Final Room

08 | tara carpenter

CHAPTER EIGHT | TARA CARPENTER

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

          The first forum post I've ever made is anonymous, but it's still easily traceable. It's vague yet specific enough for the Final Girls to know I wrote it, that I went through that. I'm desperate enough to beg them for validation, to beg them to believe me that the words pouring out into the message board end up being far more personal than I intended, but then the comments come flushing down.

Thank you for your bravery. We have your back. #FG

Final Girls stick together, right?

You were just defending yourself. It was proven (I read all about it, watched every news report on your case) and I don't think you should be dwelling on that. Protecting yourself against someone who made it clear they wanted to kill you doesn't make you a bad person. It means you fought back. #FG

I spent a few summers at Camp Comet when I was a teenager myself. Never in a million years did I expect something so terrible to happen there, but I'm glad you made it out.

You did what you had to do, baby girl. You're a survivor. #FG

          Some Final Girls were so disillusioned with a world that failed to protect them that they took it out on other people, bitter and traumatized, but I understand them. I, too, was angry at first, so furious that no one was looking out for us, for me, and then I had to be the one to step up and do it. That night, I saved myself. I fought back. They want me to believe I was in the right, that I had no choice but to hit Him with the baseball bat, and I sleep with the knowledge that I have no blood on my hands. I didn't kill Him.

          Even though some of them are downright mean, the ones that aren't, the ones that have left me messages of encouragement have no idea how brighter they made my day. I still refuse to regularly check those forums, but it's a moment in time I can't erase. It's a reminder that not all of them are teenagers, not all of them are in their early twenties. Some of these Final Girls are well into their adulthood, some of them married, some of them have children, and yet there we are, finding comfort in each other because no one else in our lives will ever come close to being that strong pillar.

          If anything, it terrifies me. I'm terrified to hit twenty-five, thirty, forty, and still be thinking about this every day, still being haunted by ghosts and memories, and it's exhausting just to consider a reality where I'm still carrying all this heavy baggage with me.

          Sitting in front of me, legs firmly crossed, Doctor Albott listens to my monologue in complete silence. Her facial expression remains calm and collected, like she has done this countless times, and I don't know why this relationship feels different than that I had with my previous therapist, but it does. Perhaps it's because I'm here by my own will, because this is something I've chosen, because she doesn't try to act like she completely gets me.

          Because she doesn't pretend to be someone she's not, I don't, either. I don't try to act stronger or braver than I am, and I don't get the feeling that she's asking me to be, like my old therapist used to. In Chicago, people told me I have to be strong, I have to keep my head up at all times, I have to look on the bright side (hey, at least I'm not dead, right?), but Doctor Albott begins the session by telling me all masks stay outside of her office, and that it's okay to admit I'm struggling.

          I don't expect to start bawling halfway through my explanation about what brings me to her office, but there I am, staring at the golden details marking the fabric of her jeans around her calves. I can't look anyone in the eye while I'm crying because I'm vain enough to care that I look ugly and ridiculous, so this will have to do. In my head, this is yet something else she understands and doesn't judge.