by Chris Smith
***
Of all the dark creatures in James’ imagination, the werewolf terrified him most of all. The thought of the beast savaging him alive, tearing through his flesh and ripping him apart limb by limb, paralysed him with fear. He imagined the pain and suffering such a creature would inflict. Every full moon he would stay awake all night on the lookout for this predator, scanning the surrounding neighbourhood through his bedroom window. Sometimes he thought the werewolf was in the nearby woods. He pictured the beast lurking in the shadows of the trees, hiding, seeking out its next kill. But mostly he imagined the animal somewhere in the street, trying to find its way into a house, to discover a victim sleeping and vulnerable. The howls were often so close to his house that James was certain the werewolf would break through the window into his room at any moment. On those nights he’d taken to cowering under the covers, pushing his head underneath the pillows to the point where he struggled to breath. No one knew he lay awake in bed some nights, petrified, praying for the morning light. Yes, his mum and dad always checked in on him but James could hear them approaching his room. At the first sound of creaking floorboards he’d close his eyes and pretend to be asleep so that he didn’t have to deal with their dubious looks or listen to their sighs of disbelief at his explanations.
The werewolves only came out on nights with a full moon, but they were not the only things that kept James awake at night. He’d frequently be unable to fall asleep as he replayed the day’s problems over and over again, no matter how trivial. Reliving each ‘disaster’, he would review all the possible options he might have chosen and their potential outcomes. Gradually, he’d rework the day until he’d crafted a better result. One he liked. Sometimes James would also invent the future as well. He’d play out his next responses to foreseeable dilemmas, working through the evolution of each incident. The possibilities were endless as to what he might do or say. Methodically, he would examine how Pete and the pack would react, what they’d say in response, what they’d do, and how he would counteract. Playing everything back and forth like ping pong ball, without rest, he’d keep going until he’d created a new ending, one that exalted him.
On other nights James would lie in bed dwelling on his suffering, mulling over the hostilities he endured and resenting his situation in life. He resented his parents for wanting him to be different; Mr. Preacher for his oozing sympathy and lack of intervention; and the pack for being like sheep. He was resentful that no one cared how scared and lonely he felt. They were the nights he found particularly torturous because every second seemed to intensify his feelings of despair. In the depths of this despair James hated his life, and the powerlessness of his ability to change the situation.
In bed, he would sometimes plot his revenge. The vindictive things his mind created to inflict on Perfect Pete, his cronies, and the pack delighted him. There was his painting, of course, and sometimes he’d write a story, a sort of fantasy play where he would have the opportunity to torture them. Quite often this involved attacking them with a bloodthirsty werewolf under his control. They would plead for him to make the beast stop and beg for his forgiveness. It was pure bliss, this revenge, and to him nothing tasted better.
Impotent to enact his plots of retribution on Pete and the gang in real life, he did the next best thing: he inflicted his schemes on Burley Blake. James desperately didn’t want to turn into him; Burley was the epitome of everything he despised. But in his subconscious James knew that the things he hated about Burley he, deep down, believed to be true for him. Picking on the weaker kid allowed him to forget for a while about his own reality, allowed him to escape his own weaknesses, his own pitiful station in life. But the escapism soon ended and afterwards the feelings of remorse and guilt for his actions kicked in. Guilt kept him awake at night too. It was as if he had this monster inside him, which he pretended didn’t exist. But from time to time it broke free and caused mayhem, making him face its undeniable existence, and the regret caused by its actions.
One confrontation with Burley in particular haunted him. He’d lost many a night’s sleep as a result of it. On that particular day James had been walking home after a P.E. lesson. He could see Burly walking father up, on the other side of the street. James was not in a good mood. For some stupid reason, they’d been doing contemporary dance in P.E. instead of the usual sport. James had danced with the grace of an awkward Muppet, much to everyone’s amusement.
‘Look at that spastic.’ Jake had imitated James as he spoke and everyone in the hall laughed.
Burley had managed to escape notice for some reason unknown to James. No one bothered him that day, leaving James to weather the brunt of their remarks. James hated the thought of being labelled as ‘the weirdest’ in the school. He’d certainly been their main target that day. Maybe the title was his? Perhaps Burley now outranked him?
‘He looks like a demented puppet’ someone else had jeered as he danced.
That’s what gave James the idea. He wanted to see Burley dance like a fool, on the street.
‘Hey!’ he shouted across. Burley looked back and gave him a smile. This infuriated James.
‘Let’s see YOU dance, then.’ The weirdo obviously didn’t realise who he was messing with. James picked up a stone and threw the missile at his ankles. As well as having artistic talent, he was also an excellent marksman. Burley attempted to skip out of the stone’s way, but it ricocheted off the pavement and hit him on the ankle. Burley howled the howl of a dog being tortured. He rolled on the ground clutching his foot. A smile flickered on James’ lips at the sight but remorse followed quickly. He hadn’t really meant to hit the kid at all.
‘Are you okay?’
Burley didn’t respond. He didn’t so much as glance at James. The boy simply collected himself off the ground and continued on his way home, limping as he went.
‘Are you okay?’ James shouted a little louder. No answer came. Incensed by Burley’s indifference, James picked up a handful of stones and threw them in rapid succession. Burley hopped and skipped as the flurry of pebbles hit the pavement around his feet. This time a big remorseless smile covered James’ face. I wished they could see this, he thought. He got his wish a moment later as Pete, Gus and Jake appeared from around the corner.
‘Hey, check this out.’
James proceeded to make Burley jump and hop. He caused the weirdo to skip about like an idiot beneath the onslaught of stones which were hitting their mark with perfect aim.
‘What a moron, hey.’ James’ eyes widened in expectation of their approval.
‘Don’t talk about people that way. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not nice?’ A smile slinked across Pete’s face. ‘But that’s not a bad idea, I suppose.’
James returned the smile, believing for a brief moment that he’d won their respect. He squatted down, picked up some more stones and raised his arm, ready to throw them at his target. James paused; Burley wasn’t even looking at him. The fool continued nonchalantly on his way home. James drew back his arm a little further. Although it was a long throw, his confidence was high. His arm travelled forward in a powerful fluid motion. But he jerked violently to the side as he felt the fierce pain of something slamming into his right foot. The missile flew across the street, hitting a brick wall some metres from Burley. James howled like Burley had moments earlier. Pete twisted his heel into James’ foot. He lifted his heel and stamped down hard a second time. James cried out again and jumped aside, hopping onto the other foot.
‘Hey that’s a good move Maggot. Do it again,’ Gus said. He proceeded to stamp on James’ other foot. The three of them formed a triangle, with James in the middle, and began kicking at his ankles and stomping on his feet.
‘Dance, Maggot.’
‘Can maggots dance, Pete?’
‘Why didn’t you do this in P.E.? You’d have got top marks – for the demented!’ added Jake.
By the time they’d finished their amusement, Burley was long gone. James rubbe
d his hands over his bruised and battered feet and ankles. Whimpering in pain, he hobbled home.
That night James hardly slept as he attempted to re–work the confrontation. Thinking about how he could have orchestrated a better ending, he played the event over and over. When a solution failed to materialise, his mind kicked into overdrive mulling over the options. But the exercise proved futile. In the end he just kept asking himself: Why had he done it? The kid had done nothing to him. Finally, he gave in to the feelings of self pity and lay sobbing, feeling very alone. James despised this monster which, whenever it managed to break out, somehow ended up hurting him the most. The remorse he felt and the self-reproaching he did that night destroyed any remaining esteem. That particular evening seemed to last for an eternity and James had relived it many nights since.
