Creative nonfiction by Elisa C.
We were watching Coraline.
I remember staring at the clay-made creatures in the tiny box before us, their button slits for eyes boring into mine. I remember the shriek of The Beldam, the crash of the snow globe, and then a warm liquid seeping through the couch, creeping toward my leg.
Everyone has had those haunting characters, hiding under the bed and budging their way into our dreams. Maybe it’s Ronald MacDonald, his artificially bright red hair and bright red painted eyes and bright red mouth all bleeding together as he spreads his gloved hands, inviting you to play. Maybe it’s the idea of ghosts, their whispers keeping you up at night, the thought of their translucent bodies brushing you as you sleep. Or perhaps it’s Medusa, waiting behind every corner, ready to turn you into a nice pretty statue for her garden forever and ever.
As an eight-year-old, the Beldam in Coraline terrified me. Everywhere I looked, I was afraid to discover those sharp red nails clawing toward me, purple buttons, and sewing needle in hand.
But it wasn’t just the Beldam that scared me. It’s not just that terrible clown or the snakes themselves; it’s the fear of being forced to reckon with the devastating truth behind those eyes. It’s the paralyzing realization that if these monsters get intimate with me, I’ll have to live in a sick world of their choosing. It’s looking up and only seeing those black flats of buttons. It’s looking around and being the only one to witness this sea of stares. Because when you try and see what more they could be looking at, when you try to discern the reason behind those eyes, all you're met with is yourself and a black, unyielding abyss.
That night, in my room, I sat myself back in my soft, white, and blue striped rocking chair and stared at all the things that stared back at me. I counted the seconds I could sit there, and after two seconds too long, I tore myself from the plush cushion of the seat and started my rampage. I knocked photos of people over desks and turned each pottery-painted animal to the wall; I put Post-It notes on books with faces on them and trashed every item that had a button sewn onto it; I ripped the stuffed animals and dolls from my bed and threw them under the bed, and even then when I could still feel all of these inanimate objects’ eyes twisting around or burning through the layers of furniture, I hurled them into my parents’ room.
As I’ve grown, I’ve learned to look elsewhere but these eyes. I’ve locked these nightmares into chests and buried them in my closet.
“Grow up,” you’re told. Learn to be indifferent. If you forget about it– pretend it doesn’t exist, it’ll all just disappear.
But what happens when you trap those fears for too long? What happens when you forget about them, and all that’s left for them to do is fester? What happens if the lock becomes unbroken, but I was so grown up that I didn’t care to notice?
It’s this idea of the panopticon, this invisible watcher, whose powers are only heightened by the fact its abilities aren’t made tangible.
The buttons: they’re all all around me. Spying on me, taped to walls, and strewn all over the place. They’re examining every deed, every step, opinion, phone call, purchase. Before I know it, I’ve sewn the buttons onto my own eyes, and I’m telling my children they don’t exist, not even at all.
By the end of the movie, my friend had wet her pants, and I was still staring at the TV, petrified. I remember her mom laughing, saying, “That wasn’t too scary of a movie, now was it? Look at Ellie. She looks fine; Ellie, that wasn’t too scary, right?”
I slowly turned toward her and just shook my head.
I’m all grown up.
I rewrote this