its way out of me, bursting at the seams. my bones snap and my skin stretches and i throw my head back and i howl, a foreign sound, like a secret i share with the stars. a declaration that i am here, though i donāt quite understand what that means. i am a beast most wild.Ā
thereās a hunger deep in my belly that i canāt sate. not an itch that i canāt scratch, but a scab that i canāt stop picking.Ā
Ā i fear that i am something truly unknowable -- or worse, i am something you already know and shy away from. i am afraid of myself in my truest form and what happens when you see me for all that i am.
i am the wolf and you are the full moon; the light under which i transform into this grotesque thing, snapping my ribs like branches under foot, my heart running faster than a rabbit.Ā
silver leaves a scar and you touch me and my skin turns red; holy things burn monsters like me.
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i, myself, am an abject horror.Ā
letās start at the beginning.Ā
abject ā abĀ·ject
/ĖabĖjekt,abĖjekt/
Ā ā adjective; 1. (of something bad) experienced or present to the maximum degree.Ā
horror ā horĀ·ror
/ĖhĆ“rÉr/
ā noun;Ā 1. an intense feeling of fear, shock, or disgust.
now put them together and what do you get?Ā
(maybe thatās a little too abstract)
itās like seeing a dead body. a visceral reminder of your own death, a disgusting way of the universe saying āit only gets worse.ā when āthat could never happen to meā falls apart and suddenly āthis could happen to meā has a lot more weight.
(the only difference between me and a corpse is how we do our makeup.)
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