Post by Rae on Nov 12, 2010 6:39:56 GMT 7
Mrs. Anderson was dead.
Nothing flashy, just old age--she went to bed one night and never woke up. They say it was a peaceful, dignified way to die, which I suppose is technically true, but the three days it took for someone to realize they hadn't seen her in a while removed most of the dignity from the situation.
--
"One good thing that came out of this, though," she said, "is that you can bet every widow in the county got a visit today, or is going to get one tomorrow. Everyone who hears about Mrs. Anderson is going to go straight to their own mother, just to make sure. Other leg."
I wanted to say something about how everyone who heard about Jeb would go straight to their automechanic, but Margaret never appreciated jokes like that.
--
"Yeah," I said. "A whole new school moved into town over the summer, so miraculously I'm not stuck with the same people I've known since kindergarten. And of course, they all wanted to make friends with the weird kid. It was pretty sweet."
"You shouldn't make fun of yourself like that," she said.
"Actually, I was making fun of you."
"You shouldn't do that either," said Margaret, and I could tell by her eyes she was grinning slightly.
--
"Not murderers," I said. "serial killers."
"That's the difference between you and the rest of the world, John. We don't see a difference."
--
"You're weird, man," said Max, taking another bite of his sandwhich. "That's all there is to say. Someday you're going to kill a whole bunch of people--probably more than ten since you're such an overacheiver--and then they're going to have me on TV and ask if I saw this coming, and I'm going to say, 'Hell yes, that guy was seriously screwed up.'"
"Then I guess I have to kill you first," I said.
"Nice try," said Max, laughing and pulling out his inhaler. "I'm, like, you're only friend in the world--you wouldn't kill me." He took a puff from his inhaler and tucked it back into his pocket. "Besides, my dad was in the army, and you're a skinny emo. I'd like to see you try."
--
"The project I did last year was on Jeffrey Dahmer," I said. "He was a cannibal who kept severed heads in his freezer."
"I remember now," said Max, his eyes darkening. "Your posters gave me nightmares. That was boss."
"Nightmares are nothing," I said. "Those posters gave me a therapist."
--
"The actual words I used," I said, "were that I followed strict rules to make sure I didn't do anything wrong. It seems like you'd be pretty happy about that, but instead you're yelling at me. This is why I need therapy."
"'Happy' is not a son who has to follow rules to keep himself from killing people," she shot back. "'Happy' is not a psychologist telling me that my son is a sociopath. 'Happy' is--"
"He said I was a sociopath?" That was kind of cool. I'd always suspected, but it was nice to have an official diagnosis.
"Antisocial personality disorder," she said, her voice rising. "I looked it up. It's a psychosis." She turned away. "My son's a psychotic."
"APD is primarily defines as a lack of empathy," I said. I'd looked it up, too, a few months ago. Empathy is what allows people to interpret emotion, the same way ears interpret sound; without it you become emotionally deaf. "It means I don't connect emotionally wiht other people. I wondered if he was going to pick that one."
"How do you even know that?" she said. "You're fifteen years old, for goodness' sake, you should be...I don't know, chasing girls or playing video games."
"You're telling a sociopath to chase girls?"
--
"I want to help," she said, "so here's a new rule: no more helping out in the mortuary."
"What!"
"It's not a good place for kids," she said, "and I should never have let you help in the backroom in the first place."
"But I--" But what? What could I say that wouldn't shock her even more? I need the mortuary because it connects me to death in a safe way? I need the mortuary because I need to see the bodies open up like flowers and talk to me and tell me what they know? She'd kick me out of the house all together.
--
"I'm smiling because I'm thinking about what your insides look like."
"What?" asked Rob, and then he laughed. "Oh, big man, trying to threaten me. You think you scare me, you little baby?"
"I've been clinically diagnosed with sociopathy," I said. "Do you know what that means?"
"It means you're a freak," he said.
"It means you're about as important to me as a cardboard box," I said. "You're just a thing--a piece of garbage that no one's thrown away yet. Is that what you want me to say?"
"Shut up," said Rob. He was still acting tough, but I could tell his bluster was starting to fail--he didn't know what to say.
"The thing about boxes," I said, "is that you can open them up. Even though they're completely boring on the outside, there might be something interesting inside. So while you're saying all of these stupid, boring things, I'm imagining what it would be like to cut you open and see what you've got in there."
I paused, staring at him, and he stared back. He was scared. II let him hang on that fear for a moment longer, then spoke again.
"The thing is, Rob, I don't want to cut you open. That's not who I want to be. So I made a rule for myself: anytime I want to cut someone open, I say something nice to them instead. That is why I say, Rob Anders of 232 Carnation Street, that you are a great guy."
--
"Dude, that was awesome," said Max.
I turned around in surprise. "When did you get here?"
"I was here for most of it," he said, coming around the side of the refreshment table, "and it was awesome. Anders practically crapped his pants."
"So did Brooke," I said, looking in the direction she had gone. All I saw was a mass of people in the darkness.
"That was hilarious!" said Max, scooping up some punch. "And after she was so into you, too."
"Into me?"
"You--you missed that? You're blind, man. She was going to ask you to dance."
"Why would she ask me to dance?"
"Because we're at a dance," said Max, "and because you're a raging furnace of hot clown lovin'. I'd be surprised it she ever talks to you again, though; that was awesome."
---
All from I Am Not A Serial Killer[/u] by Dan Wells. I seriously had to stop myself from quoting the entire book, it's that awesome. =D Read it! Read it! Read it! (Btw...John reminds me scarily of Vergil...well, except for a few things, but...yeah. ._.)
Nothing flashy, just old age--she went to bed one night and never woke up. They say it was a peaceful, dignified way to die, which I suppose is technically true, but the three days it took for someone to realize they hadn't seen her in a while removed most of the dignity from the situation.
--
"One good thing that came out of this, though," she said, "is that you can bet every widow in the county got a visit today, or is going to get one tomorrow. Everyone who hears about Mrs. Anderson is going to go straight to their own mother, just to make sure. Other leg."
I wanted to say something about how everyone who heard about Jeb would go straight to their automechanic, but Margaret never appreciated jokes like that.
--
"Yeah," I said. "A whole new school moved into town over the summer, so miraculously I'm not stuck with the same people I've known since kindergarten. And of course, they all wanted to make friends with the weird kid. It was pretty sweet."
"You shouldn't make fun of yourself like that," she said.
"Actually, I was making fun of you."
"You shouldn't do that either," said Margaret, and I could tell by her eyes she was grinning slightly.
--
"Not murderers," I said. "serial killers."
"That's the difference between you and the rest of the world, John. We don't see a difference."
--
"You're weird, man," said Max, taking another bite of his sandwhich. "That's all there is to say. Someday you're going to kill a whole bunch of people--probably more than ten since you're such an overacheiver--and then they're going to have me on TV and ask if I saw this coming, and I'm going to say, 'Hell yes, that guy was seriously screwed up.'"
"Then I guess I have to kill you first," I said.
"Nice try," said Max, laughing and pulling out his inhaler. "I'm, like, you're only friend in the world--you wouldn't kill me." He took a puff from his inhaler and tucked it back into his pocket. "Besides, my dad was in the army, and you're a skinny emo. I'd like to see you try."
--
"The project I did last year was on Jeffrey Dahmer," I said. "He was a cannibal who kept severed heads in his freezer."
"I remember now," said Max, his eyes darkening. "Your posters gave me nightmares. That was boss."
"Nightmares are nothing," I said. "Those posters gave me a therapist."
--
"The actual words I used," I said, "were that I followed strict rules to make sure I didn't do anything wrong. It seems like you'd be pretty happy about that, but instead you're yelling at me. This is why I need therapy."
"'Happy' is not a son who has to follow rules to keep himself from killing people," she shot back. "'Happy' is not a psychologist telling me that my son is a sociopath. 'Happy' is--"
"He said I was a sociopath?" That was kind of cool. I'd always suspected, but it was nice to have an official diagnosis.
"Antisocial personality disorder," she said, her voice rising. "I looked it up. It's a psychosis." She turned away. "My son's a psychotic."
"APD is primarily defines as a lack of empathy," I said. I'd looked it up, too, a few months ago. Empathy is what allows people to interpret emotion, the same way ears interpret sound; without it you become emotionally deaf. "It means I don't connect emotionally wiht other people. I wondered if he was going to pick that one."
"How do you even know that?" she said. "You're fifteen years old, for goodness' sake, you should be...I don't know, chasing girls or playing video games."
"You're telling a sociopath to chase girls?"
--
"I want to help," she said, "so here's a new rule: no more helping out in the mortuary."
"What!"
"It's not a good place for kids," she said, "and I should never have let you help in the backroom in the first place."
"But I--" But what? What could I say that wouldn't shock her even more? I need the mortuary because it connects me to death in a safe way? I need the mortuary because I need to see the bodies open up like flowers and talk to me and tell me what they know? She'd kick me out of the house all together.
--
"I'm smiling because I'm thinking about what your insides look like."
"What?" asked Rob, and then he laughed. "Oh, big man, trying to threaten me. You think you scare me, you little baby?"
"I've been clinically diagnosed with sociopathy," I said. "Do you know what that means?"
"It means you're a freak," he said.
"It means you're about as important to me as a cardboard box," I said. "You're just a thing--a piece of garbage that no one's thrown away yet. Is that what you want me to say?"
"Shut up," said Rob. He was still acting tough, but I could tell his bluster was starting to fail--he didn't know what to say.
"The thing about boxes," I said, "is that you can open them up. Even though they're completely boring on the outside, there might be something interesting inside. So while you're saying all of these stupid, boring things, I'm imagining what it would be like to cut you open and see what you've got in there."
I paused, staring at him, and he stared back. He was scared. II let him hang on that fear for a moment longer, then spoke again.
"The thing is, Rob, I don't want to cut you open. That's not who I want to be. So I made a rule for myself: anytime I want to cut someone open, I say something nice to them instead. That is why I say, Rob Anders of 232 Carnation Street, that you are a great guy."
--
"Dude, that was awesome," said Max.
I turned around in surprise. "When did you get here?"
"I was here for most of it," he said, coming around the side of the refreshment table, "and it was awesome. Anders practically crapped his pants."
"So did Brooke," I said, looking in the direction she had gone. All I saw was a mass of people in the darkness.
"That was hilarious!" said Max, scooping up some punch. "And after she was so into you, too."
"Into me?"
"You--you missed that? You're blind, man. She was going to ask you to dance."
"Why would she ask me to dance?"
"Because we're at a dance," said Max, "and because you're a raging furnace of hot clown lovin'. I'd be surprised it she ever talks to you again, though; that was awesome."
---
All from I Am Not A Serial Killer[/u] by Dan Wells. I seriously had to stop myself from quoting the entire book, it's that awesome. =D Read it! Read it! Read it! (Btw...John reminds me scarily of Vergil...well, except for a few things, but...yeah. ._.)
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