At 13, Jim spends most of his summer at a rundown movie theatre he can no longer remember the name of, forgetting it in favor of something relevant. The movies themselves aren't particularly that spectacular, for the most part it's old children's movies that nobody ever seemed to care about but he still goes. It's something to do in the lull between the few hours of sleep his body forces him to have and the drunken ramblings of Aileen. He sits in the back of the theatre, the rumbling of an antiquated cooling system puttering near him as he focuses his eyes on the audience, learning their quirks. It's harder than analyzing classmates but much more rewarding. None of his peers, (he smirks when he thinks this, none of them are anything close to his contemporaries), already resigned to a lifetime of dullness, are old enough to be doing anything worthwhile.
He's always hated summers, it's a season of decay and while he has no problem with death, never has; it makes him think of Gershwin. He hates Gershwin, the lone clarinet blaring out a hopeful song, the promise of love and romance, and the sheer sentimentality of it all. It's so quaint and American and spineless. He doesn't need somebody to watch over him, thank you very much. Never has and never will.
But at least in the movie theatre he can forget just how much the season repels him, he can hide in a chair and drink from a soda that he charmed from the unfortunate girl at the snack counter (Eliza, Age 15, Overweight with spots, Terrified of spiders) and just gaze.
During a showing of "Gone With The Wind", (and god help him, he does love Scarlett O'Hara, how honest she is with herself, the way she preens like a peacock) there are only three other people in the theatre. This is of course not out of the ordinary, most people have better things to do on Saturday nights, they aren't in such an awful state as he is, but only two of them are of any actual interest as the third is an elderly man with a jowly face who wears a sweater and seems to be crying unapologetically at the sheer spectacle of the film. It's pathetic
No, the other two people are much more fun to watch. He recognizes the first from school, rather, a school, as he never does stay anywhere too long, and places a name to the dull milquetoast looking face. The boy's name is Carl and what he lacks in intelligence and practicality, he makes up for in awkward physicality. Jim notices, with a sensation that could easily be deemed as envy, his adolescent lankiness, the way his long legs seem to unfurl on the stickiness of the floor, the awkward reach of his arm on the other person's shoulder. Jim can tell that Carl's grown tanner since he last saw him, he remembers the fists being more of an ecru, the smattering of bruises that sometimes arose after being on the receiving end of a blow.
The other person is a girl. He doesn't know her, doesn't care to. Girls are boring and insipid; they live on dreams and pride themselves on subservience. Not that Jim doesn't dream, he always remembers his, the shadows of a gun, and the fountains of blood at grand parties he hasn't been invited to yet, but that's different. His dreams mean something. But right now, the girl, clearly reveling in the attentions of the rare species of Neanderthal known as Carl Powers, moves the boy's hand down to the front of her blouse, looking at him with a glaze in her cow eyes, mewling almost like a kitten when Carl gets the general idea and begins groping in earnest.
He spends the rest of the movie watching them with dark eyes, expression blank as if they were just the walls of his bedroom. It's more so out of perverse curiosity than any real enjoyment. Besides, Scarlett is now spending her time pining for Ashley, which is really quite dreadful. Ashley is so dull, so boring, and Jim thinks to himself that he might as well, it's not like he can complain or Eliza, poor dull Eliza will want the same thing to happen to her.
Once the movie is done, he takes his typical route home, hands folded with a slump into the pockets of too-tight jeans, fingers tapping against his thigh. Nobody takes heed of him, nobody ever does, but he peers around anyway taking it all in. Four people he passes are having affairs and one particularly unlucky old woman, her vision hampered by cataracts and time, smells of death. He expects an obituary reading " Gormless Old Biddy" any day now. He passes by the same deli every night and every night, he imagines going in and stealing a bottle and getting well and pissed. But he doesn't, Aileen drinks and he sees how it makes her stupid, the way she slurs her words, accent thicker, expression duller. And she used to be so beautiful, like Snow White in that animated movie she had taken him to see when he was very small, back when he had called her mummy.
Later, when he's lying fully clothed on top of the bed, tapping his fingers on the now dull cotton, he hears Aileen stumble into the hall. One of these days she's going to crack her head open on the stairs and leave a trail of alcohol laden blood on the concrete, but for now, she sticks to singing Kate Bush in that warbling voice of hers, "Heathcliff," she moans, "It's me Cathy, I'm so cooold, let me into your window."
His life would be better if his mother were some romantic heroine, doomed to wander the heath. At the very least, he would be endowed with immeasurable wealth and be living on a manor somewhere with plenty of livestock there for him to tear open. He hasn't dissected anything in ages and his fingers twitch out of fond remembrance at the idea, eager to tear into something, anything, just something to remind himself of what he could do, what he has done.
But she isn't a ghost or a fainting maiden, she's a slowly fading alcoholic and as much as it pains him to admit it, Jim does have a certain fondness for her. It's like she is some childhood cat and he's fairly certain that one day he will find her curled up in a shriveled heap underneath the radiator.
It'll be easier that way. He's not looking forward to putting her down.
He's almost relieved when break is over and it's time to head back to the horrid confinements of the classroom. It's been a while since he's actually learned anything of note from a teacher but it's still nice to be able to sink into a well-worn chair, put on a uniform jacket, and just think and plan and do.
Mr. Murray, the maths instructor, is the only one who cherishes his intellect, giving him extra problems and marveling at his mind. He doesn't mind the singular attention, revels in it actually, but sometimes he thinks it is a shame. If the masses appreciate dull-witted athletes, you think they would take the time to appreciate the genius standing in front of them. It's probably better this way, hiding in the shadows, being able to observe without fear of some ignorant little girl telling on Jim for doing something truly incredible.
But for the most part, the days go on just as they had during the summer, a blur with no importance, the dull roar of apathy threatening to tear Jim apart as he plays nice. He nearly explodes in biology when they are told to dissect a fetal pig. The girl he's been assigned to work with (Hannah, divorcing parents, bulimic tendencies) can't stomach the thought of harming any living creature so he's left to his own devices, the knife steady in his hand and he slices the pig open, holds it's heart in his hand, and thinks just how right it feels.
Every once in a while, some little shit decides it'll be great fun to toss Jim about and he stumbles home covered in bruises and cuts. He never cries, hasn't in ages, probably couldn't if he tried, but instead silently seethes as he washes his face in the mirror. He always remembers the names, the faces of the other boys looming above him, the taunts of "Freak" ringing in his ears.
After one such attack, he dreams of dissection in the biology lab, the heart in his hand belongs to Carl Powers, the boy from the movies, the boy who ripped a hole in his uniform. Carl lies on the floor, blood pouring out, calling, " Jim, please fix me, please," but his cries halt as he sinks into the cool tile of the floor, hands reached towards Jim who for some reason or another is wearing a crown made of balloons.
When his dream ends, just as he's having a cup of tea with an otter, Jim opens his eyes and lets out a grin that's all pointed teeth and thinly masked cruelty.
He's going to kill Carl Powers and he knows, he can just feel that it's going to be wonderful.
