I have never feared anything more over the course of my life than my father. When I was a kid, though, I didn’t realize that. And I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that he constantly put other monsters in front of me. Freddy Krueger. Michael Myers. Jack Torrance. There was no shortage of horrors playing on our TV, so I had my pick of the litter.
It wasn’t until I ran away from home that I recognized that my father was the one I really needed to be afraid of.
Even so, my body and mind occasionally get confused when confronted with a monster. Like when I saw Patrick Davis Jr. in that stupid rom-com. I went to the bathroom that night and began to sweat and shake and cry. For a second there, I believed it was because I was frightened of him.
But Davis was never the monster. He was merely the inspiration for that form of torture my father used on me that particular day at the beach.
Regardless, I was too scared to keep watching the movie, no matter how small his part or how ridiculous the so-called romance part of it was.
Instead, I turned my attention to other shows and movies in the hopes that I could push down the fear and the bad memories for a little while. Or, at the very least, just dull the pain until a new boogeyman appeared on the screen.
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