this is a horror story

this is a horror story. you are watching the screen and you know this and you can’t stop yourself from being

the boy in the car, high as a god, driving faster than demons run, on a long purgatory road with his sister in the backseat, racing Time to the hospital,

and you can’t stop yourself from being the sister in the backseat, clutching your throat, gasping for breaths that feel like sandpaper on bone, rolling down the window, praying for any extra penny’s worth of air,

and you can’t stop yourself from being the window, who sees it coming but can do nothing to stop it, the wooden post that appeared from nowhere, the exact distance out from the car that her head is leaning,

and you can’t stop yourself from being the post, who does its job with a sorrowful thud, that turns the sandpaper sounds

to sickening silence.

this is a horror story, you remind yourself and you’re not in the screen, you’re in the office

working the night shift with the girl

you like looking at a little too much, touching your lip as she touches her neck, stop that now, this is a horror story, not

a love story. and this is a sad story,

not a happy story as you reach the climax of the film and she grips your hand,

because you asked her to, but she did so like she wanted to, and she rocks it

in a steady rhythm and says in a calming voice,

“it’s not okay, it’s not okay, it’s not over yet, but we’re ready” and you want to say you’re ready for whatever happens on screen but you’re not ready

for her to let go of your hand. it’s not okay, and this is a sad story, not a happy story and her hand

belongs to the story of someone else and you don’t get to be part of it.

we get to the end and everybody dies

because this is a horror story and they don’t have nice endings and you’d think

you’d be used to that by now. but still you say, “you know, I find it a little disappointing,

don’t you think it would have been better,

if someone had survived?”

and she says “yeah, but you know,

it’s a horror story.”

what’s more horrifying than surviving, you think, but don’t say out loud, because this is your story,

not hers.

this is a horror story, and the drive home is terrifying, but you blast your music and think about her hand squeezing yours and for a moment it feels like,

and you know you’re a tragedy in the making but you can’t stop yourself

from being the squeeze,

and the music, and the way your stomach buzzes at her voice and

god help you,

for a moment,

it feels like a good story.