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A constant pumping on the brakes of her existence. Now it’s time to start moving again, even if that movement is really just running away.
It’s a Russian doll of remorse. Guilt tucked into guilt that she’s ruining the only thing that has yet to be ruined.
She blamed herself and hated herself and punished herself because that’s what women are taught to do. Blame themselves. Blame the victims.
No one tells women that none of it is their fault. That the blame falls squarely on the awful men who do terrible things and the fucked-up society that raises them, molds them, makes excuses for them. People don’t want to admit that there are monsters in their midst, so the monsters continue to roam free and the cycle of violence and blame continues.
She’s no longer the scared, self-loathing girl she was when she left campus. She’s something else. A fucking femme fatale.
That’s the tricky thing about movies. They can be wonderful and beautiful and amazing. But they’re not like life, which is wonderful, beautiful, and amazing in a different way.
