It's a little bit like being in a rollercoaster, living in Jim's head, and right now he's in one of the downward plunges. Maybe a fucking double loop
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Jim looks over at the guy, looks down at the book, then back up at the man. He's fully fucking aware that the book is a joke, but when you've had to kill... "Does it explain how hard it is to kill one of them?"
After giving the guy a look, Jim flips through the book until he finds the chapter, and just blinks down at the page. "You find this entertaining?" he asks, not looking up.
Jim has never been what Martha would consider much of a talker. At least, not in her personal experience. They've spent enough time together now that she instinctively recognizes his footfalls and the cadence of his breath, but speech patterns are a little more difficult, because when they talk, it's seldom more than a few words at a time. Even so, the accent carries, and she knows it's him when the curse drifts down the hall and into the kitchen.
When she finds him at the bookshelf, he's clutching a book that's both incredibly appropriate and incredibly not, and it's all she can do to not jerk it out of his hands and toss it away, to tell him to forget it, to forget this poor excuse for hell and come have a cup of tea.
"Some fucking joke," Jim agrees, shaking his head. It's a joke, and he gets that, but it's a fucking poor one.
Flipping through the pages, he scans bits of it curiously, eyebrows rising at the chapter titles. "Should be glad they don't know what it's like," he mutters.
"I'm sure they would be, if they had any idea," is Martha's quiet reply, and unable to take it any longer, she gently extracts the book from Jim's fingers and slips it back onto the shelf. "Maybe we should be thankful they don't."
Jim's mouth curls up into a humorless smile, and he shakes his head slowly. "Easier said than done."
Most of the time, the last thing Jim thinks about is other lucky people who don't know what the hell he's been through. He doesn't care either way, not with everyone he knew dead.
The interesting thing was, Willie Dunne was actually in the process of beginning War and Peace. He didn't know how long it would take him, but he had little else to do and was quite comfortably tucked away in a corner of the rec-room with the book open on his lap, mouth moving silently with the words as he read.
Until he heard the outburst and looked up, smiling when he saw who it was. "Hello, Jim. What's that you've got?"
"Just a stupid book," Jim answers, the book in his hand as he waves hello. He gives it one last look, then tosses it back onto the shelf. "What're you reading?"
"Tolstoy." Willie lifted the cover of the book to show it to Jim. "War and Peace. Timmy Weekes told me to read Tolstoy and Dante and this is the first one I could find. I'm not that far into it though." He smiled.
"No shit," Jim says with a huff of laughter, and he walks over to inspect the book, as if to make sure it's real. "Jesus, I didn't think anyone would ever actually read the fucking thing."
Beth looks up from the book she's reading, which happens to be a battered copy of Henry V, which was the best thing that she could get the bloody shelf to give her today. Dark hair's hanging in her face, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping so well, of late.
"Problems?"
Her voice comes out hoarse, and she clears her throat, rubbing her fingers over the small, round scar.
"Nothing new," is Jim's murmured reply, and he gives the book one last disgusted look before shoving it back onto the bookshelf and gives it another try. "There's no trick to this fucking thing, is there."
"I'm so fucking sorry," Jim says, returning her smile. As soon as he'd left school, Jim left it far fucking behind. Never heard the end of it from his parents, either. "Teacher?"
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Glancing at the cover of the book the guy was holding, he noted, "I read that. Good book."
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When she finds him at the bookshelf, he's clutching a book that's both incredibly appropriate and incredibly not, and it's all she can do to not jerk it out of his hands and toss it away, to tell him to forget it, to forget this poor excuse for hell and come have a cup of tea.
"Some joke," she offers instead.
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Flipping through the pages, he scans bits of it curiously, eyebrows rising at the chapter titles. "Should be glad they don't know what it's like," he mutters.
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Most of the time, the last thing Jim thinks about is other lucky people who don't know what the hell he's been through. He doesn't care either way, not with everyone he knew dead.
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Until he heard the outburst and looked up, smiling when he saw who it was. "Hello, Jim. What's that you've got?"
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"Problems?"
Her voice comes out hoarse, and she clears her throat, rubbing her fingers over the small, round scar.
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"Mostly, all I get is this year's fucking G.C.S.E syllabus."
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