With a deep breath, Charlie wrapped the blanket tighter, and squeezed the play button down. The glowing television gave the illusion of cascading darkness. An eerie score rose both in volume and the hairs on her arm as studio logos flashed and faded. It was ten in the morning, and most of the family was out of the house or preoccupied. A full moon, a dark figure, a blade, and a scream. Charlie held her breath, determined not to look away for the next two hours.
Eleven years old and she couldn’t take another day of being afraid, and at the mercy of something so trivial. Over movies. Oh her parents told her it was okay, they’d comforted her for as long as she could remember. Never teased. No one ever did. Charlie knew it was somehow expected of her, that her fear was excusable, all because she was a girl. Though she’d never used the words, Charlie thought that that was utter bullshit. It made her furious. Inflamed not only by their expectations, but at her own unintentional pandering to them. It had to stop. It wasn’t a matter of bravery, fear had no control anywhere else in her life. She welcomed heights, crowds, stages. She’d rationalized, knew she was safe, that it was all imagined. But when push came to shove, her anxieties always got the best of her. She couldn’t understand why she got so shook. Scary movies, spooky stories, her Achilles heel.
A few years prior Charlie caught a clip of an old horror movie on a basic entertainment show Magema had left on following the news. There was nothing grotesque about it. No real violence, no blood. A man with a knife, chasing a young screaming babysitter through the halls of a house, and that was it.
She couldn’t sleep for days.
It was torture. Shapes of various villains hid in the shadowy darkness of her bedroom while she lay wide eyed. Frantic shivers rose as the clock inched towards midnight. Every moment within the witching hour carouselled endless revolving thoughts of every scary story she’d heard, round and round until she made herself sick with worry. Obsessing over every creak, and squeal as their old house groaned. That was one of many occasions. Charlie was tired of it, and she was taking action.
The fearless composure her little sister Emanuella carried while they watched films together was something Charlie’d always admired. The pattern stayed true since when they were nothing more than toddlers watching Disney films. The moment fangs came out, scary wolves snapped their jaws, or the violins began to to screech, Charlie would cower, tuck herself away into the nooks of Em’s arms, the hems of her clothes, and hide her eyes until her sister told gave her a soft thoughtful tap on the shoulder, signifying she was safe to look again. It mattered not if she’d seen the films hundreds of times, these moments still had such their effect, still terrified her.
In her more shameful moments, her ego’d persuaded her that Emanuella’s courage came from her disability. That she couldn’t comprehend the horror because she couldn’t hear the terrifying sounds. But deep down she knew that wasn’t the truth. It wasn’t the intensity of some classical score that frightened Charlie enough to hide her face. She was scared. Plain and simple. And she wanted to get over it.
Her friend’s birthday slumber party loomed. Mere weeks away. Days before Halloween. The probability of spooky movies certain. Anxiety over a film was too much, too frustrating. She was mature enough to know that the dread she felt from something so inconsequential outweighing the excitement of a friend’s celebration was ridiculous. So she made a plan.
Explanations her mother and father had given about fictions of films, that everything was okay, that what she saw on screen was nothing but actors and clever special effects had never taken hold, nor gave comfort. Though the ideas had seeded something. In her efforts to move forward Charlie became curious. Looked online, behind the scenes. Pillaged the special features on her father’s cherished DVDs. Found short documentaries, and interviews from SFX and make up artists. Found tutorials to make fake blood, dismembered limbs, bullet squibs, prosthetics, and the importance of camera angles in action scenes until she understood enough to push forward.
The closer she came to the grips of her fear, the more the addictive emotion manifested. The mental trickster cautioned that she would grow out of this, that she was spoiling magic of movies. Charlie didn’t believe a word. Never wavered. Knew the spoils of her gamble would outweigh the losses.
There was a lot at stake. She’d ignored the potential punishment for watching a film rated well above her age. Risked outrage from parents burdened with another one of her sleepless nights. Permission would be easy enough. But it would come with company. With a guardian. This was a path she needed to walk alone.
The moment had arrived. She sipped her cooling coco, and forged onwards with the film. She’d set herself up for success. Methodical, intentionally choosing to watch in the morning, early enough to process the scary she was ingesting. Leaving plenty of time to fill the day with other activities, and decrease the amount she’d ruminate while trying to sleep.
Heads began to roll in the sleepy hollow. She still flinched, but her increased heartbeat caused more excitement than terror. With a new calibrated and curious eye, she looked onwards. Tuned to the artistry as opposed to being swept away by the horror.
In the centre of her anxiety was something else. Out of place though familiar. Beginning with a buzz in the back of her head where her spine met her skull. Washing in the swells of her autonomy, Charlie felt a little pride. She bundled the blankets closer and leaned in.
Thanks for reading! Be sure to check out the rest of the The Haés’s chronicles.
-Mr. Write