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“What I think is so neat about horror movies,” I said, “is that they shine a light on what we think is scary. Not just ghosts and demons, but what we find really scary.”
I had lines here. Somewhere inside of me was the right thing to say, the thing that would make everything better, stop Katherine from crying. The answer she couldn’t get from therapy (she had gone to therapy?) or medication (she had taken medication?). My lines were in an old book somewhere, tucked far away on the bookshelf of my mind and covered in dust. I had misplaced it. Perhaps I had thrown it away years ago, not thinking.
The little part of you that, every day, is aware that, at some point in the future, your body will cease to be alive and the cause of it all could be natural and peaceful or violent and quite unpleasant indeed—but still you keep dusting the picture frames and going to the post office to pick up stamps, largely unperturbed by your knowledge.
After all, if we didn’t love something, flaws included, what sort of love would that be? Yes, there were rules galore, but they were all feasible. Survivable.
