Avery Reviews a Thing: Chernobyl Diaries

If you know me in real life, you know that I am an avid go-to-the-movies-every-weekender. I figure based on the sheer amount of movies and books I consume (obviously not literally) and because I struggle with posting things, I could review some of them.
So, just pretend that's there's some kind of jingle that goes along with "Avery Reviews a Thing" and let's get on with it.
Let's start with the short list: what I liked.
Chernobyl Diaries (henceforth CD for efficiency) is set in an absolutely stunning setting. I love the look of derelict building and CD does not disappoint, set against the town of Pripyat. Every scene in that movie is absolutely gorgeous and creepy to the extent of goose bumps.
I found two of the characters likable, Chris (played by Jesse McCartney) and Uri (played by Dimitri Diatchenko). Chris was pleasant and adorable, as Jesse usually is, and I felt he deserved much more screen time than he was allotted.Uri had a beautiful accent and embraced all Russian stereotypes which I found pleasing in this movie.
Now for the things I didn't like.
Let me start with the one that jumps out most obviously to me: the camerawork. It was like a Bourne movie all over again. The camera man was shaky the entire movie and it was hard to focus on anything but how annoying it was.
All of the characters other the two mentioned above that I found likable. They were flat, boring stereotypes and the girls were disappointingly weak, even Amanda, the main female. I never got the feeling that Paul, Chris's brother, cared all that much.
Along the same line, the "monsters" or "patients" or whatever they were didn't scare me at all. In fact, every time someone was grabbed by them, I got the vibe that they were going to have a dance party and get high or something (I have not idea why these thoughts popped in my head when I was watching the movie but they did). I was never really that scared of them and was confused why the characters found them so scary.
Finally, the slaughtering. I found it odd that almost everyone survived up until the end. The entire movie was basically the build up to everyone's death. I didn't like the pacing, basically.
Overall: two out of five exploding nuclear reactors (stars are so over rated, after all).

The Truth.

(Two warnings: trigger warning for any and all who self harm. Also, I am in no way endorsing self injury nor claiming that everyone who suffers from what I do self injure.)
So, as someone who suffers from depression and anxiety, I self harm.
I want to clear up any misconceptions about why I do this. Oh, another warning: I'm not claiming that this is true for everyone.
I don't want to hurt myself. I don't like hurting myself. I'm not a masochist. I hate the way cuts look and how I have to hide them from my friends and family.
When I get really triggered (which, for those of you who don't know self harm terminology, that is what it is called when something makes you want to cut/burn/scratch/bruise. Basically, it's anything that makes you so upset that you hurt yourself. Hard to explain to people who don't know what it feels like.), it's like this whole other part of my brain takes over. I have no control over myself. It's like this primal part of my brain switches on. No, not even primal. Something primal would want to protect my body and keep it safe from external injuries.
The part that takes over is sub-primal, out to kill the things inside of me, that aim to injure me internally. This is probably making me sound completely crazy but it's like that other part of me is more worried about the monsters inside of the than the ones around me.
And when its all over, I just bawl. I hate what I do to myself; I hate how I can't control it; I hate how it takes over my life.

A Common Misconception That Needs Clarification.

So, I was reading a story on Tumblr by someone whose username shall remain unknown. It was very well written with dynamic word choice and good flow.
And then we got to a sex scene.
I have no problem reading sex scenes; in fact, I find them interesting and way more accessible than sex scenes in movies. The scene was going great--the same compliments as above--until the boy took the girl's shirt off.
He put his hands on her hips and stroked with his fingers her... ribcage?
Unless this MC had extremely long fingers, touching one's ribs with your hands on their hips is utterly improbable and then it hit me.
I have encountered this misconception in an unbearable amount of stories, both published and not.
The hips are the bones that stick out on the front left and right sides of your body, making up your pelvis. Your waist is the bit above that where, on a woman's body, the lines of her sides curve in and then back out, in an hourglass shape.
Your ribcage is touchable from your waist but not from your hips.
Alright.
I'm glad we have that cleared up.

Marcus's Home for Special Children (P.7)

I let my eyes slip closed again. “Thatcher, what are you doing here? You’re going to get in trouble… again.” My voice sounds absolutely languid. That nagging feeling that I couldn’t place about him was pressing against my mind.

“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m a maverick. I don’t play by the rules. I’ve got impunity.” I don’t respond to his hushed voice, only sigh. He presses on. “How are you?”

“Bleh.”

“Well, you should start to feel better.” His fingers touch mine lightly.

I twitch my pinky and ask, “Why? I just want to sleep. I don’t want to do anything or go Outside or vomit or hallucinate. I just want to sleep.” I remember that he still doesn’t know what’s wrong with me and I still don’t know about him.

“If I asked you to run away with me, what would you say?”

At this, I found the strength to recoil away from him. “I’d call you crazy.”

“But it’s crazy enough to work. We could escape and I could show you what’s really out there, across the ocean, off this island.”

“We know nothing about each other. We obviously are completely different Thatch. I can’t do it.” What I really can’t is believe he’s asking me to do this.

I see the outline of Thatcher’s head drop, feel his hands move away from mine. “The world is made up of nothing but people and the spaces between those people. Those spaces mean nothing. They don’t make us different. We’re all more alike than anyone seems to get.”

“I’m not getting in trouble again. And where have you been?” I try to keep all concern out of my voice. I just want to lie in this bed and do absolutely nothing. I wish he hadn’t come. I wish he hadn’t mentioned running away from the Home.

“All I’m saying is I’m glad you can’t see me.”

My voice colors with the worry I had been trying to hide. “Why? What did they do to you?” The helpers have always been way harder on the boys at the Home than girls, in case you hadn’t realized that yet.

A twinge in my stomach forces my attention away from what Thatcher is about to say. I interrupt him. “Move.” My strength returns in a wave.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Even as he asks it, he pushes away from me. I lean over and puke over the bed, where Thatcher had been sitting moments before. And I’m crying before I even know what’s happening.

I wipe my eyes but the tears keep coming. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I almost threw up on you.” I just feel so embarrassed and sick and insane all in that one moment, it’s overwhelming.

The bed beside me sinks a little as Thatcher seats himself there. I feel his palm rest lightly on my cheek. It’s unexpected and I smack his wrist, breaking the contact. Before either of us can speak, we hear footsteps.

“Someone’s coming,” I say, urgency flowering in my voice. I feel him roll off of the bed and there’s a quiet shuffling and then silence. I lay back and let the few drops of sweat descend down my face without wiping them away.

A lit lantern swings into sight in the door on the opposite end of the long room. I can see an elderly nurse wobble into the room. The hand wrapped around the handle of the lantern shakes violently. She slowly makes her way over to my bed. I silently will Thatcher to not make a sound.

“What have you done?” she asks, voice as shaky as her grip.

“I threw up,” I say and feel my cheeks redden.

“I can smell.” She avoids the vomit on the floor and sets the lantern on my bedside table. Her wrinkles are thrown into sharp relief, deep lines seemingly carved into her skin. As she bends to grab a basin tucked in a drawer in the table, I stop breathing for a full ten seconds. I’m guessing that Thatcher is underneath my bed and if she turned her head to the side at any moment, she’d spot him.

But she doesn’t.

She fills the basin up with a pipe sticking out of the wall. As the foaming water falls from the tap, she pulls a rope and I can imagine the bells tolling in the helpers’ quarters.

She tugs a towel from her shoulder and dips it into the water, proceeding to dab my sweaty skin. “Have you gotten any sleep at all, Rose?” I don’t even know this woman, though it’s not surprising that she knows me. Most who work in the Home do.

“No.” I don’t like the direction this conversation is going. I’m not ready to tell Thatcher about my problems, even indirectly. I never thought I’d care about someone’s opinion.

“Well, you should be getting there soon. You’ve hit the hallucinations and the—”

“Yes.” My abruptness stops her. Thankfully, we can’t finish the conversation because a duet of helpers enters. As the nurse turns to look at them, I hear a very quiet shuffling underneath the bed that one would only notice if they were listening for it.

The helpers stand aside my bed. One of them looks unfamiliar which is odd because I’ve met and become acquaintances with all of the helpers. That may not be obvious, however, seeing how roughly they treat me and my friends. But their jobs come first and I recognize that.

But this helper seems new. He’s young, probably in his twenties, and he’s attractive. He’s got a pair of deep scratches trailing down his face and I realize that he may have been the one to pick up Josh. Those scrapes were very much a signature of Josh.

“What’s wrong?” the new guy asks.

The old lady wrings out the towel she had been using to dab my face and says, “What do you think?”

The new helper turns to me. I tilt my head towards the puke on the floor. He pales and turns to the other. I hear their brief exchange. “This isn’t part of the job.”

“There is nothing we can’t be called upon to do.”

“Seriously?”

“Stop being a little bitch and do it.” I roll over as they kneel on the ground. I want Thatcher to get out and then I want to sleep.

My eyes slide to the space below the bed beside me. Thatcher lies below it, his palms pressed against its underside. He presses his lips together to suppress some kind of laugh. How he could be laughing at this point I don’t even know.

There are groans behind me and dripping noises. As New Boy lets out a small cry, I cover my mouth with my hand. Now I know what Thatcher is smiling about.

The lantern bobs towards the end of my bed and the woman says, “Hurry up. I’d like to return to bed.”

Finally, I see their large shadows fall across my bed and they head off. As soon as the lantern is out of sight down the hall, I watch Thatcher squirm and escape from under the bed in the moonlight that has drifted in through the window. He digs his hands into my mattress and leans in very close to my face. Centimeters away, he whispers, “I better go back to bed, shouldn’t I?”

I hold my own, not showing he intimidates me. I breathe back, “You should.” With the dismissal, he pushes off away from me and takes off at a silent jog. I let myself fall against the pillows stacked behind me. Every time he’s with me, he makes me feel… naked. Like he can really see me and that’s why he hasn’t asked about my messed up brain. I roll over in bed, again trying to hide a smile as I close my eyes.