Sunday, January 27, 2013

When They Come Home

All sounds in the night look like this to your  mind... and they will eat your brains and drink your blood.
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Admittedly, I am the worst person to ever let choose a movie. If it has rave reviews from everyone, and you ask me what movie we should watch prepare yourself to be let down or completely bored out of your mind. In October a date and I went to see Alex Cross. My choice, my fault. "Hated it (Men on Film - In Living Color)!" We didn't even make out, and to be honest, that might have made the movie worth sitting through. Totally prime dark theater make out session time. Fail. 

This night was no different. Not only is it impossible to have a make out session with yourself, but my cinematic selection skills prevailed. I scrolled through the movie titles and found what should have been right up my alley. The Virgin Murders. My tendency toward mysteries, the supernatural, religious intrigue, and foreign settings made it the obvious choice. There's always a sense that I might stumble upon some unknown independent film that no one has heard of with actors that shock and surprise you with their abilities. I blame my early addiction to IFC for this. Either way, I choose something just scary enough to freak myself out. 

I hit play and snuggled into my mountain of pillows and prepared to be disappointed. Somewhere about the time the lead actress falls into a dream of a dead girl giving birth to snakes (something to do with Medusa and Caravaggio) the outside world interrupted my boredom. No one was in the house except me. Jacob was staying with a friend. Alex had disappeared into the night with friends. I was the sole occupant. Why in the hell was I hearing noises? Intruder. Obviously. Brain eater, possibly. Knife wielding, probably. Killer, certainly. 

Barefoot and clad in underwear and a tank top, I slipped from my bed and walked lightly across the room. Should there be a burglar, nothing would scare them more than a half naked middle aged woman with her hair a pillow matted mess of bad frizz. Careful to avoid the known squeaky floor boards, I made my way down the steps. As I stepped off the last stair and into the dark dining room I noticed a faint glow from the main floor bathroom. No shadowy movement came from inside, so I chalked it up to childish misuse of electricity. 

Had I been paying more attention to my surroundings I would have noticed the mass moving toward me. When I spied the movement from the shadowed man, fear gripped my chest and the heart inside beat so quickly it felt it was actually trying to escape. When my rib cage would not give way, it began to move up my throat... choking off my ability to actually speak. Instead I let out a gurgling scream and threw my hands in the direction of the intruder. 

When you're scared... really terrified... it sometimes takes a moment for your brain to process what your ears are hearing. As I swatted at the man, who now backed away shouting, I pushed forward. Moments later, moments that felt like a slow motion kill scene in a bad D list movie (go figure), my brain recognized the words being shouted at me. "MOM! STOP IT'S ME!" Then, I shoved him. "Me" could be anyone. Wait, "Me" called me Mom. 

How dare he be home? It was uh... 9:15 PM.  I mean what the hell? I was supposed to be alone! My brain rationalized my irrational panic. He was supposed to go out with his friends. Teenagers don't come home early. Well, sometimes they do when they work until 9 and don't feel like wearing their work uniform for a night out on the town. I suppose. Freaking kids. 

This night proved to me exactly how people get defense wounds on their hands right before they die. Had my son been a knife wielding murderer, my flailing arms and slapping hands would have caused me to bleed out before he even got to the killing part. I would essentially have wounded myself to death. There was a time when I was alone that I carried a steak knife with me around the house at night in the event that I came across someone trying to attack me. My kids find that quite humorous. They know that if that had in fact ever happened, my limp-wristed knife skills would have ended up causing any intruder to fall into fits of hysterical laughter. 

This was originally titled, "Really trippy shit that happens when I eat sushi and go to bed with a really shitty horror movie." It seemed a little long, sort of like this post. 

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