Dead….Pool
You drool. I murder.
He’s the man who is the hall pass for many men, women, and non-binary folk. Heck, I have overheard partners and spouses make pacts that if either are given the chance to rendezvous with the Canadian icon, they’d better capitalize on the opportunity or else the relationship will be riddled with disappointment. Regardless of your sexual orientation, Ryan Reynolds has millions, if not billions, of people in a simping chokehold.
However, Ryan’s hands weren’t around my neck.
On May 15, 2018, theatres filled with people drooling over Ryan Reynolds as he brought Deadpool to life. Unbeknownst to him, Reynolds had created a duo of murderers in Sherwood Park, Alberta, Canada.
As a child of the one and only God, I grew up fearing all things media. The indoctrinated fear was stunting. On repeat, I was told, “One day, Breanna, the demons on television will escape. When that time comes, you must be sure you’re right with God, or your body will be their new breeding ground.” Imagine being told this at six or seven years old. To take it one step further, when we went to a grocery store, a mall, or saw a person walking down the street, a woman with short hair or a man with long, a woman wearing a garment pertaining to a man or they had piercings and tattoos, we were told the “demons” had made home in them. Lucky for us, we were the favoured elite of Christ, shielded from this satanic handiwork.
To keep the dove of the Holy Spirit stationed within our homes and bodily temples, televisions did not find their way inside our houses, radio stations we did not turn on, and movie theatres we did not preoccupy. As we grew into teenagers, that anti-Christ rebellion struck, and my sister, after our parents would go to bed, would invite me into her room and turn on the local radio station. “Walking on Sunshine” by KATRINA will be one of the endless reasons I burn in hell. For my sixteenth birthday, that first mixed birthday party of boys and girls, a guy friend secretly gifted me a burnt CD of the band Boys Like Girls. I remember hearing ‘The Great Escape’ for the first time and having a spiritual awakening amidst the soul-crushing and crippling religious condemnation. I no longer have the CD, but ‘The Great Escape’ has permanently stayed on my Spotify list. A demon has inhabited me.
Without smartphones and with locked-up dial-up internet, indulging in pop culture craze was uncharted waters, and I was not about to become a founding mother for some demon-possessed cutie known as Zac Efron. Catching a glimpse of him in magazines on the grocery store shelves was enough to have my ankles roll as I tripped over my shame and guilt walking into the cult sanctuary at the next service. In those moments, I surrendered both hands in praise to God, asking for forgiveness.
The unforgivable sin is unbelief. God forgives those who rape and murder, but if you rebuke the word he brought to earth once heard, there is no grace strong enough to save your soul.
After being kicked out of the cult, unbelief was not instant. Even if you pushed a big red button promising immediate cease, the indoctrination and condemnation would continuously flow.
Unfortunately, it is the opposite that occurs.
As the first year passes, the hours within the days drag by, haunted by the ramifications of living a ‘worldly’ life. My hands visibly shook as I gripped the steering wheel of my car, waiting for the orchestrated vehicle accident that would transpire due to God’s anger with me not pining to be back under his leadership. How about the sweat-stained bed sheets from the nightly terror screams of horror as my nightmares of being stalked and murdered by those who once claimed to love me woke me? I feared thunderstorms, and not for innocent reasons; God would use them as a medium to kill me. Have you ever had to schedule your shopping trips at a time when you know you’ll be safe from running into former friends, family and cult members because you are convinced you’re in the wrong and facing those that are the epitome of truth have you pulling the car over to puke into the ditch? God was on a journey of vengeance to scare me, well, us back under his control and manipulation. My cortisol levels were kept steady at an all-time high, and with every step of healing that I took, my heart was one beat away from an attack.
It is during these moments when many who leave or those who have been kicked out make their way back to the cult or, devastatingly and unfairly, take their lives.
My ex-husband and I walked into our local cinema with cortisol pursing through my body, my ankles rolling, and sweat pouring from every orifice. It was the first time we entered a movie theatre together…. as murder weapons.
The ground beneath me shook. I was in a constant state of dizziness, and I made more than one run to the bathroom, saving myself from shitting my pants and other theatregoers from being the recipients of my projectile vomit. Hastily, we made our way into the theatre. As I walked the ramp and climbed the stairs to our seats, I held a staring contest with the carpet. I planted my ass into the designated seat and there I froze.
As Deadpool played, Ryan grabbed the audience and held them in that undeniable sexual longing chokehold that he does. I, too, was in a chokehold, but the hands around mine were that of the Grim Reaper. The theatre grew narrow by the minute, and the oxygen siphoned out, a slow asphyxiation. It was the sound of a man’s laughter that kept bringing me back, back to the reality of killing all in the theatre, a gut-wrenching truth I wouldn’t survive.
“God, just get it over with. If I’m killing them, I am dying too.”
Would the murder be premeditated since I knew what would happen going into the theatre?
Zeus' lightning bolt would strike at any moment, engulfing the theatre in flames, trapping and killing everyone inside.
All because of my choice, our choice not to go back to the cult.
Because of the impetus of unbelief.
Your God complex has nothing on mine.
The movie continued to play, the lightning strike delaying. God is a taunter. What did I expect? I was taught that his love is hateful, not that sweet shit of Cupid.
I kept hearing the man’s laughter. Over and over again, that's all I heard. His laughter was the devil on my left shoulder, and the murder about to go down was God on my right. It sounds incredibly ludicrous, absolutely psychotic, to the point that any sane person would have placed a call to the mental institution.
After what felt simultaneously like a split-second and evermore, the credits played on the screen, and I watched theatregoers stand on their two legs and exit. I remained seated. Silent.
Who
What
When
Where
Why
HOW?!??!?!?
Don’t be a fool, Breanna. You're still in the theatre, and you're not leaving unscathed.
“Revenge is mine, saith the lord.”
As I walked out, my ‘Lot’s Wife’ moment unfolded. I turned back and watched the exit door close, still fervently expecting the theatre to burst into flames, an explosion of international news proportions.
Running through the parking lot, I was sure I would step on a landmine. I couldn't go to the movie theatre, where demons swirl about and abide, finding their new inhabitants without consequence and murder, could I?!?
Evidently I could, can and do. In a shocking turn of events, I even bring along my family.
And while I don't drool over Reynolds, today, you will find me drooling at the theatre over….THAT popcorn!
If you’re not drooling over it, we can’t be friends. ;)
Six years later…
*For legal reasons, no murders occurred