What is this sick fascination inside of me?
I cringe with horror, but I cannot look away.
I am both repelled and inexplicably drawn in.
Horror sucks me in like an ominous black hole.
I want to stop, look away, but I can't...
I cannot avert my eyes.
No. I draw closer.
I revel in the horror, the gore,
and details that make me sick.
They make me shutter.
My stomach lurches.
I eat up every gruesome detail, ever hungry for more.
On screen fear, horror, and other's pain makes me plot and theorize.
I am gleeful with every new twist and turn.
When the plot thickens with the loss of an appendage,
or a foreboding letter I am wrapt.
But, when fiction and reality blur -
when suddenly Saw is manifested in a real life killer -
reality becomes even more real - darker.
When the sun goes down and the clock strikes three,
it all comes back to haunt me.
I see it in the shadows,
on the undersides of my eye lids when I go to sleep.
It whispers and plays on repeat in the darkness.
But, despite, the fear, the adrenaline and my own curiosity,
I cannot escape the single question that haunts me when the sun comes up and the shadows retreat to their distant corners.
If I can take pleasure in other's pain,
in the gore of chainsaws and scalpels,
than what really separates me from the real monsters
who do not hide in the shadows?