That whiny bitch.
Sure, Freddy isn’t the perfect guy, but really, who is?
At least she’s wanted by someone.
I’d kill for a man to touch me in the bathtub, or to hold me in my sleep. To literally lift me up. That’s what a good man is supposed to do, isn’t it?
But of course, Nancy gets the guy. Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.
She cries and screams and has nightmares, and everyone runs to her like she’s some fucking superstar. But does anyone see me? Longingly standing in the corner… Why doesn’t Freddy come to me in my dreams?
Everyone knows their place. The final girl lives. The jock dies. But what about me? Where do I fit? When you’re just the gay boy next door, who happens to be in love with a demonic pedophile (who clearly doesn’t love you back), what do you do?
Maybe I’ll hold onto this grudge. Let it fester inside me. Let it rot my soul. Let it eat me alive from the inside out. Maybe one day, this pain, this hatred, this misery, and this despair will come in handy. Maybe it will incubate inside me, growing stronger and stronger until it’s pure, unstoppable evil. Maybe I’ll rise from the dead and seek my revenge. I’ll be the next Jason. The next Michael. The next Freddy…
Yes. That’s it. That’s it…
I don’t need Freddy. I just need to become him.
Keith Langston writes for Travel Channel, Screen Rant, and Passport Magazine, among others. His personal essays have been featured in Hobart and Talking Writing. His passions are travel, film, and tea.
Categories: Terror Taco Tuesday