No matter how hard I strained, the sinew and the bone had limits. In the equation of possibilities, the yield was naught. I was powerless. Powerless to reach the top of the crib. Reach over it. Past it. Through it.
To the toy beyond. I have zero memory of what toy it was. To place the specifics of its make is of psychological non-importance akin to the atomic weight of Roentgenium. Whatever it was, it was all I needed. All I wanted. Ever. The impossibility of mastering it planted a time bomb in my brain. The invention of this frustration was complex beyond precedent. Imperceptible, the bomb ticked timelessly from that age on.
It spread throughout my being, throughout my bones, throughout my sinew. Throughout my RNA, into my DNA, into my mitochondria and into the membrane of every cell in my animal. Were my building blocks to have had cell walls, the cell walls would have been compromised as well.
It was in me on my 8th birthday, when I couldn’t feign the happiness my mother expected to see on my face. What she had given me wasn’t it. Were one able to lapse back to that date and plunge into my cerebrum and were said person able to listen to my organism’s workings, the internal struggle that scorched between wanting my mother to love me and wanting to have it would have resonated a steady, never faltering, "tick, tock, tick tock."
It was also there on my 12th birthday, when I couldn’t beat the first level of it. I had wanted it since its announcement at the world’s largest trade show 9 months prior. The want to play it was the only thing keeping my days from ending. He had been particularly mean that day, embarrassing me irreversibly in the middle of the lunchroom. But I waited patiently til after school, when I could go home and conquer it. I hadn’t felt such frustration, such penetrating retardation in front of an inanimate since that day in the crib. The lust to compensate, to funnel incorporeal thoughts into the real by way of unstoppable rage, was on the utmost verge of non-return. The "tick, tock" inside exploded into a genetic cacophony, deafening the normal rhythms of every procedure in my shell. But, by God’s divine intervention, potentially fatal vitriolage was gracefully pardoned.
And the "tick, tock" was there today. My 17th birthday. The day I was finally able to buy a ticket to what I had been wanting to see for months.
As the credits rolled, my muscles hesitated before elevating me out of my seat. Something had changed. Relief. It was gone. Now existed only silence in place of genetic chaos.
The pause was over. My muscles completed their function and had transitioned seamlessly into the walk back home. Lost in internal exposition, I arrived home without realizing it. I went inside, went straight for the knife block in the kitchen, acquired my new it and then searched for the target.
With the knife held to the throat of my sleeping parent, reflection came in a torrent. Never mind the crippling disappointment on my 8th birthday – the 4th consecutive year of disappointment that would mark a 13 year losing streak. Never mind the indelible label stamped on me on my 12th birthday, staining me with an ghastly social stink for the rest of my stay in school. Never mind the fact that I only bought a ticket to Saw III that night because my house was empty, my parents having completely forgotten my birthday for the 3rd year in a row.
It was the instant and invincible bond that formed between myself and Jigsaw. This was what I had been wanting all my life. The hatred I felt because my parents were worthless, the powerlessness I felt because I couldn’t master a fucking toy, the suicidal social awkwardness I felt day in and day out – none of this was due to nature nor nurture. All I’ve wanted, all I’ve needed for my entire existence was to torture a human being. The blade glinted in the moonlight while I considered aborting.
But the horror movie’s domain over me was final.
It is without tremor that I can tell you, Mr. O’Reilly, that it was Darren Lynn Bousman’s film that is to blame. Without question, Dr. Virginia Klein, it was this extremely fantastical idea of torture that finally made me realize that my toy’s power over me was what had caused every negative thought in my life. Without trepidation, I thank you James Hirsen for removing the blinding spotlight from the face of infallible, non-profit minded news outlets like Fox News (and the statistical fact that they will be the largest source of any child’s exposure to death) and onto the greedy, capitalist vampires that run Lionsgate.
If it weren’t for unbiased people like you, people who truly place my and America’s best interests before their own, I’d of never known that this unprecedented crop of gory horror films was to blame for triggering my completely abnormal thoughts and behavior.
May God Bless you, Bill O’Reilly and may the public soon forget your sexual harassment charges. May the Lord grant you higher premiums to be a talk show consultant, Dr Klein, and grant higher book sales to you, Mr. Hirsen.