I like the way you portrayed Jonathan lacking social skills and self-control over his emotions. It's really true to the character you see in BB. And it makes it that much more enjoyable to read when it's all about pijamas! ;D
Aww, thanks. That means a lot to me.
Okay, girls, next chapter! Last one, in fact.
Chapter 5
“Jonathan!”
It was Crane’s last class of the day, developmental psych. He had studied for this midterm all day, intending to ace the exam, and had just opened the door to enter the examination room.
He looked up, still smarting from Hugh’s outburst, to see Megan in a dark burgundy sweater and a striped scarf walking toward him, holding her books close to her.
“Megan.” He didn’t especially want to speak to her now. He had tried to be indifferent toward her, but he found her attractive and couldn’t master his feelings, even though she was Hugh’s girlfriend.
“Do you have a minute?” She had caught up with him, her cheeks flushed and rosy. Her green eyes were thickly lashed.
“No, not really,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m about to take a test—”
“Did you get them? Did you like them?”
Crane froze. “What?”
“The pajamas. I meant it to be a secret but I couldn’t wait to know. Hugh didn’t say anything, if you’d gotten them or not.”
Crane’s expression turned dark. He felt queasy. Her pretty smile shimmered before his eyes. “
You . . . sent them, then?”
Megan nodded. “You did get them? I’m glad.”
Crane looked down at the dirty tile of the hallway. “Why would you give me pajamas?” he asked slowly.
“Well,” said Megan, evidently caught a little off-guard, “when I saw you that night—the night the fire alarm went off—I—” She shouldered her backpack as he stared at her with impassive blue eyes. “Well, what Joanna did was so rude. I wanted to make it up to you.”
His smile was inhuman, unbelievably cold. “They must have been an expensive purchase. Why spend so much for someone you know so little about?”
Her expression faltered. “I . . . just thought it would be a nice gesture. Hugh said—”
“Hugh said WHAT?” His voice was not a shout, but the potent whisper carried all the power of one. Megan backed up, clearly surprised. Crane suddenly felt a stab of pleasure. She was frightened of him. Let her be afraid.
“Hugh just said that . . .” She looked down, now clearly embarrassed, “that you’d had some hard times growing up, and I thought that—”
“So you pitied me, Megan? Is that what you feel for me? Pity?” He advanced on her, watching her frightened eyes with interest and avarice.
She will never want you. Make her suffer. Make her suffer as you have suffered. Megan backed up. “No, Jonathan, it’s not like that.”
“What is it like, then?” He saw her caving under the cold weight of his words. He was enjoying seeing her squirm. “How dare you pity me? You have no right.” She hugged her books to her chest, cringing in fear. He reveled. “I am sorry to be frank, but I would have preferred your friend Joanna’s stupid mockery rather than your simpering, cloying pity.” He spat out the last word.
She said nothing. She looked miserable. Her lip trembled.
Good. She’ll cry. Make her cry. Make her sob! “If you’ll excuse me, I have a test to take.” He turned on his heel with a cold sense of triumph. The sensation of power and ecstasy did not wane throughout the test, and he flew through it with fervor and clarity.
*
With a feeling of exultant satisfaction, Crane climbed up the steps to Wittemeyer dorm. He had performed remarkably on the exam, he was certain. He wasn’t as pleased with his behavior toward Megan. What he had said was true: he was not going to tolerate anyone’s pity. But he hadn’t been sure what was taking over him. It was uncalled-for, the way he had frightened her into a cowering, submissive object. He didn’t want to admit that he had felt it due revenge, that she loved Hugh and not him, that he had taken pleasure in making her suffer.
Crane knocked on the door, and hearing no response, entered. He put down his books in the dark room, moving toward the light. He saw Hugh hunched over on his bed, face in his hands. Crane’s triumph faded. He felt cold and ashen. “What is it?”
“Megan is dead.” Hugh’s voice was far away. He wasn’t shaking with sobs, but Crane knew tears were pouring out of his eyes.
She was dead? He shivered and his limbs began to tingle madly. “What? How? She can’t be!”
Hugh looked up, blowing loudly into a handkerchief. “She was driving to visit her grandmother in the nursing home. She did that every week.” Hugh’s voice was rough, as if he’d been screaming—or crying—for hours.
Crane fell into a chair. He could no longer stand.
“She wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t stop at the red light. The car was—” He stopped abruptly. “The police thought she’d been drinking, but I know she wasn’t. She never drank. She was a careful driver. Something must have distracted her, something must have been bothering her.”
Crane swallowed, whitening to a death-like pallor. He couldn’t tell Hugh what he had said to her. Misery filled the pit of his stomach, and he wanted to vomit.
“I was going to ask her to marry me, you know.” Hugh stifled a sob. Crane had never seen him cry. “Once we graduated.” Crane timidly reached a hand toward Hugh, hesitantly putting it on Hugh’s shoulder. He left it there, fidgeting uncomfortably, until Hugh blew hard into his tissue again.
Crane left Hugh in the dorm room and took halting steps until he reached the men’s bathroom on the second floor. After making certain there was no one else inside, he locked himself in the gloom of one of the stalls. He braced his long arms against the door. “No.” A tear answered, muddying his vision. “No . . .” Another tear.
What are you crying for, you little pu**y? She didn’t love you, she didn’t want you. “Go AWAY!” Crane shouted. “You killed her, not me!”
She deserved to die. “She didn’t. She was kind. She did something nice for me, and I . . .”
She pitied you. You didn’t want her pity. She wanted to coddle you, to use you to make her feel good about herself. You wanted to throw her on your bed and—“No!” He crossed his forearms over his face and wept. He knew that he could not silence the dark voice in his head. But he could resolve never to feel anything for anyone again. Then no one would get hurt. The dark voice wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone . . .
. . .
Dr. Jonathan Crane, Director of Arkham Asylum, wore only one kind of pajamas. They were black, and they were silk.