Body Count

Nearly an hour after the quintet discovered the poster, they were all seated at the very back of the theater. Shane, Brian, and Dominic were all sharing an extra large bucket of popcorn (extra butter) and had their feet propped up on the row in front, to the great annoyance of those they were seated behind. The other two were busily chomping away at a box of Reese's Pieces, smacking their lips and chuckling in a satisfied, menacing sort of way.

The spacey theater was packed full of eager people; some were around the same age as Shane and her friends, mostly sitting right up front and saying things like. "Hell yeah!" and, "Boo ya!" in loud and obnoxious voices. These rowdy teens made up the majority of the large and sweaty audience. The rest of the crowd was made up mostly of middle-aged men who had actually read the comic books and were looking forward to a show that met the standards of the famous pieces of literature. These were grumbling loudly at "the nerve of those damned kids".

People weren't just confined to chairs, either. Some people were hovering in the hallways, unsure of whether or not they should sit where they stood. Others were perched uncomfortable on the arms and backs of the chairs their friends occupied, constantly shifting so the plastic wasn't - well, in an unpleasant area. A fair amount of people who, Shane was sure, must have been okay with having severe neck problems by the end of the night, were plopped right under the screen, gazing up at it in an almost loving way.

The one thing every single sweaty, dripping, grumbling person in the room had in common was this: they all wanted badly to see this movie. And they were all willing to wait for it to start.

And wait they did.

Small knots of people had started dropping to the floor at random, crossing their legs and facing the screen, reminding Shane forcefully of reading circles in Kindergarten. Slowly, slowly, everybody in the theater sat. A low, steady hum began to run through the crowd - the sounds of an eagerly quiet crowd, waiting for a good performance.

Finally, amidst the subdued babble and rustling of bottoms on seats, the lights dimmed. Heads snapped in different directions, all facing the gigantic screen. Voices hushed. Breaths were held in anticipation.

And the screen glowed brilliant white, with the low bass sound emanating from the speakers shaking them all to the bone.

Everybody had been informed before they entered the darkened theater that the previews and commercials had been cut from the program - they would get straight to the film, no fuss, no muss.

In the back row, popcorn dropped to the floor, slimy with yellow butter, forgotten. A box of candy coated chocolate and peanut butter clattered to the ground as well, spilling the Pieces all over the carpet. The five leaned forward eagerly, almost desperately, their mouths agape in wonder.

On the screen, a sharp bang resounded. Two men in clowns masks, wired to a thick cable, slid across from one building to another. They rolled onto the gravel with a crunch.

As the scene changed, Shane found her breath becoming quicker. She was biting her lip painfully hard; lowering her jaw, she realized some of the red paint decorating her face wouldn't be just paint tonight. She sucked her bleeding lip, still gazing raptly at the screen.

"Calm down," A whisper to her right. Her piercing gaze didn't flinch. The voice continued. "You're holding onto that seat pretty hard. You'll tear it if you're not careful."

Shane loosened her grip considerably, still leaning forwards. "Quiet, Dom." she said shortly.

Almost two hours later, Shane had sat back in her seat. Her jaw was clamped firmly shut, no longer agape with fascination. Her breathing had slowed to a healthier pace. Her fingers were entwined loosely upon her lap. Her casual posture gave off the impression that the movie didn't hold much influence over her - which was as far from the truth as it could be.

Inside, her mind was reeling. Everything the Joker said in the movie - along with being simultaneously truthful and despicably, horribly false - had struck a chord in her. She had started to strain her ears whenever the Joker appeared, frightened that she might miss something. His insights into the human psyche, his slippery way of escaping any situation and making it seem so simple - it captivated her.

Her friends, however, did not seem so easily inclined. They clearly adored the movie - every time the Joker sidled into a scene, they giggled with idiotic glee - but their thoughts definitely weren't on the same topics as Shane's. If they had been, they would have gotten up, walked out of the theater, and walked right off a bridge into the icy waves below.

For Shane's thoughts could not be healthy, never mind normal. Very shortly after the film started, she found herself smiling as the Joker's victims died. Every time his knife emerged, smooth, gleaming silver in the reflected light, her heart raced with impatience. Cut them, she thought. Slice them open. Let me see their blood spill. As she imagined these people dying, over and over again in her slowly twisting and reforming mind, she laughed. She kept her laughter quiet, though. No need to frighten anybody. Not just yet.

On screen, somebody was screaming in apparent agony. Although she knew it to be fake - they were all actors, after all - she felt another pleasant chill run through her body. A small part of her mind questioned these reactions: should she be thinking like this? Surely, this was a sign of insanity, was it not? But the greater part of her mind - the part that thrilled at the thought of that pasty white face, that sickly carved smile - quickly and effectively bullied that small voice into silence.

A cough. Somewhere in the aisle ... one of the unfortunately seated persons. A yawn. Directly in front of her, this time. A groan of discomfort. Riley.

These small, subtle signs of boredom and discontent brought Shane's blood to a fiery boil. Her hands moved discreetly to the armrests, grasping the plaid fabric violently hard. Her knuckles were white. Her teeth were bared in an ugly, furious smile. Her chest heaved with barely suppressed anger.

Everywhere around her, people were yawning, stretching, shifting in their seats. Not even looking at the screen. Shane was, of course, still staring at the film. She merely noticed the beginnings of movement in her peripheral vision. Her mind, which, she had always been told, was capable of more than the norm, absorbed both the dialog of the movie and the shuffling around her.

They didn't deserve to witness this masterpiece. They didn't deserve their comfortable seats, their cheap, buttery-tasting popcorn. They didn't even deserve to waste the oxygen others needed. Others who appreciated a work of art when they saw it. Like Shane.

Her finger twitched towards her belt, where she half-imagined, half-hallucinated the glinting blade of a knife protruding, ready for her quick and able use.

The film was coming to a close. The dialog at the end didn't bore her; far from it, it enthralled her further. Batmans' words. Deep, meaningful. True. Sometimes, people deserve to have their faith rewarded.

True.

And everybody in this theater, with their lack of faith in these resoundingly veritable words, would get the reward they most desperately deserved.

The lights faded back on, blinding most people temporarily. People muttered their approvals, stretching their aching limbs and backs, smiling vaguely. Chatter erupted all around her.

Shane stood up.