#but what business did an elderly woman and a young adult women getting a drunk man home

[lilgynt]

mom and i had an annoying conversation on the phone and now im re annoyed she got in someone’s business and got our asses groped like i cannot emphasize how little this was her problem but noooooooo

[stan-joonies]

What She Does To Survive

Requests are open!

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The woman held a beautiful baby boy in her arms, a broad smile on her face.

"He looks just like his daddy," She mumbled, a tear rolling down her flushed cheeks.

"Yeah..." FP hummed, collecting the tear on his rough finger before shaking it off. He kneeled to become level with her, cupping her face. "I'm so sorry, if it wasn't for me--"

"--Hey," She smiled slightly, masking her sadness. "University can wait. I can take online courses. Plus, i get this beautiful baby boy and an amazing boyfriend."

FP sighed.

"But you've always wabted to go to Yale, and you just got accepted," Y/N shook her head.

"I need to be here for you and Forsythe. We're a family now,"

FP grinned, leaning in to her body.

-

Y/N pat down the small cardigan.

"Mum!" Jughead whinned, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a baby,"

Y/N smiled.

"I know sweetie, you're a grown adult. I just--my baby's going to school! My beautiful baby!"

"Stopp! I'm three!" Y/N took in a deep breath before smiling.

"I know, Juggie," Jughead giggled.

"Where's dad?"

Y/N smile dimmed, her eyes falling to her son's collar.

"Your daddy is busy. He said he's sorry he couldn't make it. You'll see him tonight though," She assured, rubbing a finger against his chubby cheeks. "Now, lets go get into the van,"

-

Y/N waved her son down as he entered the rundown gates, her eyes twinkling.

"Have you seen her?"

"Who?"

"That Jones woman," a mum whispered.

Y/N's back straightened, smile wiped clean of the face.

"I heard she got pregnant young," another muttered.

"Mm. She's married a Serpent too, can you imagine? She's put her child in such danger. Everyone wonders what goes on in that trailer."

She felt the stares burn into her back .

"Is it true people hear their son screaming?"

"I've never heard it personally, bit i wouldn't doubt the rumours," and elderly woman hissed.

"You seen her son?"

"He's gonna be--" she turned on her heel, glaring at the women .

"Listen to me, cause i will only warn you once . You can talk about me, tear me down. Do whatever with me...but Don't ever come for my son, because that is when things will get personal. You're right about one thing, I'm dating a Serpent." She placed her hands on her hips, her glare chilling the mothers' to their core. "Not just any serpent. The Serpent King. That means im royalty bitch, so watch your fucking step," She walked to her car, fists clenched tightly to her sides, ignoring the sting in her eyes.

-

"Hey, Fp," She stood from the couch, small smile on her face. "I've got Juggie to sleep, i thought me and you could have some alone time," she gestures to the roast on the table, glasses of wine next to them.

Fp grumbled, tripping over hos own feet and landing in the floor. The table shoom and the glasses tipped over, the red wine staining the carpet. Y/N gasped, kneeling down and shaking FP's shoulder.

"FP? are you ok?" He did not stur.

She sighed when she bagan to mumbled in his sleep. The stench of alcohol strong on his breath.

She grabbed him, pulling him onto the sofa with struggle.

She let out a sigh, turning to the stained carpet.

She got to the kitchen and grabbed her cleaning supplies, scrubbing breathlessly at the white carpet.

Her eyes stung with tears.

A perfect dinner ruined.

After she finished cleaning, she went to her room, deciding that FP should sleep on the couch instead.

She looked at her reflection, her short black dress now soaked with water and soap, her neatly put up hair falling into her eyes and matted into her eyelashes. Mascara ran down her red cheeks and her lipstick smudged down to her chin.

She wiped it all away, her giant black bags finally shinning through.

She slipped out of the wet dress, sighing at the red lingerie set underneath.

A perfect night ruined.

-

"Mum?" Jughead called, causing the woman to kneel down to his level.

"What's up sweetheart?"

A tiny hand came up to her cheeks, wiping delicately at her under-eye.

"You look tired," He muttered, brows furrowed.

Y/N's eyes widened before frowning, no energy left to lift up her lips .

"Don't worry about me Juggie, you just go to school and get some education, you hear?" Y/N ordered softly, flattening out his collar.

"Ok, and don't call me Juggie!"

The boy turned, going through the gates for another year.

"I know Juggie."

-

"I-i can't believe you," Y/N heaved out a sob, rubbing her red eyes.

"I--"

"Shut up!" The mother screamed, standing up, fists curling. "You moron! How dare you! You have a son, a family!" She cried. "And you go fuck Gladys? Are you serious!?"

"I was drunk, and what's happened has happened, i know you are insecure about her. I shouldn't have slept with Gladys, but--"

"You shouldn't have fucking slept with anyone! You're bloody married! With a kid. did we not cross your mind at all?"

"You can't expect me to leave her alone, she can't take care of a baby on her own!" FP growled, running a shaky hand through his hair.

"Of course not! But i have every right to be angry. I couldn't care if it was a hobo you slept with, you still cheated! You're ruining this family!" Y/N bellowed, her breathing increasing.

"I made i mistake! I didn't ruin the family. We can still be--"

"You are the biggest peice of scum on the earth FP! You couldn't even give up alcahol! Meanwhile i give up my future, my education, my health! My family disowned me, FP!" Y/N fell on the sofa, her throat sore as she let out a few more sobs. "I gave up everything for this family, FP...when our son was born, i told you i would be there for you and Juggie. But were you ever there for me?..."

"Y/N--"

"No...Fp. you never were." Y/N looked to the carpet, dirty and now grey. The faint pink stain bringing so many hurtful memories to the surface. "I want a divorce,"

"What!" FP exclaimed, going toward her. He collasped to hos knees, grasping her shaly hands in his own "Look, Y/N. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have slept with her. I was wrong. I will change. I promise you, Y/N. Just give me time. Give me a second chance. Please, Y/N."

The woman shook her head.

"That's not the point FP, i have given you so many chances. You never keep to your word. I can't keep giving you chances. I'm doing this for the safety of my Son,"

FP's eyes widened, his grip tightening .

"Y/N. i-- i would never hurt him, you know that. I'm not lile that."

Y/N huffed sadly, meeting the males gaze.

"I also thought you weren't the one to cheat. But i guess we both don't know who you really are."

Y/N stood up.

"Until i get enough money to pay for a divorce...consider us split up, also...i wabt full custody over Juggie,"

-

[trendingnewsb]

Aisling Bea: My fathers death has given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness

The comedians father killed himself when she was three. She was plagued by the fact he made no mention of her or her sister in the letter he left. Then, 30 years after his death, a box arrived

My father died when I was three years old and my sister was three months. For years, we thought he had died of some sort of back injury a story that we had never really investigated because we were just too busy with the Spice Girls and which one we were (I was a Geri/Mel B mix FYI). Then, on the 10th anniversary of his death, my mother sat us down and explained the concept of suicide. Sure, we knew about suicide. At 13, I had already known of too many young men from our town who had taken their own lives. Spoken about as inexplicable sadnesses for the families, spoken about but never really talked about terrible tragedy nobody knows why he did it. What we had not known until that day, was that our father had, 10 years beforehand, also taken his own life.

When I was growing up, I idolised my father. I thought his ghost followed me around the house. I had been told how he adored me, how I was funny, just like him. Because of our lovely Catholic upbringing, I secretly assumed that he would eventually come back, like our good friend Jesus.

My mother, being the wonder woman that she is, never held his death against him. When she looked into his coffin, she felt she saw the face of the man she had married: his stress lines had gone, he seemed free of the sadness that had been dogging him of late. But it was still tough for her to talk about. She didnt want to have to explain to a stranger in the middle of a party how he was not defined by his ending, but how loved he was, how cherished the charismatic, handsome vet in a small town had been. She didnt want his whole person being judged.

Once she had told us, I did not want to talk about him. Ever again. I now hated him. He had not been taken from us, he had left. His suicide felt like the opposite of parenting. Abandonment. Selfishness. Taking us for granted.

I didnt care that he had not been in his right mind, because if I had been important enough to him I would have put him back into his right mind before he did it. I didnt care that he had been in chronic pain and that men in Ireland dont talk about their feelings, so instead die of sadness. I didnt want him at peace. I wanted him struggling, but alive, so he could meet my boyfriends and give them a hard time, like in American movies. I wanted him to come to pick me up from discos, so my mother didnt have to go out alone in her pyjamas at night to get me.

I look like him. For all of my teens and early 20s, I smothered my face in fake tan and bleached my hair blond so that elderly relatives would stop looking at me like I was the ghost of Christmas past whenever I did something funny. You look so like your father, they would say. And as much as people might think a teenage girl wants to be told that she looks like a dead man, she doesnt.

Aisling Bea with her father. Photograph: Aisling Bea

And then there was the letter.

My mother gave us the letter to read the day she told us, but, in it, he didnt mention my sister or me.

I had not been adored. He had forgotten we existed. I didnt believe it at first. When I was 15, I took the letter out of my mothers Filofax and used the photocopying machine at my summer job to make a copy so I could really examine it. Like a CSI detective, I stared at it, desperate to see if there had been a trace of the start of an A anywhere.

I would often fantasise that, if I ever killed myself, I would write a letter to every single person I had ever met, explaining why I was doing it. Every. Single. Person. Right down to the lad I struck up a conversation with once in a chip shop and the girl I met at summer camp when I was 12. No one would be left thinking: Why? I would be very non-selfish about it. When Facebook came in, I thought: Well, this will save me a fortune on stamps.

Sometimes, in my less lucid moments, I was convinced that he had left a secret note for me somewhere. Maybe, on my 16th no, 18th no, 21st no, 30th birthday, a letter would arrive, like in Back to the Future. Aisling, I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. I was secretly a spy. That is why I did it. I love you. I love your sister, too. PS Heaven is real, your philosophy essay is wrong and I am totally still watching over you. Stop shoplifting.

This summer was the 30th anniversary of his death. In that time, a few things have happened that have radically changed how I feel.

Three years ago, Robin Williams took his own life. He was my comedy hero, my TV dad he had always reminded my mother of my father and his death spurred me to finally start opening up. I had always found it so hard to talk about. I think I had been afraid that if I ever did, my soul would fall out of my mouth and I would never get it back in again.

Last year, I watched Grayson Perrys documentary All Man. It featured a woman whose son had ended his life. She thought that he probably hadnt wanted to die for ever, just on that day, when he had been in so much pain. A lightbulb moment it had never occurred to me that maybe suicide had seemed like the best option in that hour. In my head, my father had taken a clear decision, as my parent, to opt out for ever.

My father had always seemed like an adult making adult decisions, but I suddenly found myself at almost his age, still feeling like a giant child. I looked at some of my male friends gorgeous idiots doing their gorgeous, idiotic best to bring up little daughters, just like he would have been.

Finally, just after my 30th birthday, a box turned up.

The miserable people he had worked for had found a box of his things filed away and rang my mother (30 years later) wondering whether she wanted them or whether they should just throw them in the bin.

She waited for us to fly home and we opened it together three little women staring into an almost-abandoned cardboard box.

Now, most of the box was horse ultrasounds which, Ill be honest, I am not into. But there was also his handwriting around the edges and, then, underneath the horse X-rays and files, there were the photographs.

Any child who has lost a parent probably knows every single photograph in existence of that parent. I had pored over them all, trying to put together the person he might have been.

The photos in the box had been collected from his desk after he had died. We had never seen them before. They were nearly all of me. He had had all of these photos stuck on his desk. I was probably the last thing he looked at before he died.

My fathers death has given me a lot. It has given me a lifelong love of women, of their grittiness and hardness traits that we are not supposed to value as feminine. It has also given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness traits that we do not foster as masculine or allow ourselves to associate with masculinity.

To Daddy, here is my note to you:

Im sad you killed yourself, because I really think that, if you could see the life you left behind, you would regret it. You didnt get to see the Berlin wall fall or Ireland qualify for Italia 90. You didnt get to see all the encyclopedias that you bought for us to one day use at university get squashed into a CD and subsequently the internet. You have never got to hear your younger daughters voice it annoys me sometimes, but it has also said some of the most amazing things when drunk. I think you would have been proud to watch your daughter do standup at the O2 and sad to see my mother watching it on her own. Then again, if you hadnt died, I probably wouldnt have been mad enough to become a clown for a living. I am your daughter and I am really fucking funny, just like you. But, unlike you, Im going to stop being it for five minutes and write our story in the hope that it may help someone who didnt get to have a box turn up, or who may not feel in their right mind right now and needs a reminder to find hope. Aisling

In the UK, the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. Other international suicide helplines can be found at befrienders.org

Read more: http://ift.tt/2hEbtos

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2iq7Wui via Viral News HQ

[shg11]

The comedians father killed himself when she was three. She was plagued by the fact he made no mention of her or her sister in the letter he left. Then, 30 years after his death, a box arrived

My father died when I was three years old and my sister was three months. For years, we thought he had died of some sort of back injury a story that we had never really investigated because we were just too busy with the Spice Girls and which one we were (I was a Geri/Mel B mix FYI). Then, on the 10th anniversary of his death, my mother sat us down and explained the concept of suicide. Sure, we knew about suicide. At 13, I had already known of too many young men from our town who had taken their own lives. Spoken about as inexplicable sadnesses for the families, spoken about but never really talked about terrible tragedy nobody knows why he did it. What we had not known until that day, was that our father had, 10 years beforehand, also taken his own life.

When I was growing up, I idolised my father. I thought his ghost followed me around the house. I had been told how he adored me, how I was funny, just like him. Because of our lovely Catholic upbringing, I secretly assumed that he would eventually come back, like our good friend Jesus.

My mother, being the wonder woman that she is, never held his death against him. When she looked into his coffin, she felt she saw the face of the man she had married: his stress lines had gone, he seemed free of the sadness that had been dogging him of late. But it was still tough for her to talk about. She didnt want to have to explain to a stranger in the middle of a party how he was not defined by his ending, but how loved he was, how cherished the charismatic, handsome vet in a small town had been. She didnt want his whole person being judged.

Once she had told us, I did not want to talk about him. Ever again. I now hated him. He had not been taken from us, he had left. His suicide felt like the opposite of parenting. Abandonment. Selfishness. Taking us for granted.

I didnt care that he had not been in his right mind, because if I had been important enough to him I would have put him back into his right mind before he did it. I didnt care that he had been in chronic pain and that men in Ireland dont talk about their feelings, so instead die of sadness. I didnt want him at peace. I wanted him struggling, but alive, so he could meet my boyfriends and give them a hard time, like in American movies. I wanted him to come to pick me up from discos, so my mother didnt have to go out alone in her pyjamas at night to get me.

I look like him. For all of my teens and early 20s, I smothered my face in fake tan and bleached my hair blond so that elderly relatives would stop looking at me like I was the ghost of Christmas past whenever I did something funny. You look so like your father, they would say. And as much as people might think a teenage girl wants to be told that she looks like a dead man, she doesnt.

Aisling Bea with her father. Photograph: Aisling Bea

And then there was the letter.

My mother gave us the letter to read the day she told us, but, in it, he didnt mention my sister or me.

I had not been adored. He had forgotten we existed. I didnt believe it at first. When I was 15, I took the letter out of my mothers Filofax and used the photocopying machine at my summer job to make a copy so I could really examine it. Like a CSI detective, I stared at it, desperate to see if there had been a trace of the start of an A anywhere.

I would often fantasise that, if I ever killed myself, I would write a letter to every single person I had ever met, explaining why I was doing it. Every. Single. Person. Right down to the lad I struck up a conversation with once in a chip shop and the girl I met at summer camp when I was 12. No one would be left thinking: Why? I would be very non-selfish about it. When Facebook came in, I thought: Well, this will save me a fortune on stamps.

Sometimes, in my less lucid moments, I was convinced that he had left a secret note for me somewhere. Maybe, on my 16th no, 18th no, 21st no, 30th birthday, a letter would arrive, like in Back to the Future. Aisling, I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. I was secretly a spy. That is why I did it. I love you. I love your sister, too. PS Heaven is real, your philosophy essay is wrong and I am totally still watching over you. Stop shoplifting.

This summer was the 30th anniversary of his death. In that time, a few things have happened that have radically changed how I feel.

Three years ago, Robin Williams took his own life. He was my comedy hero, my TV dad he had always reminded my mother of my father and his death spurred me to finally start opening up. I had always found it so hard to talk about. I think I had been afraid that if I ever did, my soul would fall out of my mouth and I would never get it back in again.

Last year, I watched Grayson Perrys documentary All Man. It featured a woman whose son had ended his life. She thought that he probably hadnt wanted to die for ever, just on that day, when he had been in so much pain. A lightbulb moment it had never occurred to me that maybe suicide had seemed like the best option in that hour. In my head, my father had taken a clear decision, as my parent, to opt out for ever.

My father had always seemed like an adult making adult decisions, but I suddenly found myself at almost his age, still feeling like a giant child. I looked at some of my male friends gorgeous idiots doing their gorgeous, idiotic best to bring up little daughters, just like he would have been.

Finally, just after my 30th birthday, a box turned up.

The miserable people he had worked for had found a box of his things filed away and rang my mother (30 years later) wondering whether she wanted them or whether they should just throw them in the bin.

She waited for us to fly home and we opened it together three little women staring into an almost-abandoned cardboard box.

Now, most of the box was horse ultrasounds which, Ill be honest, I am not into. But there was also his handwriting around the edges and, then, underneath the horse X-rays and files, there were the photographs.

Any child who has lost a parent probably knows every single photograph in existence of that parent. I had pored over them all, trying to put together the person he might have been.

The photos in the box had been collected from his desk after he had died. We had never seen them before. They were nearly all of me. He had had all of these photos stuck on his desk. I was probably the last thing he looked at before he died.

My fathers death has given me a lot. It has given me a lifelong love of women, of their grittiness and hardness traits that we are not supposed to value as feminine. It has also given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness traits that we do not foster as masculine or allow ourselves to associate with masculinity.

To Daddy, here is my note to you:

Im sad you killed yourself, because I really think that, if you could see the life you left behind, you would regret it. You didnt get to see the Berlin wall fall or Ireland qualify for Italia 90. You didnt get to see all the encyclopedias that you bought for us to one day use at university get squashed into a CD and subsequently the internet. You have never got to hear your younger daughters voice it annoys me sometimes, but it has also said some of the most amazing things when drunk. I think you would have been proud to watch your daughter do standup at the O2 and sad to see my mother watching it on her own. Then again, if you hadnt died, I probably wouldnt have been mad enough to become a clown for a living. I am your daughter and I am really fucking funny, just like you. But, unlike you, Im going to stop being it for five minutes and write our story in the hope that it may help someone who didnt get to have a box turn up, or who may not feel in their right mind right now and needs a reminder to find hope. Aisling

In the UK, the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. Other international suicide helplines can be found at befrienders.org

Read more: https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/nov/04/aisling-bea-my-fathers-death-has-given-me-a-love-of-men-of-their-vulnerability-and-tenderness

[myhahnestopinion]

The Night A BUREAUCRATIC, OPEN-HEARTED NICE GUY Came Home: HOSPITAL MASSACRE (1982)

A hospital is a pretty solid choice of setting for a horror film. There’s a nice irony to a place centered around healing to be the site of a series of grotesque murders. Halloween II used this irony to great effect, to emphasize the inexorable horrors of Michael Myers’ pursuit of Laurie Strode on Halloween Night 1978. Other films such as A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors, Hellbound: Hellraiser II, and, to a lesser extent, Rob Zombie’s remake of Halloween II, also utilize this irony of transforming a hospital’s refuge into a house of horrors.

1982’s Hospital Massacre, also known as X-Ray and Be My Valentine, Or Else…, is not particularly concerned with this irony. It’s far too busy being fascinated by the bureaucracy of visiting a hospital. The film is most notable for staring Barbi Benton, whose career runs the gamut in moral inoffensiveness from Playboy model to Country music star (I’ll let you decide which constitutes the low point on that moral inoffensiveness scale).  Like Laurie Strode just a year prior, Barbi Benton finds herself chased by a masked killer around a hospital, but her pursuer is far more concerned with getting the proper paperwork filed than getting his kill. You really should feel sorry for this killer though, because, well, he’s just such a “nice guy.” Why doesn’t somebody want to date him?

The film’s cold open is one that certainly matches My Bloody Valentine, another clear source of inspiration for the film, in abrupt escalation, but, hey, love just moves fast sometimes. We open on “Susan’s House,” as the film’s inter-title helpfully explains, because we all know where Susan’s house is located and who Susan is, right? Here, a young, shy boy named Harold puts the finishing touches of his hand-made Valentine, before leaving it on the doorstep. Aww, we’ve all been there, right?

Harold watches from the window as Susan takes the Valentine back to her living room, where she and her friend David laugh at it and crumple it up. Susan abruptly ends her laughing to announce, “I’m going to go eat some cake now.” It’s a sudden decision that gets her out of the room long enough for Harold to break in, and kill David. Aww, we’ve all been there, right? Right? Hello?

Susan returns to find David’s dead body on the hatstand. Huh, looks like Harold’s not the only guy who’s hung up on Susan now! Ha ha ha ha ha!

But seriously, I wonder why she doesn’t want to be his Valentine? I mean, sure, his decision to murder her best friend may have come out of nowhere, but so did her sudden desire to get some cake, so they seem perfect to me! Love thrives on spontaneity!

There’s no follow up to these events before we cut to 19 years later. That’s the origin story. One of the trademark elements of a slasher film is a villain who has been wronged in the past. Freddy Krueger was burned alive in an act of vigilante justice. Jason murders teens because they let him drown, as did his mother before him. The killer from I Know What You Did Last Summer kills because he knows what they did last summer. What does Harold from Hospital Massacre have as a motivation? He was rejected by a girl once in grade school.

You know, sadly, this is probably the most believable slasher villain motivation that I’ve ever encountered.

So, in 1980, Susan has grown up to be a successful business woman, but is still unlucky in love, having divorced her husband Tom, with whom she has a daughter. That’s about all we learn about this now adult Susan before she is driven by her new boyfriend Jack to the hospital, where the remainder of the film takes place. 

The ninth floor of this hospital is currently being fumigated, which adds some nice eerie fog to the proceedings, as well as a lot of confusion as to why characters continue to visit this floor regardless. In the first of many instances of the poor communication between this hospital’s staff, Dr. Jacobs is called up to the 9th floor, and heads there, despite it being fumigated. She is promptly murdered by a mysterious man dressed in surgical scrubs.

After murdering her doctor, the surgeon killer swaps out Susan’s x-rays with a fake pair that apparently suggest that Susan is in need of immediate medical attention. The film can’t be bothered to specify just what life-threatening condition this could be exactly. All we know is that this is a urgent condition that requires Playboy model Barbi Benton to undress so that a doctor can re-evaluate her. Proper medical procedure or gratuitous nudity? I’ll let you figure that one out.

The movie tries to justify this nude scene by throwing in some hilariously lame attempts at building tension. During the check-up, the doctor moves his hands up towards Susan’s neck. Could he be about to choke her to death? Um, no, he’s just checking her pulse and breathing and stuff. But then, he picks up a sharp needle! Could he be about to stab her to death?! Um, no, he’s just drawing blood. Also, a needle poke wouldn’t kill someone.

While Susan awaits the results of her test, the film sets about establishing its murder mystery. The film’s pitiful attempt to build up a cast of suspects for its masked killer essentially amounts to the film making us question whether all the male characters are staring at Susan just because she is played by Barbi Benton, or because she’s played by Barbi Benton and so they want to kill her. 

Could the killer be Hal, a man who is allowed to wander the hallways of the hospital drunk for some reason, and who sloppily eats a hamburger with way too much ketchup so that the film can try to briefly trick us into thinking its blood? Um, no, ketchup and blood do not look similar. At all.

Could it be Susan’s ex-husband Tom, as suggested in a brief, unresolved subplot where Susan calls her daughter and is told that Tom left their child home alone? 

Could it be handsome doctor #1, Dr. Saxon, who seems intent on keeping Susan in the hospital at all costs?

Or could it be handsome doctor #2, whose name is Harry, just like the Harold from the film’s cold open, and who acts charming towards Susan before disappearing for three-fourths of the movie? 

Huh. I just don’t know, Hospital Massacre.

While a nurse is typing up Susan’s blood work, she is killed by the surgeon, who waited behind a closet door until she finished typing, despite the fact that he just wants to swap out the blood report with another fake document. Another nurse discovers this, and is strangled with a stethoscope, so at least the film delivered on everyone’s expected hospital themed murder. 

When the doctors receive this false report, they decide that Susan needs to be kept in the hospital for observation. She is placed in the same room as three elderly women, who gossip to themselves about the ways in which Susan’s still-undefined illness could cause her to shrivel up and die. Like the fumigated floor before them, the three elderly women add atmosphere to the film, being reminiscent of the Fates from Greek mythology, as well as add a lot of confusion, particularly as to who they are and why the film spends so much time on their bickering when it could be developing a more complex mystery.

With Susan kept in the hospital far longer than expected, boyfriend Jack decides to visit her. When told by a nurse that Susan was placed under observation and that she can give him no more details, Jack mutters, “That explains everything,” in a line that was clearly written as sarcastic, but is delivered in a manner that suggest the film really does want us to forget that it can’t be bothered to come up with some possible deadly disease that Susan could have.

While waiting for more word, Jack receives a phone call telling him to head up to the floor that is currently being fumigated. There, he crosses paths with the three elderly women, who are also just randomly wandering these gas-filled hallway, before heading into a nearby room. He begins to hear a menacing whisper from a shadowy figure. “Is Susan your mistress?” the voices hisses. “Can you touch her wherever you like? In all her… secret places…?” 

Secret places? Geez, I wonder why this guy can’t get a date. Well, there’s the breasts and the vulva and associated areas, but, well, most people know about those, surgeon killer… Or are there more secret places that we don’t know about?! Gasp! WHAT ARE YOU HIDING FROM US, SUSAN??!

The surgeon steps out of the shadows and kills Jack. He then delivers a Valentine gift to Susan’s bedside. Susan awakens and opens the gift to reveal a… Jack-in-the-box. Aww, how cute! Well, more accurately, it’s Jack’s-head-in-a-box, but, hey, it’s the thought that counts. This film is really trying to one-up the other Valentine themed slasher flick I’ve covered in this series with this bit, as that one only ever had cardiac organs in its Valentine’s Day presents. Eat your heart out, My Bloody Valentine!

After receiving her boyfriend’s decapitated head, Susan runs through the hallways of the hospital screaming for help. The only people she finds, though, are three men strung up in full body casts, which only causes her to scream louder. Oh my god! It’s people who have had severe enough injuries that they need extensive cast work on their bodies! The horror! How do we know if they are even people anymore with their bodies covered like that?!

Dr. Saxon finds Susan screaming, and returns her to her hospital room. After seeing that the Valentine box now only contains a cake, he decides that Susan needs to be detained, as one of the reported symptoms of her still completely unexplained medical condition is mental deterioration. With Susan now confined to the hospital, strapped to her bed, and drugged by some non-descript pink pill designed to treat her non-descript fake illness, it appears that the killer’s plot is almost complete! What could it all be leading up to?!

The surgeon picks off some more nurses and doctors before we find out. One kill involves the killer walking slowly down a hallway towards a nurse, holding a spread-out white sheet in front of him. For anyone with a dreadful fear of white sheets, such as this young nurse, it’s a terrifying sequence. For all of you out there not scared by bedsheets, it’s, well, pretty laughable.

Finally, the surgeon enacts the final stage of his master plan. With all this planning involved, I hope its something really good! He wheels Susan to a surgical table, where he begins to caress her “secret areas.” However, the surgeon decides it’s best not to leave Susan strapped down as he prepares to operate on her. And, so Susan reaches out and pulls of the mask revealing the killer to be…

Yeah, it’s Harry. 

Well, as an irritated Harry says, “Not Harry. It’s Harold, remember?” at which point the film flashes back to the cold open where child Susan laughs at child Harold’s Valentine. Yes, this film’s twist ending relies entirely on the viewer not knowing how nicknames work.

This twist is apparently targeted at the kind of people who can’t figure out that LarryBoy is actually Larry the Cucumber… which is honesty probably more people than I expect. 

But wait! There’s more! “Harry” backwards is “Yrrah”, which is approximately the sound I scream out in frustration when having to deal with how dumb this mystery was!

So, with the killer’s identity revealed, Susan asks Harold what he wants. “What I’ve always wanted,” Harold replies, while grabbing a surgical saw. “Your heart.”

…You know, I’ve heard of a lot of elaborate attempts to win over a romantic interest before, but, well, Harold here just blows them all out of the water. Here is a man who is willing to spend 19 years, during which time he made no further effort to communicate with Susan or express his feelings for her, building up his master plan, attending medical school, getting a job at a big-city hospital where Susan lives, waiting for her to get a work-related medical check-up, waiting for her to return for the results of this work-related medical check-up, murdering her primary physician so that he can swap out her X-rays for fake ones, murdering a nurse so that he can swap out her blood work for another fake, building up enough of a paper trail to get her placed under observation, and then finally taking her to an operating table so that he can literally, not figuratively, have her heart. 

Wow! How romantic! I mean, if it was me, I probably would have just cut out her heart without all that trouble or paperwork, or maybe just talk to her again because people’s feelings change a lot since grade school. But, hey, it’s just really sweet when someone’s willing to make such a grand gesture for the person they love. What a nice guy!

And so, after 19 years of careful planning, Harold’s master plan is undone when the three old women show up again, looking for Dr. Saxon, which distracts him long enough for Susan to stab him with a knife and run away. Yes, he would have gotten away with his elaborate murder plan 19 years in the making if it weren’t for those meddling… elderly people! Never underestimate the meddling nature of elderly people, dude!

The film then culminates with a tedious chase sequences around the hospital, ending with Harold being doused in chemicals, lit on fire, and tumbling off a roof to his death. Now that’s what I call burning love, am I right? Ha ha ha ha! Susan exits the hospital and is reunited with her ex-husband and daughter before the movie ends, because, hey, what other resolution do we need from a film with no plot and unremarkable characters.

You know, sometimes, the heart knows what it wants, and sometimes it doesn’t. Hospital Massacre does not know what it wants. Was it a Valentine’s Day themed slasher, or a hospital themed one? Was Harold meant to be a sympathetic character in that cold open, or was Susan?  Were those three elderly women meant to be comedic relief, or a deus ex machina, or did they serve no purpose at all? Was Harold’s forging of documents an elaborate plot, or was it entirely pointless? The film ultimately can’t decide on any of these points, leaving Hospital Massacre to desperate scramble to come up with increasingly absurd reasons as to why anything happens in this film at all, while always refusing to detail Susan’s supposed illness. While there’s a lot of charm from the film’s shlocky slasher nature, it really features nothing that hasn’t been done better elsewhere, such as in the hospital-set slashers mentioned at the beginning, or in My Bloody Valentine.

There is, however, one part of this film that truly stands out, and that’s Harold. His elaborate romantic gesture towards Susan is just truly inspiring. Seeing a man go through medical school and forge all that unnecessary paperwork just so he can gain the heart of his grade-school sweetheart… well, it was just really something. Hospital Massacre may be a terrible slasher, but I’ll always remember the way in which Harold’s gesture touched my heart, the most secret of all secret areas.

Hospital Massacre is available on Blu-ray and DVD.

NEXT: The Night A TRULY NUCLEAR FAMILY Came Home…

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Aisling Bea: My fathers death has given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness

The comedians father killed himself when she was three. She was plagued by the fact he made no mention of her or her sister in the letter he left. Then, 30 years after his death, a box arrived

My father died when I was three years old and my sister was three months. For years, we thought he had died of some sort of back injury a story that we had never really investigated because we were just too busy with the Spice Girls and which one we were (I was a Geri/Mel B mix FYI). Then, on the 10th anniversary of his death, my mother sat us down and explained the concept of suicide. Sure, we knew about suicide. At 13, I had already known of too many young men from our town who had taken their own lives. Spoken about as inexplicable sadnesses for the families, spoken about but never really talked about terrible tragedy nobody knows why he did it. What we had not known until that day, was that our father had, 10 years beforehand, also taken his own life.

When I was growing up, I idolised my father. I thought his ghost followed me around the house. I had been told how he adored me, how I was funny, just like him. Because of our lovely Catholic upbringing, I secretly assumed that he would eventually come back, like our good friend Jesus.

My mother, being the wonder woman that she is, never held his death against him. When she looked into his coffin, she felt she saw the face of the man she had married: his stress lines had gone, he seemed free of the sadness that had been dogging him of late. But it was still tough for her to talk about. She didnt want to have to explain to a stranger in the middle of a party how he was not defined by his ending, but how loved he was, how cherished the charismatic, handsome vet in a small town had been. She didnt want his whole person being judged.

Once she had told us, I did not want to talk about him. Ever again. I now hated him. He had not been taken from us, he had left. His suicide felt like the opposite of parenting. Abandonment. Selfishness. Taking us for granted.

I didnt care that he had not been in his right mind, because if I had been important enough to him I would have put him back into his right mind before he did it. I didnt care that he had been in chronic pain and that men in Ireland dont talk about their feelings, so instead die of sadness. I didnt want him at peace. I wanted him struggling, but alive, so he could meet my boyfriends and give them a hard time, like in American movies. I wanted him to come to pick me up from discos, so my mother didnt have to go out alone in her pyjamas at night to get me.

I look like him. For all of my teens and early 20s, I smothered my face in fake tan and bleached my hair blond so that elderly relatives would stop looking at me like I was the ghost of Christmas past whenever I did something funny. You look so like your father, they would say. And as much as people might think a teenage girl wants to be told that she looks like a dead man, she doesnt.

Aisling Bea with her father. Photograph: Aisling Bea

And then there was the letter.

My mother gave us the letter to read the day she told us, but, in it, he didnt mention my sister or me.

I had not been adored. He had forgotten we existed. I didnt believe it at first. When I was 15, I took the letter out of my mothers Filofax and used the photocopying machine at my summer job to make a copy so I could really examine it. Like a CSI detective, I stared at it, desperate to see if there had been a trace of the start of an A anywhere.

I would often fantasise that, if I ever killed myself, I would write a letter to every single person I had ever met, explaining why I was doing it. Every. Single. Person. Right down to the lad I struck up a conversation with once in a chip shop and the girl I met at summer camp when I was 12. No one would be left thinking: Why? I would be very non-selfish about it. When Facebook came in, I thought: Well, this will save me a fortune on stamps.

Sometimes, in my less lucid moments, I was convinced that he had left a secret note for me somewhere. Maybe, on my 16th no, 18th no, 21st no, 30th birthday, a letter would arrive, like in Back to the Future. Aisling, I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. I was secretly a spy. That is why I did it. I love you. I love your sister, too. PS Heaven is real, your philosophy essay is wrong and I am totally still watching over you. Stop shoplifting.

This summer was the 30th anniversary of his death. In that time, a few things have happened that have radically changed how I feel.

Three years ago, Robin Williams took his own life. He was my comedy hero, my TV dad he had always reminded my mother of my father and his death spurred me to finally start opening up. I had always found it so hard to talk about. I think I had been afraid that if I ever did, my soul would fall out of my mouth and I would never get it back in again.

Last year, I watched Grayson Perrys documentary All Man. It featured a woman whose son had ended his life. She thought that he probably hadnt wanted to die for ever, just on that day, when he had been in so much pain. A lightbulb moment it had never occurred to me that maybe suicide had seemed like the best option in that hour. In my head, my father had taken a clear decision, as my parent, to opt out for ever.

My father had always seemed like an adult making adult decisions, but I suddenly found myself at almost his age, still feeling like a giant child. I looked at some of my male friends gorgeous idiots doing their gorgeous, idiotic best to bring up little daughters, just like he would have been.

Finally, just after my 30th birthday, a box turned up.

The miserable people he had worked for had found a box of his things filed away and rang my mother (30 years later) wondering whether she wanted them or whether they should just throw them in the bin.

She waited for us to fly home and we opened it together three little women staring into an almost-abandoned cardboard box.

Now, most of the box was horse ultrasounds which, Ill be honest, I am not into. But there was also his handwriting around the edges and, then, underneath the horse X-rays and files, there were the photographs.

Any child who has lost a parent probably knows every single photograph in existence of that parent. I had pored over them all, trying to put together the person he might have been.

The photos in the box had been collected from his desk after he had died. We had never seen them before. They were nearly all of me. He had had all of these photos stuck on his desk. I was probably the last thing he looked at before he died.

My fathers death has given me a lot. It has given me a lifelong love of women, of their grittiness and hardness traits that we are not supposed to value as feminine. It has also given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness traits that we do not foster as masculine or allow ourselves to associate with masculinity.

To Daddy, here is my note to you:

Im sad you killed yourself, because I really think that, if you could see the life you left behind, you would regret it. You didnt get to see the Berlin wall fall or Ireland qualify for Italia 90. You didnt get to see all the encyclopedias that you bought for us to one day use at university get squashed into a CD and subsequently the internet. You have never got to hear your younger daughters voice it annoys me sometimes, but it has also said some of the most amazing things when drunk. I think you would have been proud to watch your daughter do standup at the O2 and sad to see my mother watching it on her own. Then again, if you hadnt died, I probably wouldnt have been mad enough to become a clown for a living. I am your daughter and I am really fucking funny, just like you. But, unlike you, Im going to stop being it for five minutes and write our story in the hope that it may help someone who didnt get to have a box turn up, or who may not feel in their right mind right now and needs a reminder to find hope. Aisling

In the UK, the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. Other international suicide helplines can be found at befrienders.org

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