Towards the end, as all of the protagonist’s friends have been turned into zombies, he’s forced to take out his best friends by jamming his fingers into the ghoul’s eyes, black pus dripping from the empty sockets where his eyes were. It was graphic, it was horrific. It was hilariously funny. A laugh burst from my mouth; I quickly clapped a hand over it, ashamed. What kind of sicko actually laughs when someone’s eyes are gouged out? I was apparently, as I giggled and guffawed my way through the rest of the movie, wiping tears from my eyes. I turned off the television with a wonderful feeling coursing through my blood. Is this what self-actualization felt like? What kind of shallow person gets self-actualized by Evil Dead?
That night, going to bed, I felt light. I smiled, enjoying the feeling of cuddling down into the bedclothes and the anticipation of waking refreshed. Doubts niggled in the back of my mind: would the zombies return? Would they torment me with huge gaping cavernous holes where their eyes had been? Would they moan “self-actualization” at me in mockery?
Sleep came. I was in my childhood home, empty of everything but me. Through the bay windows I could see darkness and fog, enveloping the house like a woman’s arms. Shapes came out of the night, slow zombies lumbering towards the house, arms raised in supplication, a wordless question. Join us. My face is blank, unmoving, my eyes taking in death and reflecting it back. Cold hands scrape at windows, low moans are heard. I stand, go to the glass door. I can feel the internal tremor as my body wars with my mind. Run away! it screams. Run away, you’re strong enough now.
I don’t run away. I stand at the oval of glass in the wood door, looking. Zombies clamor at the movement, start clawing and moaning, the blood from their hands mixing with the fog of their breath. I stare. And finally see.
I reach up, my hand passing over the glass where the dead are grasping, turn the lock on the door. I return to the center of the room, sit down cross-legged. My hands are upturned and empty, accepting. I wait the night out, hearing zombies call for my blood, feeling them bang against the door for my flesh. My heart beating violently against my chest, I fight to maintain my control, the only viable weapon I possess.
Hours pass; I am resolute.
I have won.
2 comments:
Ahhh...Evil Dead. A little Bruce Campbell therapy never hurt any red-blooded female!
I didn't start having zombie phobia until after Shaun of the Dead. Now even the Zombie Survival Guide freaks me out.
I never thought about it as Bruce Campbell therapy. That would explain why I have such an outrageous affinity for the man - some kind of messed up Stockholm Syndrome.
I agree, though, Zombie Survival Guide is terrifying, for something that's so rational. Maybe that's why it's so scary.
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