CW: death or dying, blood/bodily fluids, sexism and misogyny.
I wouldn’t survive a slasher film. When the killer comes to town and starts popping off fresh-faced coeds, I’d eat it before we hit Act II. I have a great affection for those initial victims who seem to linger hauntingly over the narrative, never given the chance to learn or grow or atone for their perceived sins, even as the wheels of the plot are greased with their blood. We live in a Final Girl world. I wanted to explore the resentment, desire, and ultimately complicated love of the friends she leaves behind.
We are the sluts who writhe beneath jockish hips in the woods, nails clawing, tongues heavy. We taste like plastic lip gloss, Mike’s Hard, hot sex. We’re the sneak-through-the-window teenage sleepover best friends.
We’re only the beginning. The motion picture reel, unreeling. Our heads will roll before the credits do. We won’t make it to the end.
We never anticipate the danger. What danger? There was never danger before there was us. We’re not like you, Final Girl, with your virgin’s caution and instinct to survive. We’re not survivors, though we might’ve liked to be. Our mothers didn’t teach us to lock doors or tie tourniquets. We walk home alone at night. We never learned how to hide. Why would we need to? We never thought.
When they kill us, they string us up for you to find like Christmas morning. It’s how we know you love us. They wouldn’t do it if it didn’t hurt. We are the shots fired, the warning. Careful, girl. It could happen to you.
This is our cosmic dichotomy. These are our roles. You will live through this. We always die first.
And we are horny. We are so, so horny. Even from the grave, we’re hot for it, ready. We know all the tricks. We read them in Cosmo. Altoids and Pop Rocks and thumbs at the centers of our clenched fists. We giggle, twine fingers, lift shirts and flash tits. We flirt with the slasher. We seal the deal with Death.
The boys who perish with us have the worst of it. They were raised on free pornography. No football scholarships for them now. Forever eighteen. We pass them amongst ourselves between hauntings like ChapStick. On the coldest nights, when it’s just us girls, we move together. We learn new tricks. We do it in the dark.
We miss you, though. We do.
We know what goes unspoken at our funerals. It means a lot to us when there’s screen time for one. It means the world to see you cry. The whole town always knew our wicked, wanton ways would lead us here eventually. Better, isn’t it? To be the parable in your story rather than the tragedy of our own. We were asking for it, really. We’re not stupid. We only played dumb for a laugh. The messages written in our blood read, YOU’RE NEXT, but that’s not what they mean. They mean, this is what you get.
We understand, of course, when you forget about us. There’s a killer in these streets and he wants you dead. No time to mourn. We help you when we can. Skin-prickling lips against the back of your neck. Shattered china. Phantom caresses through your soft skin, stirring up that gut feeling that can’t be ignored. We create the ambiance. We lurk in the score between dissonant chords.
But you’re supposed to carry us with you in more than just spirit, you know. We’re not heavy. Even alive, we barely weighed 115 wet.
Would it honestly kill you to say our names after we’re gone?
We can be vindictive. We’ll admit to that. It’s shitty, but we’re not used to being ignored. When you stumble in your frantic flight to freedom, sometimes it’s our feet you trip over. The tire iron that clangs to the floor while you cower in the garage? A love note. Come on. Do it. Do something. Kill or die.
Dying isn’t hard. We do it all the time. It’s just like kissing, until it’s not.
If you want, we can show you how.
Do you at least think of us after it’s over, wrapped in your safety blanket while the police sweep the scene? We’re there. We haven’t left you. We never will.
You are the star, Final Girl, and we are the coffee steam specters rising from the cup clutched in your trembling hands. We’re the plot device. The hecatomb. As you wonder, is this really the end, or just the first of a franchise? we are the chilly wind sweeping through your hair. We could braid it for you, never mind the blood. Fishtail. Ladder. Lattice. French. Just like old times.
