I pride myself in my immunity to horror movies. I’m seldom affected by what I watch and, over the years, my confidence has morphed into a sort of arrogance.

People dislike it when others laugh during a movie. I’m the one laughing in most occasions.

It’s a nasty habit, I’m aware. One time I was approached by an audience member at the theater. He was seated on the front row, I on the very back. I had a friend with me, but I was delivering most of the jokes. The man towered over me, blocking the screen from my eyes, and between gritted teeth asked that I, please, stop talking, because he could hear me from way down there, because my giggles could overpower the sound system. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken at the theater again. Not that I’ve been given the option to do otherwise.

I refuse to admit that I have been scared by some things, at some points. I’m too proud for that.

Or that I still sleep with the sheets framed like a hood around my head or that I stubbornly refuse to turn my face from the blankness of the wall. I don’t like to close my eyes when I’m facing the shadowy expanse of my bedroom.

I also refuse to admit that I keep my earbuds nearby at all times to drown out all the sounds of the world. However small.

Or that sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the vent, and sit on the toilet tank for awhile, waiting for everyone to stop talking downstairs. I don’t know how to explain things like these. I won’t try.

Copyright © Blanca Parga 2020