The Jabberwock

As a girl, fear is constantly projected onto me. “Be afraid,” I am told by my mother; of strange men, of friendly men, of angry men. Be afraid of what they want from you, and what they will do to get it. “Be careful,” I am told by a woman in her car,”because the man that pulled up next to you on the sidewalk was looking at you weird.” So I watch my back walking home late at night, keys slotted in between my knuckles, skittish and ready to run at any moment. My heart drops to my stomach every time I see a group of boys that I have to get past. So much of my life is consumed by fear that it has turned into a comfort, something I crave. I fulfill my hunger late at night, watching creature features, slashers, paranormals, and psychological thrillers.
Being an avid horror fan, a noticeable trend in these movies is that young women– girls– are often the main characters. Perhaps because an audience needs something to fear for, something delicate that could easily be broken by a ghost-faced killer or a clawed man. But with these final girls, I find myself growing jealous. They too are consumed by fear, yet they get to do something about it. Although the catcalls and lewd comments from boys younger than me to men much older may not be as dangerous, I still feel their impact like a kitchen knife to the chest. I do not fight back. I feel docile, meek. I have so much anger built up, but I am too scared to do anything about it. These girls I see on television, they do something about their tormentation, they get their revenge. Their finality is concrete, they cannot be killed off.
Scary movies aren’t scary, really, when compared to the horror of real life. I am not afraid of a demonic clown or a blood-sucking vampire; I am afraid of a man following me back to my home. It’s terrifying to know that I will never face any of the horrors created by the human mind, but could face monsters created from human nature, I would much rather fight off an alien than something real. Horror movies distract me from the real fear I feel, and replace it with a fear that is wholly artificial and joyful. This fear is one that I can have fun with, one that makes me look away because I’m scared of what will happen, rather than a fear where I cannot look away because I’m scared of what will happen if I’m not vigilant enough.
My parents are disturbed by the amount of gore I consume– watching those movies gives them nightmares– but I watch films of girls turning into werewolves, of girls with a craving for human flesh, of girls who are horrified by their ever changing body and mind, and they resonate with me. I am not scared of these girls, no, we are one and the same. Their transformations are violent and unwelcome, and I watch them unfurl, eyes wide because I understand what they go through. I go through it too. Puberty has changed me, just like those girls. I have turned into a hairy monster and my psyche has become unstable, just like theirs.
Scary films have allowed the narrative to change, the story to flip. In these movies women can tell men, “Be afraid,” and they listen. Although women usually go through some sort of possession, or monstrous change in order to harm, horror movies are where women get to be unabashedly rageful, angry, and mean. They are allowed to be destructive, and no one can stop them. These women have ruined me, because now I want to be angry too. I can no longer stand to watch perfect protagonists who bite their lips and hold in their tears when hit, I want to see them get mad and hit back.
Horror movies have brought me a twisted sort of comfort. They allow me to have control over my fear, something all-consuming that I will never be rid of.