whipplewrites

[whipplewrites]

Frozen As A Generation-Defining Movie (An Essay)

I really loved Frozen. It’s an imperfect movie to be sure (main complaints: lack of musical consistency, wonky structure, and a super minimal world outside of the main characters) but it’s definitely very very good. In fact, it’s kind of one of those movies that’s good despite everything. Like I can intellectually acknowledge the faults all I want, it doesn’t stop me from really loving the movie. It kinda shouldn’t work, but goddamn it it does.

But here’s the weird thing to think about: Frozen is going to be a generation-defining movie. What do I mean by that? Well, for a movie to be generation-definining, I think it needs to have a few things going for it. 

It must be successful. Success can be defined in many ways, and I actually think it’s more important that it is culturally impactful and a common reference point than strictly a moneymaker, but for the purposes of this, box-office is not a bad indicator of roughly how well-viewed the movie was. 

It must be released within their time. It needs to be a movie released, or otherwise imprinted on the culture at large at a time when that generation is its primary demographic.

It must be an original property (i.e., not a sequel.) This is a bit more of my own leap and opinion than the others (it’s easy to understand why a generation-defining movie would need to have appeared during their generation and have been seen by a lot of people.) But my argument is this: are you really going to feel that a movie is “your” movie if it’s just a sequel or continuation of one of your older sibling’s movies? Probably not. 

  Frozen absolutely fits all of those criteria, especially for kids under 11 (aka not teens.) It is MASSIVELY successful, being not only the highest grossing animated film of all time, but the 6th highest grossing film PERIOD. It came out just last year, putting it squarely in the hands of current kids, and it is not a sequel or continuation. For kids today, there’s no question this film has had, and will have a huge impact.

But…there’s a fourth criteria that I left out up above though. I think for a singular movie to be truly generation-definining…it kinda has to be the only one. That’s why I have so much trouble figuring out what a generation-defining movie for people my age is. Probably Toy Story or The Lion King would be the closest, but whats to keep The Little Mermaid, or Aladdin, or Mulan, or Finding Nemo from that list?

But that’s where Frozen is different. Because not only is it successful, it’s WAY more successful than any other potentially generation-defining film. And I’ll show it to you via the magic of wikipedia.

For 11 year olds, to meet criteria #2 (released during their time) it would have to be a movie released probably after they were born, but realistically probably after they were 4 or 5. That gives us a max range between 2007 and now. 

Okay, so let’s look at the most successful movies released since 2007 that are aimed at kids. Basing this off Wikipedia’s list of the most successful movies, you have movies like Shrek the Third, Toy Story 3, Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, Ice Age: Continental Drift, Despicable Me 2, and Frozen.

These are movies that meet criteria 1 and 2, but if you look at it, all but the last one fail test #3. Every single one is a sequel. 

We could also look specifically at animated films (another great Wikipedia list.) Going from the top down, you have plenty of sequels. You also have original movies, but they’re films like The Lion King and Finding Nemo, which are pre-2007. The highest ranking movie, by box office, that is post-2007, aimed at kids, and not a sequel, is Up. Which is #13. 

Frozen is #1. That’s a pretty big gap. There’s also the gap between Frozen’s near $1.2 BILLION and Up’s $7 million. The next down the list that matches all three criteria is Tangled, in 20th place with almost $6 million. 

In a few short months, Frozen has been almost TWICE as successful as the next leading possibility. And that seems to jive with my general sense of the movie world right now. Compared to The Princess And The Frog, Tangled, How To Train Your Dragon, Brave, Rio, Wreck-It Ralph, The Lego Movie, Despicable Me, and any other recent kids movie, Frozen absolutely blows it out of the water in terms of success and cultural penetration. And it’s only been around for a few months. 

And it’s that unique success that I think firmly cements it as a film that will be defining for the unique group of kids it was made for. At least until another comes around.

P.S. This is not meant to try and explain why Frozen got to the position where it could become generation-defining. Although (because I love talking movies…) if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s a combination of being a good movie, being released in a period when a lot of kids have school off and there aren’t many movies aimed at them out, featuring INSANELY catchy songs to help market it, and telling a unique story within the familiar princess framework (as opposed to a movie like Lilo & Stitch, another excellent yet flawed film, that completely forgoes any of those familiar and comforting Disney tropes(and whose comparison in this post actually totally inspired this one (although I do think that on the whole, Lilo & Stitch is probably a “better” film than Frozen. At least has less flaws.)))

P.P.S What are some other generation-defining movies? Or are there any? Like I said, since I’m a kid of the Disney Renaissance, there are so many wildly successful kids movies that no one takes the cake as the singular cultural touchstone. But are there any movies aimed at us as teenagers that would work? Or can you think of other generations that have a defining movie? Maybe Star Wars or Jaws for teens in the 70s? I’m not sure… Who knows, maybe Frozen is truly unique and there is no real equivalent. I may have to research this more…

[whipplewrites]

Breath

I cough. I gulp the air, despite the pain each breath causes. I know, in the rational mammalian brain, that each breath brings more fire and lightning to the lungs than the last, and that the least painful course of action would be to simply stop. To let the nothingness fill me, rather than the fire. But the lizard brain down below will simply not allow it. It would rather see me live a torturous life than die a pleasant death.

A real mask would be nice. Heavenly even. I suppose I’ve made do with the cloth tied around my face. As I must, a real filter costs a fortune. Even an ancient army surplus gas mask is worth ten times its weight in gold. So I make do. I survive.

But is survival the point of life? Didn’t they used to say that that life was about something more? But that was before the sky changed. Before the Cardinals. Before the men with guns. Men with guns, protecting what little air remained for the wealthy on the promises that their families would get to breath too.

I wonder what we’ll become. Will we evolve past this? Will this one day become the concoction necessary for humans to breath? Or will a new creature climb out of this primordial, all-encompassing ooze and surpass us altogether. One can only hope.

I cough again. 

[whipplewrites]

My Name Is Chuck

-Transcript of Dr. Robert Forrest, Chief of Psychology

-Date: 24 October, 1977

-Subject: Charles Joseph Bradley, age 17

Dr. Forrest: Subject is currently seated, alone, in Interview Room B. By my initial impressions, the subject appears noticeably distraught. Subject is displaying classic signs of stress, including shaking in the extremities and atypical breathing patterns. Doctor Malcolm has informed me that the subject has taken to abnormal sleeping patterns, as well as a reduced appetite. Subject additionally seems to be displaying an increased sense of paranoia, darting his eyes, one would assume searching for exits or weak spots in the room. Despite his apparent desire for escape, Subject seems to be categorically avoiding any eye contact with the mirror. Please mark this behavior for further examination. I am now beginning the interview. [Silence, followed by a door opening] Your name is Charles Joseph Bradley, correct? [Silence] Let the record show that Subject is nodding his head in agreement. You are 17 years old, correct? [Silence] Once again, let the record show Subject is nodding in agreement. Now, Charles, are you aware of the reasons you were brought in today?

Subject: No…n-n-no, no sir.

Dr. Forrest Are you sure? You have no idea why we would want you? [Silence] You really have no idea?

Subject: No! I told you, I have no idea.

Dr. Forrest: Let the record show Subject is very firm in his belief, and appears to be quite invested in his lack of information. Come now Charles, you must at least have an inkling.

Subject: Does... does this have to do with…. with Leona?

Dr. Forrest: Excellent! Yes, in fact Charles, this has everything to do with Miss Cartwridge. What do you remember about that night?

Subject: Nothing! I-I don’t remember anything!

Dr. Forrest: Charles, we cannot proceed unless you are straight with us. I find it difficult to believe you truly have no recollection of that particular night.

Subject: Well….well I do remember a few things, I suppose.

Dr. Forrest: Good, will you please tell us Charles?

Subject: Well, I remember…I remember walking home from school.

Dr. Forrest: What time was it, Charles?

Subject: I dunno, late I guess?

Dr. Forrest: Precisely what time Charles?

Subject: I-I…I guess…7?

Dr. Forrest: Good. Continue please.

Subject: So, I was walking home, and I ran into Leona in the parking lot. We talked for a bit, I guess.

Dr. Forrest: About what Charles?

Subject: Just, school and stuff. And she asked me to walk home with her.

Dr. Forrest: And did you?

Subject: Yes-yes I did. We walked for a few blocks and then [Long Silence]

Dr. Forrest: Charles! You walked for a few blocks, and then what?

Subject: Then…I dunno. I guess I must’ve blacked out, cus all I remember is waking up later and… and… and… [Subject begins going into hysterics]

Dr. Forrest: Charles! Charles, calm down! We need your absolute focus and calm! Understand? Charles? [Silence]

Subject: Charles? [Note, Subject no longer shows any signs of stress]

Dr. Forrest: Charles, please, now is not the time-

Subject: There’s no Charles here anymore.

Dr. Forrest: Excuse me?

Subject: You’re referring to Chuck.

Dr. Forrest: Charles, please

Subject: Chuck! [Slam, and silence]

Dr. Forrest: Let the record show that Subject is very…passionate about his name.

Subject: Well Doc, how would you feel if people were always messing it up? All Charlie, all the time, and never a thought for Chuck!

Dr. Forrest: I’m afraid I don’t understand.

Subject: I bet he said he didn’t remember. Always been his problem, not observant enough! Makes it easier for me though, I suppose.

Dr. Forrest: Let the record show-

Subject: Oh fuck the record! I can take a guess what you want to say, but believe me, no way a note on a cheap paper transcript is gonna cover it.

Dr. Forrest: Now Charles, I mean, Chuck, we’re here to help you.

Subject: No you’re not. I appreciate the flattery, but if anything you’re here to help Charlie. [Silence] Say, do you want to hear about that night? The night with Leona? [Silence] Do you want to hear the real story? [Silence] Let the record show that the good doctor is a speechless idiot!

Dr. Forrest: Yes, please tell us about it…Chuck.

Subject: Very well then Doc. You know, Charlie had it half right. He did meet Leona in the parking lot. They did have a nice little chat. And they did start walking. Of course, that’s where dear Charlie decided to take a little nap and let me go for a ride.

Dr. Forrest: I’m not quite sure I understand.

Subject: Oh come on now Doc! It’s not that hard. Even good old Charlie figured it out. Besides, you’re seeing it for yourself. You’ve got eyes, don’t you Doc?

Dr. Forrest: Are you suggesting... Are you suggesting that Charles has… a second personality?

Subject: Close, but correction, Doc. Charlie doesn’t have a second personality. Chuck has a thorn in his side. Charlie is a barely functioning ape. He lacks perception. Took him three years to figure it out. I’ve known since day one.

Dr. Forrest: None of your records show any previous history or symptoms suggesting-Subject: He doesn’t understand potential. That’s his problem. He doesn’t know what he could be if he just… let go. And you know what’s worst of all? He doesn’t know how to have fun! If Charlie had his way, he’d have gone on his silly little walk with pretty Leona, gone to sleep in his prim little bed, and his life would be stuck on fucking repeat! I spice it up. Well, maybe it’s more accurate to say he brings me down. But hey, at least I had one night of fun, right?

Dr. Forrest: Are you referring to…to October 15th, 1977.

Subject: Not so good with dates Doc, that’s what happens when you pop in and out without a schedule.

Dr. Forrest: The night where…where Leona Cartwridge was found.

Subject: Oh yes, of course! My finest hour, if I do say so myself.

Dr. Forrest: Are you saying… that you take responsibility for Miss Cartwridge.

Subject: The bitch wouldn’t give it up. Dr. Forrest: Charles, please!

Subject: My name is NOT FUCKING CHARLES! [Thump] It’s Chuck. And say what you want about my choice of words, but it’s the honest-to-god truth. If she won’t give it up, why not take it, eh?

Dr. Forrest: Let the record show Subject physically assaulted an Asylum official.

Subject: Come on Doc, be a man! Don’t gussy it up like that! Say it plain and simple, Chuck hit me. [Silence] SAY IT!

Dr. Forrest: Chuck….Chuck hit me.

Subject: That’s more like it. See, that’s what I do. I bring out the best in people. Charlie thinks I’m selfish sometimes, but I’m always helping him out! You think he’d ever get laid if it wasn’t for me? And not even one little thank-you for taking care of the bitch afterwards. No, he fights back. He tries to take control. If he’d just let me finish out the night, you think we’d be stuck here in this dump? You think we’d be lab rats for the good doctor here? No, no, he needs me. He needs me to clean up his messes.

Dr. Forrest: I’ll have you know assaulting an Asylum official is grounds for incarceration.

Subject: Shut up Doc.

Dr. Forrest: This behavior is totally unacceptable!

Subject: Excuse me? Unacceptable? I decide what is an isn’t acceptable, Doc. [Scream]

Dr. Forrest: Charles?

Subject: NOT FUCKING CHARLES! [Grunts] Not now, not yet you don’t.

Dr. Forrest: Let the record show Subject seems to be struggling…fighting almost.

Subject: Are you afraid Doc?

Dr. Forrest: Excuse me?

Subject: Answer the goddamn question. Are you afraid?

Dr. Forrest: No.

Subject: Well, Charlie is. He’s fucking terrified. That’s why he’s fighting back. Trying to take control again. But not this time. This time there’ll be no pathetic Charlie wailing over a body while Chuck takes the back seat.

Dr. Forrest: Terrified?

Subject: What?

Dr. Forrest: Terrified. You said Charlie was terrified. Of what?

Subject: [Laughter] Easy one Doc. Of me.

Dr. Forrest: I see. He’s scared for his live?

Subject: Oh no! I guess I didn’t explain properly. No, he’s terrified of me alright, but not for himself. Honestly, what can I really do to him? No no, he knows he’s fine.

Dr. Forrest: Then why is he worried?

Subject: Jeez Doc, figured that’d be an easy one. He aint scared for his life. He’s scared for yours.

Dr. Forrest: [Silence] Ex…excuse me?

Subject: Well, I figure since nobody rushed in when you took that pop to the face earlier, there’s probably no one on the other side of that glass, right? So, with you gone I probably have…say 10-15 minutes till the next guard shift pops in? Plenty of time to get out. [Laughter] Do you know how effective broken glass can be as a weapon? [Crash] Stabbing, sure, but it’s really great for slitting throats.

Dr. Forrest: Charles, please, whatever you’re planning it’s not necessary. We’re here to help you. [Thump]

Subject: My name is not Charles.

[Screaming, followed by another thump and gasping] [Silence]

Subject: D-Doctor? Doctor? Doctor?

[whipplewrites]

The Rules

Memory works in funny ways. People assume it works like a file cabinet: that you just reach in and pull out the experiences that you want, and there they are. A perfect snapshot to read.

The reality is far different. Every time you recall a memory, you aren’t “remembering” it. You’re recreating it. Each successive viewing results in a new, slightly different memory being formed. Details change, reality gets…distorted. Therefore, it is the memories that you don’t access, the ones that stay buried, the ones that are relegated to dust-collecting in the recesses of the mind, that are the closest to reality. These are the ones, to paraphrase the good prince of Denmark, that “hold a mirror up to nature.”

I tell you this as a disclaimer. I want you to have the fullest confidence in what I’m about to describe. This story is not one I’ve told at parties. It’s not one I’ve discussed between the sheets. It’s not even one I’ve previously written down. This is a story that I have tried to forget. And up until now, I’ve succeeded. But it is a story you must know, and one that I want you to believe. You especially.

So, with that in mind, let’s proceed.

--

We were not Robin Hoods. I cannot stress that enough. With us Calendar Boys, the goal was never anything other than personal gain. That was Rule #2: “Think of no one but yourself.” We took that to heart. Even among the crew, the only thing that kept us together was self-preservation. We all knew that if you crossed one of us, it would be a matter of hours, days at the most, until a bullet found its way between your ears. Fear is a powerful motivator, and considering who were the members of the crew, there was plenty of motivation.

So going into the operation, we kept that rule in mind. But, like so many of the others, that rule was broken by the end of the day. There was one rule, however, that we knew we were breaking from the start. Rule #1: “Never steal from the Blues.” Do you still call them Blues? I can’t keep track anymore… Anyway, looking back, I can see why it was Rule #1. But at the time this was a rule that we saw as less of a self-preservation measure than as a hindrance to our upward mobility. We wanted the stars, and this was all that was standing in our way. But for good reason.

We had a lot of Rules. Thirteen to be exact. We didn’t know who devised them, but we didn’t ask. That was Rule #7. Rumors went around, but none ever stuck. But whoever created the system, kudos to them. It was genius. See, even though we all joined at different times, we were all recruited, and all by different people. And these people had been recruited by still more. At my time, no one in the group was a founding member, and there was no way to tell who to call “boss.” But the real genius was in Rule #13: “No names.” We all went by months, hence the “Calendar Boys.” I was Mr. September, recruited by the previous Mr. September. That was how it worked, when you were ready to be out, you found your replacement. Of course, they had to be approved. And the approval process, that was…forgive me, I’m rambling. You wouldn’t want to hear about that. So anyway…

When members were unable to recruit their replacements, for whatever reason, they just appeared. We had no idea where they came from, since they always claimed to be have been recruited by their previous name-bearer. It was confusing at first, since said previous name-bearers were dead or otherwise indisposed and incapable of recruiting, but we never pressed the issue. Rule #7. I went through five Julys in my two years. We called it a curse, and we were only half joking.

I never recruited anyone. None of us did. I suppose that’s what we got for breaking Rule #1.

--

It was not a normal pharmacy. It was a Blue one. Heavy fortifications, but a haul like none other. And the job went relatively well, considering. We all knew the risks of a Blue job, so when we only lost March, July, and December, we considered it a success. Three out of twelve wasn’t bad. It wasn’t until later that things went south.

We had the greatest haul any of us had ever seen. 650 kilos, of all sorts. Once it was sold, it would amount to 7.4 million, split nine ways. But February had an idea. We all thought of February as a dangerous man. He was the kind of man who stole for fun, not profit. He got off on chaos and danger. He was a man who rarely surprised. Even so, when he suggested giving the drugs away in the slums, we were shocked.

“Think of it this way,” he explained. “Those Blue tyrants, they love seeing the poor suffer. They thrive on their poverty. And these drugs are how they do it. Overpricing! It’s… institutionalized murder. So what would be the biggest screw you to those ivory tower bastards? Free distribution.”

The most surprising part, it made sense. He spoke, and we were…well, for lack of a better word, moved. He was right. We all hated the Blues, that’s why we did the job in the first place. And giving their drugs away to the people they hated most, that was too perfect.

However, February was not right enough to get us to part completely with such a haul. So we decided on a 50/50 split. We would sell half, donate the rest. February and I were put in charge of the distribution, while August and November worked the sale.

We felt good. We felt clever. And best yet, we had proven Rule #1 wrong. We had stolen from the Blues and escaped unscathed. Or so we thought.

February and I made the drop. We met our contact and passed it all off, no problem. But it was then that we got a call. It was November. They had been set up. When they arrived at the drop site, the Blues were there. August, naturally, had put up a fight, but November had sense. He ran. I began to worry, but February, naturally, had planned ahead. A .22 gauge shotgun lay underneath the driver’s seat.

“Let’s see those Blue bastards get us now.” We waited, tense.

But all was calm. No one showed up. Whoever had ratted out November and August knew nothing of us. We were home free.

Until two days later. February heard the report first, unfortunately. It killed him when he heard it, that smooth Blue voice gloating from behind the radio: “Massive deaths in the Portsboro industrial area as a shipment of stolen, tainted drugs makes its way through the populous.” As I’m sure you know, the death toll was massive. 325 kilos snaked through the whole slum. Popped like candy in a matter of days. Those Blue bastards had thought of everything. Apparently the drugs were tailor made for the Blue hospitals; only doctors had the correct antigens or whatever to make them safe. Absolutely brilliant. Anyone gets their hands on stolen drugs, they die. And a painful death at that.

I got the call from February. I had never known him to be moral man. He embodied Rule #2 better than any of us. But hearing his voice on the phone that day, you could tell. The old February was gone. He had broken. It was so obvious, I wasn’t at all surprised when I found out it was his own gun that did him in. A .22 under the chin. Apparently he had a sick grandmother. That was why he suggested the drop in the first place. And when she turned out to be one of the victims… Too much even for him to handle.

I ran. I was done. March, July, and December were gone. So was August. November had gone under, and February…

We all knew what was coming. Whether it’d come from the Blues, the slums, or whoever’s damn Rule #1 we’d broken, we didn’t know. But we knew it would come soon. We cashed out.

I have no idea what happened to the rest. Rumors flew. We became legends, but not like fairy tales. No, we were the kind of stories you tell your kids before bed: “Sleep tight, don’t let Mr. January get you.” The slums hated us, and the Blues just laughed. Us Calendar Boys, we were ruined. Details started to come out. One of the others must have been caught and squealed, but since there were no names, I came out fine. Still, I changed my name, just to be sure. We never knew who pulled the strings in the crew, or if anybody did, but I didn’t want to take chances.

You might wonder why, after twenty years, I would write down this story. Why would I bother retelling it, after twenty years of straight-and-narrow living? And why send it to you, of all people? Well, two things. One is that I know I’ll be dead before you read this. Nothing I write will have any consequence, and if anything, maybe a confession will help placate whatever gods await me down under. But the real reason is this. Before he died, February told me two things: today’s date, and your name. He said twenty years would be enough. He wanted to tell you the story, but not until today. February 14, 2019. Your 21st birthday.

So there you have it. The unadulterated truth. The day we broke all the rules, from #1-13. Do with it what you will. I suppose I just want to say I’m sorry for my part. It wasn’t my idea, or even my call, but I still have one twelfth of the blame to shoulder. One twelfth of 30,000 dead is one hell of a weight to carry. And, even though I haven’t done it yet, I should apologize preemptively for taking the easy way out. I would’ve done it years ago, but a dying man’s promise is one worth keeping. But now that my job’s done, it’s time for me to join your father. Best wishes.

-Mr. September

[whipplewrites]

Your Eyes

“Your eyes,” I say, smothering my excitement in nonchalance.

 “What about them?” you ask. You put on your serious face, perfectly honed through generations of Russian breeding to inflict instant fear. I instinctually cower, before you even get the chance to laugh. My expression is the same as always, a mix of fear and weakness bred out of my indecipherable roots.

You double over with laughter, simultaneously amused by your ability to mask yourself and my inability to decipher it. You calm down after a few moments, but your lips stay perched in their slight smile.

“Well?” you say, raising an eye. “What about them?”

I’m confused for a bit. I’m uneasy and embarrassed, more so than usual. You find that adorable, of course. If only I could claim it was intentional.

Snapping back to reality I remember what I was trying to say. I want to say something poetic, but I’m left speechless. I want to explain how they can transcend a normal conversation, make it something more unique. I want to say they leave me with a burning feeling of regret every time my lips aren’t planted on yours. I want to tell you that rather than giving me a portal into your soul, they seem to be able to shake me out from the depths of mine.

“They’re really blue,” I stutter. You laugh again, give me a quick kiss and grab my arm, content in my lack of eloquence. After all, it’s what you’ve grown to expect.

[whipplewrites]

The Other

This is the final draft of the story I wrote for my creative writing class this quarter. Be forewarned, it's quite a dark story, so if you're opposed to that sort of thing you may not want to read it.

            It had stopped being quiet.

            I could tell it was someone. Not something. Not an animal. When your heart no longer beats, you become very attuned to the particular rhythms of the hearts of others. This was a human heart. The beat was fast and it filled the house with its off tempo percussion. The sound of the other, standing on my front porch, filled my house.

            I opened my eyes. It shook through me like a hurricane. With my eyes opened for the first time in a timeless age, I looked to see where I was. Where had I ended up? A quick survey revealed the same bedroom, but a new coating of dust and a new layer of age. The old holes had grown larger and new holes had sprouted up in the untouched places. The desk in the corner had lost a leg to disease and lay crippled against the side wall.

            I stared at it. It must have landed at some point. It must have been an awful crash. That was the sort of damage that worked slowly until the final instant, and in that instant it must have made quite a clamorous noise. But I hadn’t heard it. It was part of the house, and the sounds of the house’s own machinations were no longer of interest to me.

            But I heard the door open. Its hinges creaked like an old railway bridge. The other was about to enter. The heartbeat grew quicker and louder. I remained still.

              Time is an odd phenomenon. When I was newly dead, I tried to keep track. Old habits I suppose. I would wind the clocks, mark the days, flip the calendar. That worked fine until January 1st. But we had always gotten our New Year’s calendars as gifts, and that year there was no one to come around and give one.

            The calendar was the first step. In losing track of the days, the months were lost. Eventually I stopped winding the clocks. After all, what was the point of tabulating the hours if you didn’t even know the day?

            Besides, the idea that time needed to be marked at all suggested there were things that needed to be done. But there weren’t. There was nothing. And with nothing to occupy the time, one minute is as good as a day as a year as a lifetime. All are meaningless in their eternity.

            But when the other arrived, standing outside of my door, time returned. That was the second thing I noticed, after the sound. The sound of the heartbeat caught my ear, but the time between the beats caught my mind.

            I waited. I waited, as the other’s heartbeat grew louder and more deafening and reached a pace that seemed to fast for the fabric of existence and I waited. I wondered. What would be done? Would the other turn around and go, leaving me to pick up the pieces of the broken silence in solitude.  Or would the other take another step? Would it walk through the open door and further penetrate my house? If so, what would it do? Would it ransack the place, overturning tables and tossing out drawers in search of god knows what long-forsaken article of finery? Would it merely walk around, in some perverse attempt to journey into the land of the dead?

            But regardless, if it entered, I knew what I would do. I knew what I must do. But until that time, until it ventured fully into my domain, I waited.

            There was a voice, echoing from far off beyond the house. Perhaps it was someone else, calling from the sidewalk at the other. The sound was faint and indistinct, but I could hear the other pause in response.

            Then, with a crash more devastatingly thunderous than a thousand heartbeats, the other spoke back. And I could not understand. I could hear the voice and I could hear the words and I could hear it all but I could not understand it. I could not tell what was the beginning of a word and what was the end and the words were stretched to fill years while every sound interrupted each other like an orchestra out of tune and I could not understand.

            And then, a decade after it began, the sound stopped. All sound stopped. A deaf silence had begun, but it was not the silence that had been here before. This was the silence that comes once the noise reaches levels where the ears cease their function and simply give up. The heart continued beating. The voice from the sidewalk returned, calling out to the other. But after the terrible pain of the other’s words, none of those were loud enough. None of those held meaning any more.

            Then the whole house shook like a wounded animal. I could not see and I could not hear it but I knew. I felt. It was the other, and it had entered the house.

              Several lifetimes ago, this house was always loud. The noise of footsteps and tapping fingers and the occasional conversation. Sometimes a laugh would pierce through the hum and command all the available attention. Every so often, there was the sound of a tear trailing down a cheek. And a few times, a scream.

            I had been married. He was a good man: a good man for a good girl. He had lived on the other side of town, so I didn’t meet him until school. In the tenth grade he transferred over. He was always a smart one. Much smarter than I was. That’s not to say I ever felt jealous or inadequate. Quite the opposite. What’s would I need of abnormal intelligence when I spent eight hours a night next so someone who possesses it? And besides, I had a perfectly functional mind. Plenty for my needs, and he was always available to provide a surplus.

            Our house was small, but my mother always complimented it whenever she came around. His parents never came around; they were caught in a car accident before we were married. But my mother loved the house.

            “You’ve done marvelous, sweetheart!” she would croon.

            It wasn’t anything special, I would always reply.

            “Dear, you must have the shortest memory in creation!” she would reply. “You remember our place! Not even half the size, and two extra people.” On the last part, her voice would raise, questioning. “Speaking of which…” she would continue, as if to suggest it was an unrehearsed, perfectly organic shift in the conversation, “When are you two going to make two more of your own?”

            Soon enough mother. Soon enough.

              I pushed open the door and glided out into the hallway. At the end of the hall was a shuttered window. The gaps in the matted shingles let in speckled patches of light, leaving burning scars on the walls and floor. I stood, unsure where to go. I had not notices the shadows before, but now the pinpoints of light threw the rest of the room into perfect darkness. I moved towards the light. With each inch the light grew by a mile, getting larger and brighter. Until finally, I stopped.

            I stood at the edge of the hallway, just on the precipice of the deep pool of light, hovering on the edge. Do I dive in? It had been so long since I had been awake, longer since I had seen light, and even longer since I had bathed in it.

            I examined the light. It had been so long, I realized that I could no longer determine its origin. To think there was a time that I could distinguish the faint flickering glow of a candle from the basking heat of the sun. Was this the gentle shimmer of moonlight, or the brutal beat of a tungsten lamp?

            But with an explosion greater than the eruption of a thousand cannons, another footstep was taken. I heard the house bleat reflexively under the pressure of the footsteps of the other and I retreated. The light could wait for the proper exploration. The kind that could only occur in silence. The light would wait.

              I sat, waiting by the phone. It had been over two months since my mother had come to the house. I had expected her to show up by now. I had planned to deliver the news in person. But instead, I sat by the phone, waiting for the dial tone to end and for her to pick up. After a few moments, I heard the familiar faint click as the tape head engaged on the other end of the line. My mother’s voice, slightly louder and weathered by frequent plays, rang through from the answering machine.

            I heard the recording of my mother’s voice eke out the familiar words, and I looked down. I glanced at the slight bulge emanating from my stomach. She would want to know. But would she want to know like this?

            The voice on the phone ran out of words to say, and the machine clicked again, switching its tape. The machine cycled for a few seconds, recording the sounds of static and indecision. Then I hung up the phone. She would want me to tell her in person.

              The sound had gotten quieter. It had grown lower with each step the other took, to the pointer were the individual footfalls were barely discernable. The house had cooled its wounded moans, callousing itself to the footsteps so I could no longer determine where the other trod. It was quiet, but not silent. So I continued my search.

            I had moved down the hallway and was now descending the stairs. Of all the habits that had died away in the intervening eons, somehow stairs remained. Within the house, I had freedom. I could move and behave how I wished, without regard for the structural hindrances that bind the purely corporeal. And for the first few lifetimes, I enjoyed that freedom immensely. The glory of passing through a wall or flying through a ceiling had rebellious novelty. The joy of seemingly breaking the rules of the house was one of my few pleasures. But the luster soon wore away. The small liberty of shunning of the confines of the rooms only highlighted the impenetrable boundaries of the house itself. Every time I burst through an interior wall, I became more and more aware of the stoic sturdiness of the exterior walls. It became less painful to use stairs and doors. At least in that case, I was imprisoning myself by choice.

              The brilliant light of the hospital was blinding as I screamed. With every scream I felt my throat clench and tear a little more, and then I would feel the terrible corkscrew twist up my spine and I would scream again. It hurt. It hurt too much to think.

            And then, with one last push, it was finally, blessedly over. I looked down at the squirming, squealing mess in the doctor’s hand, and I saw him talk. I saw the doctor open his mouth. I saw the air escape his lips. But I didn’t hear it. I simply leaned back, and closed my eyes.

              I was on the ground floor, and the stairs led out to an interior hallway, sealed from the interruptions of light. The rumble of the house grew louder. It was different now, the very core of the house steeped in the choleric influence of the other. It was not just my silence it had destroyed, but that of the house. That of my house. Even if it was a prison, it was my prison, and I would defend it. I continued to move.

            I glided down the hallway, above the rough and ragged carpet. The walls were adorned with corked pictures, dangling from their hooks in an off-kilter pantomime of a life once lived. No light had entered this hallway in years, so the unfaded color of the photographs still shone through the dusty glass and rotted frames. There were many photographs. The black and white one of my mother as a young girl, spring flower pinned perfectly in her hair. The one of my husband, standing above the version of myself that sat with a fully extended belly. The one of his parents, a year before the accident, clutching each other tightly and smiling a broad smile.

            I reached down and picked up the photograph. Truthfully, I rarely ever thought of them until I died. Despite them being the parents of my husband, they simply never interested me. But now I wondered on them often. What thoughts did they have as they peeled away from their bodies? Perhaps it was instantaneous, and they exited the moment their small Ford made impact with the jet black Buick. Or, just as likely, they remained, paralyzed, unable to see beyond the wrecked collage of steel, glass, and viscera. Maybe they went out together, clutching each other as tightly as they were in the photograph. Or maybe they each went alone, silently screaming. The way I did.

              The baby was beautiful, the doctors said. A beautiful little girl. Five pounds, two ounces. Perfectly average. And my husband was proud. He was glowing for weeks afterwards. He had always said that even though he’d prefer a son, he really didn’t care one way or another. And by all accounts that seemed to be true.

            “Julia,” he said. “Let’s call her Julia.” After his mother.

            Little Julia looked angelic. She gleamed even brighter than my husband at his most proud. But she cried. From the moment she exited me, Julia was just another name for that terrific scream. The lungs of an infant have a capacity for sound that I am sure no science or religion could ever explain. My husband’s mother was a quiet woman, content to bask in the stillness of existence. Our Julia demanded to become existence. When her mouth opened, there was no one else but her.

              I passed through the door at the end of the hallway, and turned the corner to find them. Footsteps in the dust. Each indentation perfectly placed and perfectly formed. It must be walking slowly, I thought, to make such perfect footsteps. But what did I know. My feet hadn’t touched the floor in centuries.

            I stared at the footprints, then up at the rest of the room. I was in the kitchen, and the footprints snaked around the tilted table in the center of the room, with its one rotting leg mocking the efforts of its three standing brothers. The prints continued on, past the yellowed icebox and the cabinets. I wondered why nothing was disturbed. Time, age, and decay were the only things that had ransacked the place.  So why was the other here? What was its purpose?

            My mind stopped its guessing, however, when I looked further at the path of footprints. I saw where they were going and I knew why it must have come here. It came for the thrill. It came for the danger. Because the footsteps all pointed uniformly in one direction: towards the child’s bedroom.

              He could sleep through it all. His ears would rise at the shrill clang of the telephone bell, but the cries of the child echoes within deaf ears. So I was the one who awoke. Night after night, drawn from the terrifyingly subdued world of sleep to the nightmarishly loud world of midnight. I was the one who descended into the world of the dead. Into Julia’s world.

              I followed the footsteps to the child’s bedroom.

            The door was closed, but I could still hear the faint heartbeat from the other side. Even among the general roar of the wounded house, the heartbeats and the nervous breaths broke through. This was the moment. This was where I choose. Because I knew, if I stepped through that door, it would be for one purpose. It would have one outcome. I stood and I thought and I wondered. I could turn around. I let the intrusion go unpunished. It would be easy. All I would have to do is turn around, and wait. The other would leave and, given time, the damage would heal itself.

            But it wouldn’t be the same. If I were lenient, if I faltered, the other would come back. More would follow. If this were revealed a place fit for the living, then soon they once again claim it as their own. But it was not theirs. It was mine. My house. My child’s room.

            I pushed open the door, and I walked in.

            And it was waiting there. The other. Alone among the faded pastel of the pink and yellow wallpaper, the other was the only indication of life in the room. The indentations of the furniture in the floor had long since disappeared, replaced by the dust now broken by perfectly formed footsteps. And at the end of those footsteps stood the other.

            It was a she. It was young. Younger than I was, when I married my husband, but not by much. It wore a jacket, blue, made from the same denim as the Levi’s she wore below. Its shoes were scuffed, coated in the gray dust from the house and the brown dirt from outside. Its dark skin melded into its even darker hair, spiraling outward into the air. 

            For a thousand years we stood and stared at each other. I could feel that she saw me. It was a new feeling. It came out of the other’s eyes. Its eyes were alive. I had seen eyes in photographs and paintings and mirrors, but not since that final night had I seen eyes that burned with the fire of a living soul. These eyes spoke volumes. The open, endless black ripples told a story of confidence and curiosity. But these were quickly replaced with sharp black pinpricks on a white background, telling a story of pure, simple, human fear.

            After those thousand years had passed, the other opened its mouth. It opened its mouth, tensed its muscles like a rat preparing to dive into a hole, and screamed.

              The scream rang throughout the universe, and in an infinite second I was at her. I stood in front of her, reached out my hand, and grasped. With one hand, I grasped at the open mouth, and the other, burning with inevitability, wrapped slowly around the exposed neck. The touch did not stop the scream, and neither did the pressure. No, the scream continued, though abated slightly as the sound waves desperately vibrated through my tensed hand. The sound grew slowly quieter, ever as the shrieks grew more ferocious in their rebellion. She began to shake, to fight back physically as well as vocally. She fought, and she believed, but it was no matter. I knew, to me she could do nothing.

            I lifted her up, holding tightly by the throat, and the fight changed. For the first time in the eons since this began, she realized that it was I who had control. It was my house, and she was the trespasser. My house of darkness and solitude and loneliness and sleep and silence. My silence she had broken. She knew she could not win. She gave up. She would now stay quiet.

            With one final rattle, the sound died away. The gasps and struggling and fight were over and all that was left was stillness. All that was left was silence.

              I let go. The other dropped to the floor, but I could not hear the thud. No, I heard nothing, because the silence had returned, but it had returned as an all-consuming beast. What I thought would be serenity, emptiness, nothingness, was far from it. What I thought would let me sleep instead became the most fearful thing I could have conjured in my worst nightmares. The silence echoed perpetually with the furious clang of soundless screams. As I looked down at the floor, I saw them. I saw them all. I saw all the crumpled bodies, each individually contorted by its own particular fall. But for all the particulars of each corpse, they all gazed out at me with a uniform glare: each eye pleading, each eye condemning. The face of the other. The face of the others before. The face of Julia.

              I knew. I remembered. This was not the first time. And I knew it would not be the last time. The world would keep spinning and I would keep spinning within it. Repeating. Reliving. I would not remember this moment, this realization, until I made it again. Until it was too late. And with each time, another body would be added to the pile and another scream would be added to the silence.

            Could I stop it? Could I fight? To fight this future, however, I would have to remember. I would have to see the piles of corpses and feel the eyes burning into me. I would have to stay awake.

            That, I decided, would be too much. And so, in the silence, I slept.