A/N: I wrote this after I saw the film in theaters but completely forgot it until I found the file by accident on my hard drive. The movie itself wasn't spectacular, but Polite Stranger made it so worthwhile.
Soigné
"Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude…through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions [catharsis]."
—Aristotle, Poetics I
1.
Today, like all days, he rises with a clear mind and smiles. He practices the ceremonious act in the mirror, is careful to pull the proper muscles just right. He is diligent in his morning ablutions as he scrubs away the filth of night-froth (there, behind the ears). Screaming in the adjacent room, his mother tries to wake up his sister. After one, two, five, and ten threats, his sister counters with a bloody shriek.
At breakfast, his mother, while doling out plump pancakes, kisses his sister on her freckle-grazed cheeks. She grumbles with the unfettered ferocity peculiar to seven-year-olds and jabs viciously into her food to show her contempt. His father is there, seated upon his usual, magnificent, megalomaniacal throne. With fork and paper in position, he dives into the eggs and bacon and the rich, buttery, fluffy goodness.
Fat. His father is growing fat. If they weren't so deplorably rich, he'd be ripped apart in seconds. Innards and gizzards, blood and bile, all splashed and spewed across their immaculate floor. And then the maid would have to clean it, and that would involve a hell lot of complaining. Mostly in Spanish, which isn't his forte (and that matters the most).
2.
At school, he is consummately bored. The teacher (squat, ugly, balding man) lectures endlessly on differentials and integrals and the differences between the integrities of limits to and from infinity.
Half past ten: a bird flies by the window. Black. Maybe a raven or a crow.
Lunchtime: Mary and Peter are kissing in the open quad, partially obfuscated by a willow tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes—
"Bull's-eye," says Mary, cocking her head. The left corner of her mouth rises as she concentrates on her imaginary target. Inhaling, she pulls the trigger and shoots him dead.
"There you are," Peter calls. "Thought you weren't going to show up. Chickened out the last minute."
He laughs dryly and nervously adjusts his tie. The silk feels like a noose. Beads of sweat coalesce on his brow, dripping down slowly along his fine-carved cheek. The sun shines bright overhead, casting short, stout shadows. He wets his lips and swallows.
"Six o'clock. Don't forget."
Peter smiles. They won't forget. They live the year for this one night. This single, beautiful night.
3.
He watches as his house transforms into a fortress.
His father fastidiously reviews the security screens and finalizes the details with the agency over the phone. His mother pours another finger's worth of brandy, sighing as she sinks into the plush leather. His sister has already been tucked into bed and will sleep the hours away, cocooned and warm.
And so, with giddiness rising, churning, he prepares for the slaughter. Tick-tick, the clock nears the dot.