H78
02-10-2009, 05:06 PM
“Relax,” mother laughed. “It’s only a movie.”
As hard as it was to make it through the first 40 minutes of A Nightmare on Elm Street, my insatiable curiosity forced me to keep my eyes open. For some reason, even at my tender, easily-influenced age, I wanted to see more of what the demented killer had in store for the movie’s groggy, sleepless teenagers.
“I know, mom,” I said. “I’m not too scared. It’s only a movie and he’s only wearing makeup.”
“You got it, kiddo,” she told me.
That Friday night was no different than most other Friday nights. My mother, still naive at 32, never saw the problem in letting her eight-year-old son watch horror films. Whenever I’d get scared she’d always say the same thing – it’s just a movie.
Over time, I came to believe what she told me. While a certain part of me wanted to believe that Freddy Kruger was invading the homes of my teenage neighbors, I never truly believed it was happening. Horror was a just a genre of movies, not a glimpse into reality.
When it wasn’t A Nightmare on Elm Street, it was Halloween. If not Halloween, it was Hellraiser, or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or Friday the 13th. Every weekend saw a new villain chasing new teenagers until a heroine brought an end to all the madness. The more I watched, the less impressed I became with the formula. That is, until one Friday night at the video store, mother told me I could pick any movie I wanted.
“Psycho?” she asked. “That movie’s really old. It’s in black-and-white you know. Are you sure you want to rent that? You should get this one, Black Christmas.”
I don’t know what drew my attention to the cardboard box containing the antiquated VHS tape, but something about the woman screaming and the gray mansion entranced me.
“No, I want to get this one. I watch The Munsters, and that’s in black-and-white. Maybe I’ll like this one too.”
“Well, OK I suppose. No falling asleep though,” she warned.
That night was unlike any of the previous Friday nights. Mother dozed off minutes into the film but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the grainy, vintage display. Something seemed familiar about the film, something unlike the other horror films we’d rented in weeks past.
This time, there weren’t any unstoppable killing machines, guys behind masks, or demons from another world. There was just what appeared to be a regular guy, Norman, who ended up doing things to people that, for once, seemed real.
When people hit Norman, he fell to the ground, unlike Jason or Pinhead. I could see the pain in Norman’s face, unlike Freddy or Michael. Yet, despite his humanistic qualities, he still killed people. I had a hard time convincing myself that this could only be make-believe, but I still tried.
“It’s just a movie,” I reminded myself. “It’s just a movie…it’s all fake, just like the others.”
The more I tried to convince myself that what I was seeing wasn’t possible, the harder it became to actually believe it. Norman was just a normal person, but he still did horrible things to people, just like all the monsters from the other movies. Terrified, I tried to wake mother.
“Come on, kiddo, I’m tired. Shut the movie off if you’re scared. Remember, it’s all fake,” she whispered.
For once, I didn’t believe her. Norman seemed as real as I was; there was no way everything he did couldn’t happen in real life…
“And that’s when you killed her?” Dr. Petrakis asked. “That’s when you decided killing her was the only way to get your sure answer?”
“I thought it was all fake but I needed to know it was all fake…”
“And the way you looked for an answer was to bludgeon your mother with a butcher knife?” Dr. Petrakis interrupted. “You’ve kept this reason, this secret, for 10 years. Is this real to you...this conversation? Is your incarceration real?”
“I had to know,” I said. “She always told me that what happened in the movies wasn’t real and that it couldn’t happen in real life. I did what I did because I believed her. Only after I saw the blood did I know she had lied to me.”
“She lied to you?”
“Yes.”
“The parole board isn’t going to let you go, and they shouldn’t,” Dr. Petrakis said. “You’re likely going to be transferred to maximum security now that you’re 18 years old. Truthfully, if they ask for my assessment of your condition, I’m going to say that a maximum security facility is exactly where you belong. It’s my time to leave now.”
“Eventually Norman was released, doctor! He was released and he was in the other movies! That’s what really happened! Doctor! He was released!”
“Goodbye, Anthony.”
As hard as it was to make it through the first 40 minutes of A Nightmare on Elm Street, my insatiable curiosity forced me to keep my eyes open. For some reason, even at my tender, easily-influenced age, I wanted to see more of what the demented killer had in store for the movie’s groggy, sleepless teenagers.
“I know, mom,” I said. “I’m not too scared. It’s only a movie and he’s only wearing makeup.”
“You got it, kiddo,” she told me.
That Friday night was no different than most other Friday nights. My mother, still naive at 32, never saw the problem in letting her eight-year-old son watch horror films. Whenever I’d get scared she’d always say the same thing – it’s just a movie.
Over time, I came to believe what she told me. While a certain part of me wanted to believe that Freddy Kruger was invading the homes of my teenage neighbors, I never truly believed it was happening. Horror was a just a genre of movies, not a glimpse into reality.
When it wasn’t A Nightmare on Elm Street, it was Halloween. If not Halloween, it was Hellraiser, or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or Friday the 13th. Every weekend saw a new villain chasing new teenagers until a heroine brought an end to all the madness. The more I watched, the less impressed I became with the formula. That is, until one Friday night at the video store, mother told me I could pick any movie I wanted.
“Psycho?” she asked. “That movie’s really old. It’s in black-and-white you know. Are you sure you want to rent that? You should get this one, Black Christmas.”
I don’t know what drew my attention to the cardboard box containing the antiquated VHS tape, but something about the woman screaming and the gray mansion entranced me.
“No, I want to get this one. I watch The Munsters, and that’s in black-and-white. Maybe I’ll like this one too.”
“Well, OK I suppose. No falling asleep though,” she warned.
That night was unlike any of the previous Friday nights. Mother dozed off minutes into the film but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the grainy, vintage display. Something seemed familiar about the film, something unlike the other horror films we’d rented in weeks past.
This time, there weren’t any unstoppable killing machines, guys behind masks, or demons from another world. There was just what appeared to be a regular guy, Norman, who ended up doing things to people that, for once, seemed real.
When people hit Norman, he fell to the ground, unlike Jason or Pinhead. I could see the pain in Norman’s face, unlike Freddy or Michael. Yet, despite his humanistic qualities, he still killed people. I had a hard time convincing myself that this could only be make-believe, but I still tried.
“It’s just a movie,” I reminded myself. “It’s just a movie…it’s all fake, just like the others.”
The more I tried to convince myself that what I was seeing wasn’t possible, the harder it became to actually believe it. Norman was just a normal person, but he still did horrible things to people, just like all the monsters from the other movies. Terrified, I tried to wake mother.
“Come on, kiddo, I’m tired. Shut the movie off if you’re scared. Remember, it’s all fake,” she whispered.
For once, I didn’t believe her. Norman seemed as real as I was; there was no way everything he did couldn’t happen in real life…
“And that’s when you killed her?” Dr. Petrakis asked. “That’s when you decided killing her was the only way to get your sure answer?”
“I thought it was all fake but I needed to know it was all fake…”
“And the way you looked for an answer was to bludgeon your mother with a butcher knife?” Dr. Petrakis interrupted. “You’ve kept this reason, this secret, for 10 years. Is this real to you...this conversation? Is your incarceration real?”
“I had to know,” I said. “She always told me that what happened in the movies wasn’t real and that it couldn’t happen in real life. I did what I did because I believed her. Only after I saw the blood did I know she had lied to me.”
“She lied to you?”
“Yes.”
“The parole board isn’t going to let you go, and they shouldn’t,” Dr. Petrakis said. “You’re likely going to be transferred to maximum security now that you’re 18 years old. Truthfully, if they ask for my assessment of your condition, I’m going to say that a maximum security facility is exactly where you belong. It’s my time to leave now.”
“Eventually Norman was released, doctor! He was released and he was in the other movies! That’s what really happened! Doctor! He was released!”
“Goodbye, Anthony.”