No Popcorn for the Movie
#11 of A Thousand Megatons of Love
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Not a Popcorn Movie
I looked up at the marquis above the movie theater entrance, shuffling my feet nervously against the pavement. The evening was a cold one, though it hadn't snowed in a couple weeks now, and in the sky, the sun had fallen below the edge of the lake; in an hour it would be full night. In black tile lettering, the marquis said "Waiting for Something Good." I don't think I've ever seen it before, and I was curious. I was also bored out of my skull, so seeing a movie would be good, I thought to myself.
The ticket dispenser was an old brown-furred wolf with deep creases in his brow and under his mouth. He reminded me of my grandfather. I paid him with a few bits of metal and he handed me a ticket with a gnarled, jittery hand. I walked in, wondering what kind of movie I was going to see.
The shadow-filled lobby was all a shambles, with spiders and equally nasty things being its dominant residents. The once-beautiful carpet flooring was torn apart and lay like a horrible patchwork thing, its maroon floral pattern shredded into pieces. Large framed posters of "classic" movies adorned the walls; their glass cases cracked and coated with a layer of grime that just made their occupant's barely noticeable. I walked through the lobby, my shoes crunching noisily on the broken glass that littered the floor like popcorn, ducking my head under an elaborate spider-web. I drew back a tattered black velvet curtain and walked through into the room.
It was large, just the way I remembered it. A few of the seats were ripped apart, their yellow foam insulation thrown haphazardly everywhere, landing on almost every available surface, looking like some infectious fungal growth. I walked down one row between the seats; I liked sitting somewhere in the middle so I could catch all of the show and not have to crane my neck all around for something in case I miss it. I chose a seat that hadn't been destroyed, brushed away the bits of insulation that stuck to it, and sat down.
Large cracks spider lines, cracks, trailed through the large movie screen like lightning. I sighed, and in a moment the screen flashed and the movie began. I heard the person working the projector above give a loud, hacking cough.
There were no titles, no beginning credits; it just went into the movie. Maybe all that stuff would come later. I settled back into my chair and watched.
On the screen, a wolf hidden behind beneath his greyish-blue hoodie was slyly handing a note to a coyote beside him. They sat in desks that looked like holdouts of when the school first began. They kept stealing glances at each other, a devilish smile and cheeky wink every now and then while avoiding the teacher's random staring eyes. They were at the back of the class, but they were still wary of other students looking at them.
I recognized the actors immediately, and I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to look away, but I was just so horrified that I couldn't! I was watching something that happened in my past, and I was watching on the big screen. I saw myself smile while reading a note by the coyote--Kevin Mena--and tucking it away in the pocket of my hoodie. He nodded and turned back to the teacher, who started talking about sixteenth-century Europe. I remembered that day; it was the day Kevin first asked me out.
He never knew how much hell he put me through. I remember lying awake at night, making my pillow damp with tears, trying to figure out if Kevin loved me or hated me. I never really figured it out, and I guess I gradually just pushed it all into the back of my mind until I forgot about it. He'd hit me and then say he was sorry, that it would never happen again, but it would happen again. It kept happening from our freshman year of high school to senior year.
On the screen, I was getting out of Kevin's Pontiac and walking with him into his house. I was shaking terribly all that afternoon because Kevin told me his parents would be out of town for a few days, and we both wanted to spend some quality time together after school...
We had dinner together, which was romantic, if a bit awkward. My mind was on how we would spend the rest of the evening together. I had always fantasized--frequently--but the only distance Kevin and I had ever gone prior to that was just kissing, and even then in secret. I didn't come from a town where homosexuality was really thought of, but when it was, it was never in the right.
I watched the screen, seeing myself being led up to the coyote's bed. I remembered the mixture of sweat and cologne hanging in the air. We lay down on his bed, holding each other, kissing and touching, until things just evolved into something bigger.
It was my first time, but I could tell it wasn't for him. I don't know what happened, but whenever we went into his room, he just...changed. The Kevin I walked and talked with to school every morning and stole hidden kisses in the boy's bathroom every now and then would disappear, and in his place would be something mean, angry, and hurtful. The first time we had sex, he hurt me. The next time wasn't much different.
I talked to him about it, but he brushed it off, saying that he'd be gentler. And he was gentle, as well as sweet and caring over the next couple of weeks...except when we made out. I didn't know what to do or who to go to. When the bruises started to get more visible, I talked to him about it again, and he said...
"That's what sex is supposed to be," Kevin said on the screen as he lay next to me on his bed. He was holding my arm; he didn't know about the bruise lying just underneath my sweater. "It's supposed to be rough, and it's supposed to hurt. If it doesn't hurt, then obviously something's wrong."
I didn't believe him. It was too stupid and chauvinistic. So the next two years I gave the coyote the benefit of the doubt and indulged in whatever kinks he was interested in. I loved him and I wanted to make this relationship I had with him work. I thought I could change him, but I couldn't be more wrong.
Over the next two years, I learned that Kevin was a manipulative and egotistical maniac--he never stopped abusing me. He also had some deep, troubling problems inside himself, but I was so sure that I could help him through whatever they were.
I watched the screen, recalling everything that I saw, feeling a tear slip down my eye. I've seen this movie before and I didn't want to watch the conclusion, but I was stuck in my seat.
Our relationship had been strained; I was afraid that it was my fault. I wanted to make him happy, so when I willingly volunteered to be tied up, Kevin's face lit up with excitement. So I let him take four strands of nylon rope and tie my ankles to the foot of his bed and my wrists to the headrest. I didn't agree to the blindfold, however, but I wanted to make Kevin happy, and if a few minutes of partial blindness would make him happy, then so be it.
I let him do what he wanted to me. Things were going as smoothly as they could, until about five minutes later, when I heard Kevin weeping. Worried, I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that everything was wrong. He told me that he wasn't doing anything right, that I didn't love him, that nobody loved him. He just started crying uncontrollably, and before I could ask him to untie me I felt something cold and sharp caress the fur on my leg. It went slowly upward, touching my thigh, waist, and stopped at my chest. I felt the knife prick the skin there, and my fear burst; I asked him to put the knife away, pleading with him to untie me so we can just talk this out. I didn't think he could hear me over his sobs.
I felt the knife rub against my chest, back and forth through my fur. I begged him to put the knife down, but he still couldn't hear me. My stomach rose up into my throat to such a point that I thought I would vomit there. I was struggling to get out of the bonds, but Kevin had tied the knots way too tight. Suddenly the knife jerked, I felt a tickle, and my chest became wet and hot--I screamed Kevin's name then, which seemed to wake him up to some degree. He untied the ropes around my ankles and my wrists, and after I ripped the blindfold off of my eyes, I ran into the bathroom down the hall. I didn't know what to do--I wasn't bleeding as badly as I thought, but I had to stop the flow. I wadded up a bunch of toilet paper and just stuck it on my chest.
I looked into the mirror at the blood, the way it made little rivers through my white naval fur down to my waist. I heard Kevin say my name outside, and without thinking I locked and bolted the door.
We didn't talk to each other much after that incident.
One night I was watching the local news with my parents, and the first story they had was about a coyote named Kevin Mena who committed suicide with a shotgun in his room. He left a note, telling whoever read it that he didn't want to do it, but his boyfriend made him do it. He gave my name, and they even said it on the news.
That was how I came out to everyone; on a suicide note left by my dead boyfriend, blaming me as his trigger.
My parents didn't want anything to do with me after that night. They tolerated the fact that I'd be staying with them for another three months, but they were more than willing to drive me to the dorms with my bags packed in the back; they didn't like the idea of having a "thing" living under their roof. I was terrified and hurt, and I didn't have anybody to talk to. I didn't want to talk to anybody...
Then the comet came and wiped everything away, everything except old memories.
The movie ended with a simple fade out. The man working the projector gave another long, hacking cough, and cut the light. I got up out of my seat, wiping my eyes, suddenly needing a drink of water and some fresh air.
By the time I got out of the movie theater, I was running. My heart was pounding loudly in my ears like bass drums. I gasped, inhaling the freezing night air. I thought of Kevin, the dark corner of my past that I wanted to stay away from, and I thought of Jason, the one bit of light I have in this dark world. Am I really attracted to guys who were unbalanced? Did that make me unbalanced myself for being that way? No, I'm not insane...I know I'm not insane.
I walked up the street, heading back home in the dark. I thought about the movie, realizing that the story wasn't really finished. I hope it has a good ending, I really do, but I just don't know.
Then I woke up.
I want this story to seem actually decent, but like everything else it just comes across as tripe. What should I do to make it better?