10-23-2024, 06:49 PM
Jude feels that he has been nothing but reasonable for the majority of his visit. He has tolerated Near's whining and yelping and nagging and accusations, his harebrained ideas, his utter lack of empathy, his dearth of imagination. Whatever unresolved sexual tension crackled briefly in the living room sputters out completely under the wet blanket of Near's senseless fear -- because apparently the end of the world and human annihilation is nothing, a joke, something to be taken on in the style of a Harry Potter-esque final battle, but one kitchen knife sends Near's mind reeling.
It proves how hollow the offer of help was. Near is a coward, and his incessant newspaper ads were a demonstration of his own self-absorption. Seeing whether Jude was alive was simply to satisfy his own curiosity. Any affection Jude might see between them is imagined.
He opens his eyes, and there is clear coldness in them. Finally he has tired of these games. His appetite wanes.
"Okay," he says. "Come make me." And he reveals the knife once more, uncovering the blade and then settling the tip of it against his palm.
Jude knows he cannot win in hand to hand combat. But he only needs to cut his hand to temporarily melt the tile beneath Near's feet like wet concrete and drop him ankle-deep into floor, freezing him in his tracks. If Jude is willing to hit a vein, he can fold his little pieces of paper and send himself to the parking lot, minus his shoes.
There are some people who were not made to comprehend anything greater about the world, Jude thinks. Comprehension died with Courtland. More's the pity.
It proves how hollow the offer of help was. Near is a coward, and his incessant newspaper ads were a demonstration of his own self-absorption. Seeing whether Jude was alive was simply to satisfy his own curiosity. Any affection Jude might see between them is imagined.
He opens his eyes, and there is clear coldness in them. Finally he has tired of these games. His appetite wanes.
"Okay," he says. "Come make me." And he reveals the knife once more, uncovering the blade and then settling the tip of it against his palm.
Jude knows he cannot win in hand to hand combat. But he only needs to cut his hand to temporarily melt the tile beneath Near's feet like wet concrete and drop him ankle-deep into floor, freezing him in his tracks. If Jude is willing to hit a vein, he can fold his little pieces of paper and send himself to the parking lot, minus his shoes.
There are some people who were not made to comprehend anything greater about the world, Jude thinks. Comprehension died with Courtland. More's the pity.