She called the doctor in, of course, who at first put down the headaches to growing pains, and then, when they persisted, to stress.
‘Stress? What has he got to be stressed about?’ she cried in exasperation.
His silence annoyed her even more, and finally led to a series of uncomfortable interrogations, which left him feeling even worse. He quickly learnt not to complain; to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him, even when he was sick with pain and almost ready to collapse.
Instead, he evolved his own system of coping. He learnt which medicine to steal from Ma’s cabinet. He learnt how to combat the phantom sensations with magic words and images. He took them from Dr Peacock’s maps; from books; from the dark places of his heart —
Most of all, he dreamed in blue. Blue, the colour of control. He had always associated it with power, power like electricity; now he learnt to visualize himself encased in a shell of burning blue, untouchable, invincible. There, he was safe from everything. There, he could replenish himself. Blue was secure. Blue was serene. Blue, the colour of murder. And he wrote down his dreams in the same Blue Book in which he wrote his stories.
But there are other ways than fic to cope with adolescent stress. All you need is a suitable victim, preferably one who can’t fight back: a scapegoat who will take the blame for everything you’ve suffered.
Benjamin’s earliest victims were wasps, which he’d hated since he’d been stung in the mouth as he swigged from a half-empty can of Coke left unguarded in the summer sun. From then on, all wasps were guilty. His revenge was to catch them using traps made from jars half-filled with sugar water, and later to impale them on the tip of a needle and watch as each creature struggled and died, pumping its pale stinger in and out and writhing its horribly corseted body like the world’s most diminutive pole dancer.
He showed them to Brendan, too, and watched him writhe in discomfort.
‘Ah, don’t, that’s disgusting—’ said Bren, his face contorted with dismay.
‘Why, Bren? It’s only a wasp.’
He shrugged. ‘I know. But please—’
Ben pulled the needle free of the wasp. The insect, almost severed now, began to turn sticky somersaults. Bren flinched.
‘Happy now?’
‘It’s still m-moving,’ Brendan said, his face awry with fear and disgust.
Ben tipped the contents of the jar on to the table in front of Brendan. ‘So kill it,’ he said.
‘Ah, please, Ben—’
‘Go on. Kill it. Put it out of its misery, you fat bastard.’
Brendan was almost crying now. ‘I c-can’t,’ he said. ‘I just—’
‘Do it!’ Ben punched him in the arm. ‘Do it, kill it, kill it now—’ Some people are born to be killers. Brendan was not one of them. And Benjamin revelled sourly in Brendan’s stupid helplessness, his whimpering cries as Ben punched him again, his retreat into the corner, arms wrapped around his head. Brendan never tried to fight back. Ben was three years younger, thirty pounds lighter, and still he beat Brendan easily. It wasn’t that he hated him; but his weakness was infuriating, making Ben want to hurt him more, to see him squirm like a wasp in a jar —
It was a little cruel, perhaps. Brendan had done nothing wrong. But it gave Ben the sense of control that he lacked, and it helped him to manage his growing stress. It was as if by tormenting his brother he could relocate his own suffering; evade the thing that imprisoned him in its cage of scents and colours.
Not that he thought about it much. His actions were purely instinctive, a self-defence against the world. Later, blueeyedboy was to learn that this process was called transference. An interesting word, coloured a muddy blue-green, that reminds him of the transfers his brothers used to stick on their arms: cheap and messy fake tattoos that stained the sleeves of their school shirts and got them into trouble in class. But somehow, at last, he learnt to cope. First, with the wasp traps, then with the mice, and finally, with his brothers.
And look at your blueeyedboy now, Ma. He has exceeded all expectations. He wears a suit to go to work — or at least, to maintain the pretence. He carries a leather briefcase. The word technician is in his job title, as is the word operator, and if no one knows quite what he does, it is merely because most ordinary people have no idea how complicated these operations can be.
Doctors rely on machines nowadays, Gloria says to Adèle and Maureen, when she meets them on Friday night. There are millions of pounds invested there in scanners and MRI machines, and someone has to operate them —
Never mind that the closest he has ever come to any one of those clever machines is vacuuming the dust underneath. You see, words do have power, Ma: power to camouflage the truth, to colour it in peacock shades.
Oh, if she knew, she’d make him pay. But she won’t find out. He’s too careful for that. She may have her suspicions, of course — but he thinks he can get away with it. It’s just a question of nerve, that’s all. Nerve and timing and self-control. That’s all a murderer needs, in the end.
Besides, as you know, I’ve done it before.
Post comment:
JennyTricks: (post deleted).
ClairDeLune: Jenny, don’t you ever get tired of coming here to criticize? This is intriguing, blueeyedboy. Did you look at the reading-list I sent you? I’d love to know what you thought of it . . .
14
You are viewing the webjournal of Albertine.
Posted at: 01.55 on Tuesday, February 5
Status: restricted
Mood: awake
Nothing in my mailbox tonight. Just a meme from blueeyedboy, tempting me to come out and play. I’m almost certain he’s waiting for me; he often logs on at about this time and stays online into the early hours of the morning. I wonder what he wants from me. Love? Hate? Confessions? Lies? Or is it simply the contact he craves, the need to know I’m still listening? In the small hours of the night, when God seems like a cosmic joke and no one seems to be listening, don’t we all need someone to touch? Even you, blueeyedboy. Watching me, watching you, through a glass darkly, tapping out on this ouija board my letters to the dead.
Is this why he writes these stories of his, posting them here for me to read? Is it an invitation to play? Does he expect me to answer him with a confession of my own?
Tagged by blueeyedboy posting on badguysrock@webjournal.com
Posted at : 01.05 on Tuesday, February 5
If you were an animal, what would you be? An eagle soaring over the mountains.
Favourite smell? The Pink Zebra café, on a Thursday lunchtime.
Tea or coffee? Why have either, when you can have hot chocolate with cream?
Favourite flavour of ice cream? Green apple.
What are you wearing right now? Jeans, trainers and my favourite old cashmere sweater.