 Preparing to lose a loved one is, in my opinion, worse than losing them in an accident. Everybody knows one day they will die but knowing a loved one will die from a terminal disease or illness makes you start to see death everywhere. On the street, in the shops, even in your own home. Death looms around every corner. Waiting. My dad has terminal cancer. We found out last month. He’s fifty-three years old. He’s just started chemotherapy, however, it’s more a form of palliative care, for his body is riddled with cancer, and he will inevitably die. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel. When I found out I cried every day for a week. Now, I randomly cry while walking down the street. It doesn’t help there are three funeral homes nearby. I need to pass one of them to go to the shops. At first, I would sprint past them. But now, I simply stand there and stare at the mourners huddled outside. I stare at the hearse, at the coffin inside. I stare at the building, at the garden, at the driveway. I’ve memorised the exterior of the place. I’m not sure why I do it since my parents live around half an hour away, and the service is unlikely to be held there. I deal with my grief in many ways. I’ve collected photos from my aunts of his childhood, and photos of my dad from my sister’s wedding. Photos of him on several occasions. Yet collating them to create a photo album isn’t the only way I process my grief. I also watch horror movies and read horror stories. Horror is a form of catharsis. It allows me to witness death, to witness monsters, and gore in an entirely safe environment. I know these deaths aren’t real. I know the violence is staged. Some films create an opportunity for people to come back from the dead, not only in zombie films. While many slasher films tend to kill everyone off, there are several films where the monster or supernatural entity is defeated, and everything is OK. Often, it provides a strange sense of comfort. While you know the movies or books aren’t real, they still represent a very realistic form of grief that everyone experiences in some form or another. Horror can be frightening, of course. It can be confronting, terrifying, and even sad. Yet it’s one of the most truthful and unique ways of exploring the human experience. Why we hurt one another, why we are obsessed with death, and why we turn to violence when we feel unheard or there is no other way to project our feelings. Some people dislike horror because they think it's perverse, degrading, or derogatory. And sure, some horror films are. But the better ones reflect the things we cannot ignore. The world is an unsettling and unpredictable place. Brutality is everywhere – on the news, in magazines, newspapers, social media – you name a form of social communication, and it’s there. Wars, famine, murder, murder-suicides – violence surrounds us like a fog, reflected through a filter which allows us to process such injustices. Death is intrusive, and there is no way to ignore it. Animals die, nature dies, everything has a lifespan. It’s just the way the world works. And sometimes that lifespan is shorter than others; sometimes it’s cut too short from incurable maladies that cannot be controlled. My dad’s father had cancer, too. He died when I was younger, just a little older than my dad is now. Yet the cancer is a coincidence, not hereditary. While I was saddened by my grandpa’s death, I was too young when he died to properly understand it and to understand my father’s grief. But now I think I understand. And I think my dad knows that, too. Horror films are kind of like fairy tales, in which innocents stray from the path and find themselves in life-threatening situations. The witch, the giant, the wolf – predators seek to kill them, and there’s often nothing they can do about it. But in the end, they triumph, either by tricking the giant, pushing the witch into an oven, or escaping a truly horrific demise. They conquer their demons, their fears, their assailants, and move on with their lives with the knowledge they are capable of defending themselves in similar situations. They discover their own strengths and use them to their advantage. While in films the witch, the giant, and the wolf are replaced by the chainsaw-wielding murderer, the axe-wielding serial killer, and the seemingly charming cannibal, the premise is essentially the same. There are monsters out to get you. I suppose you could say cancer, as well as other terminal illnesses, are monsters of which you cannot escape. Chemotherapy is your attempt to stay alive to convince the witch it’s best to fatten you up before killing and eating you. It’s discovering a hiding place that will prolong your death, even if the killer finds you in the end. You know there is no escaping your demise, but you accept the fact you have to try to live as long as you can. There are many stories about preserving life, or reanimation. ‘Frankenstein’ by Mary Shelley is perhaps one of the greatest and more well-known examples. Shelley had several miscarriages, and only one of her children survived into adulthood. This sense of loss possibly fuelled her interest in experiments with electricity. In one of her letters, Shelley wrote: “perhaps a corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth.” H.P. Lovecraft also wrote about reanimation. In his short story, ‘Herbert West – Reanimator’, Lovecraft describes two medical students fascinated by the theory that a human body is merely a machine and, after death, can be ‘restarted.’ At first, the students pay people to rob graves for their experiments, in which they inject the corpses with a serum, but over time they steal corpses themselves. Both stories feature scientifically reanimated corpses, and both stories conclude ‘playing God’ is a dangerous game that disrupts the natural order of life. Death is inevitable, and something we must accept, as depressing and terrifying as that is. My dad’s favourite genre of books and movies is science fiction. He loves Star Trek and anything to do with the exploration of space. He’s also Catholic and wears a cross on a chain around his neck. While I am agnostic and sceptical about religion, he believes in the afterlife, which I am hoping is a comfort for him. I’m not sure what he thinks of ‘Frankenstein’ or ‘Herbert West – Reanimator’, for we’ve never really spoken about the idea of life after death. As a child, he used to teach my sister and I about planets and stars and everything to do with outer space. We’d be outside while he cooked a barbecue for dinner and he’d tell us all about the solar system, and his hope for life in on other planets. I always found that interesting, for how could a Catholic also believe in science? It didn’t make much sense to me as a child, but now, as an adult, I find it incredibly interesting. He’s never limited his imagination, and always encouraged my sister and I to continuously learn about the world, and what lies beyond. I think that’s one of my favourite things about him. I don’t know how I’ll process his death. I worry about being agnostic since I don’t have the comfort of necessarily believing he’s in heaven with his own father, and his friends and loved ones he’s lost throughout his life. It’s the truth of this worry that scares me more than any horror movie ever could. I cannot control this fear in the safety of my home with a rum and some popcorn. It’s no longer their grief and their fear, but my own, and that is what makes it terrifying. I can only hope that when he does pass away I can find some comfort in the knowledge that horror can assist with the processing of my grief. It’s something that’s been discussed and studied for years now and is a proven form of catharsis. I’m not sure what I’ll watch, or what I’ll read, but whatever it is I know they represent fears and monsters I can control. And I suppose there’s some comfort in that. The End.  Bio: Claire Fitzpatrick is an award-winning author of speculative fiction and non-fiction. She won the 2017 Rocky Wood Award for Non-Fiction and Criticism. Called ‘Australia’s Queen Of Body Horror’ and ‘Australia’s Body Horror Specialist,’ she enjoys writing about anatomy and the darker side of humanity. Her debut collection ‘Metamorphosis,’ hailed as ‘simply heroic,’ is out now from IFWG Publishing. She’s currently studying a Master’s degree at the University of Queensland in Health and Rehabilitation Sciences. She lives with her partner, her daughter, and her cat Cthulhu somewhere in Queensland. Facebook: facebook.com/witch.of.eldritch Instagram: wetoo.arestardust Twitter: CJFitzpatrick1991 Website: www.clairefitzpatrick.net/ METAMORPHOSIS: SHORT STORIES BY CLAIRE FITZPATRICK  This short story collection includes 17 tales of terror. Madeline will never become a woman. William will never become a man. Does June deserve to be human? Does Lilith deserve a heart? If imperfection is crucial to a society's survival, what makes a monster? "Simply heroic." - R.J. Joseph [reviewer] "Wonderful carnage among the formalities and forced smiles." - Aaron Dries, author of 'A Place For Sinners.'" A wickedly gruesome collection." - Tabitha Wood, author and editor. "Visceral and demented, full of flesh that twists and transforms and even sprouts feathers, Fitzpatrick's stories will either sicken or delight." - Brian Craddock, Shadows Award-winning author of 'Ismail's Expulsion.'   the heart and soul of horror review websitesComments are closed.
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