Keianna

I can vividly remember the first time I saw the original It movie. It was a random Tuesday, I was in the fifth grade, and my uncle played it in our living room. Needless to say, my mother was very annoyed that I wasn’t able to sleep for almost a week after. Can you blame me? That clown is the creepiest thing ever.

I’d never really seen horror movies before that besides the time I wanted to impress my older cousins and stuck around for the first couple minutes of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Luckily, my dad saw my discomfort and told me to go to bed. Shout out to dad for that one.

Upon seeing the new It trailer I immediately turned it off (ya girl was scared, OK?) and started thinking back to that time in my life. It was bittersweet. My mom was living with us in a decent apartment and I had a lot of friends.

Back then, I held the title of “scaredy cat” due to my avoidance of stories that centered around what was widely believed to be our haunted apartment complex. Let it be known that young Keianna Johnson was never rude about not listening to these stories. Instead, whenever one would come up I’d look up at my apartment and say something along the lines of: “Oh, is that my mom calling me? Yeah, I’m pretty sure she needs me to go inside now.” Friends always called me out on it, but when I eventually stuck around to hear one I was so scared that I had to regretfully inform my mother about my plan to move out immediately. She in turn told me that all that stuff was made up and I had nothing to worry about.

So what does the very logical Keianna start worrying about? The stuff that isn’t made up. True crime as a genre is my personal nightmare. I haven’t been desensitized to the loss of human life—I cry on multiple occasions while watching the 10 o’clock news.

There is a point to my story, which I guess I’m avoiding getting to it because it hurts to think about. I need to write about it so that it will stop consuming me in the way it has been. You always think that bad things are just the sick dreams of horror filmmakers. Stuff like that could never happen to someone you know and love. It hurts so much to think about so we don’t think about it. Until one day it happens.

My sisters saw it on Facebook first. We’d known my dad was acting weird that day but we weren’t sure why. Later we’d find out that he was trying to figure out how to tell us. How would you tell your kids that their godmother had been killed in her house? I’d imagined that if my nightmares ever turned into a reality I’d scream, but instead it was a dry choked sob while running into my dad’s room.

I didn’t get enough time with her. We didn’t see each other as often as we should have. This made mourning hard, because I felt I didn’t deserve to. I don’t know if that makes sense. She was a beautiful person. She was funny, wild, and inspiring. She always made sure everyone was having fun. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, no one ever deserves something like that. I hope she knows I love her and think about her constantly. I hope she’s proud of what I’m doing.

I was thinking about it a couple of days ago and realized that she’d probably jokingly call me silly for not wanting to see It, then reassuringly tell me that she was just kidding and I don’t have to.

I just wish I could have said see you later. ♦