AN: Title from the Rise Against song of the same name. Let's say he's…oh…fifteen, sixteen? Young, but starting to outgrow his pathetic-ness. A side note-those big, skinny spiders? We call them Daddy-Long-Legs here. Ever seen two of them have a battle? I swear to god, they're FAST. It's all very primeval and yet it resembles a bitch-slap-fight. Only scary.
Johanna Crane-I managed, thank you very much. Amazing, the self-confidence you gain after your first murder. Once you're through being sick, of course. And once you've left town, where they can't find you if they should find the body. Not that it would have mattered-she wasn't exactly beloved by all.
The Puppeteer-At the time, not really. I was worried about being caught. But now I can look back on the memory with fondness and a rather critical eye-it was rushed. I would take my time if I were to do it again. Ah, the wisdom one gains with age...
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-I'm glad to see that you're amused by my misery. Though people do seem to find this whole affair...endearing. Somehow. God knows why-if they think they can appeal by insisting that they 'know my pain' and 'forgive me', they're in for a nasty surprise.
APieceOfThePuzzle-I honestly can't remember. But for Granny, anything that was not the Bible was filth. I had to do half of my summer reading at the library lest she find out they'd assigned us The Scarlet Letter-I'd have caught Hell for that one.
He doesn't remember when he started wearing baggy clothes and long sleeves in the summertime.
He doesn't remember the last time he expected sympathy from his grandmother.
He doesn't remember the first time he was thrown against a locker, the padlock digging into his back, before being beaten within an inch of his life…and expected to take a science test right after. (He takes pride in having never failed a science test. That C in French is unforgivable, though.)
He doesn't remember when he figured out that God and Jesus and all the rest are just a pack of lies…but he does remember praying to somebody to help him, so it must not have been so very long ago.
But he does remember the first-and only-time a teacher had to physically pull him off of another boy, a boy who, by that point, couldn't speak and was a slight shade of purple.
"Jonathan! Jonathan Crane, for the love of…the principal's office. Now."
He'd gone, not at all sorry. He'd gotten a lecture and detention, and when he'd gotten out he'd been jumped by the friends of the victim. When he got home he had no supper and a visit to the chapel.
He still isn't sorry, even now, his body covered with scratches and bruises. That'll teach the idiot to take his book.
Lying here, in the dark, he remembers the squeaking and sputtering, the struggles for breath. Very much like a fly caught in a spider's web.
A slow grin spreads unbidden over his face-his first real smile in weeks. He wonders what would have happened if he hadn't been pulled off. Would he have continued? He honestly doesn't know.
But he can't definitely say no.
THE END