JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 177 из 425I didn’t see the hand that reached around my hip to grip me—the typewriter was in the way—but I didn’t need to see it to know its color was brown. It squeezed, slowly tightening, the fingers wriggling. “What do you want to know, sugar?”
she asked from behind me. Still laughing. Still teasing. “Do you really want to know at all? Do you want to know or do you want to feel?”
“Oh, you’re killing me!” I cried. The typewriter—thirty or so pounds of IBM Selectric—was shaking back and forth in my arms. I could feel my muscles twanging like guitar strings. “Do you want to know who he was, sugar? That nasty man?” ’just do me, you bitch!” I screamed. She laughed again—that harsh laughter that was almost like a cough—and squeezed me where the squeezing was best. “You hold still, now,” she said. “You hold still, pretty boy, ’less you want me to take fright and yank this thing of yours right out by the…” I lost the rest as the whole world exploded in an orgasm so deep and strong that I thought it would simply tear me apart. I snapped my head back like a man being hung and ejaculated looking up at the stars. I screamed—I had to—and on the lake, two loons screamed back. At the same time I was on the float. Jo was gone, but I could faintly hear the sound of the band—Sara and Sonny and the Red-Top Boys tearing through “Black Mountain Rag.” I sat up, dazed and spent, fucked hollow. I couldn’t see the path leading up to the house, but I could discern its switchback course by the Japanese lanterns. My underpants lay beside me in a little wet heap. I picked them up and started to put them on, only because I didn’t want to swim back to shore with them in my hand. I stopped with them stretched between my knees, looking at my fingers. They were slimed with decaying flesh. Puffing out from beneath several of the nails were clumps of torn-out hair. Corpsehair. “Oh Jesus,” I moaned. The strength went out of me. I flopped into wetness. I was in the north-wing bedroom. What I had landed in was hot, and at first I thought it was come. The dim glow of the nightlight showed darker stuff, however. Mattie was gone and the bed was full of blood.
Lying in the middle of that soaking pool was something I at first glance took to be a clump of flesh or a piece of organ. I looked more closely and saw it was a stuffed animal, a black-furred object matted red with blood. I lay on my side looking at it, wanting to bolt out of the bed and flee from the room but unable to do it. My muscles were in a dead swoon. Who had I really been having sex with in this bed? And what had I done to her? In God’s name, what? “I don’t believe these lies,” I heard myself say, and as though it were an incantation, I was slapped back together.
she asked from behind me. Still laughing. Still teasing. “Do you really want to know at all? Do you want to know or do you want to feel?”
“Oh, you’re killing me!” I cried. The typewriter—thirty or so pounds of IBM Selectric—was shaking back and forth in my arms. I could feel my muscles twanging like guitar strings. “Do you want to know who he was, sugar? That nasty man?” ’just do me, you bitch!” I screamed. She laughed again—that harsh laughter that was almost like a cough—and squeezed me where the squeezing was best. “You hold still, now,” she said. “You hold still, pretty boy, ’less you want me to take fright and yank this thing of yours right out by the…” I lost the rest as the whole world exploded in an orgasm so deep and strong that I thought it would simply tear me apart. I snapped my head back like a man being hung and ejaculated looking up at the stars. I screamed—I had to—and on the lake, two loons screamed back. At the same time I was on the float. Jo was gone, but I could faintly hear the sound of the band—Sara and Sonny and the Red-Top Boys tearing through “Black Mountain Rag.” I sat up, dazed and spent, fucked hollow. I couldn’t see the path leading up to the house, but I could discern its switchback course by the Japanese lanterns. My underpants lay beside me in a little wet heap. I picked them up and started to put them on, only because I didn’t want to swim back to shore with them in my hand. I stopped with them stretched between my knees, looking at my fingers. They were slimed with decaying flesh. Puffing out from beneath several of the nails were clumps of torn-out hair. Corpsehair. “Oh Jesus,” I moaned. The strength went out of me. I flopped into wetness. I was in the north-wing bedroom. What I had landed in was hot, and at first I thought it was come. The dim glow of the nightlight showed darker stuff, however. Mattie was gone and the bed was full of blood.
Lying in the middle of that soaking pool was something I at first glance took to be a clump of flesh or a piece of organ. I looked more closely and saw it was a stuffed animal, a black-furred object matted red with blood. I lay on my side looking at it, wanting to bolt out of the bed and flee from the room but unable to do it. My muscles were in a dead swoon. Who had I really been having sex with in this bed? And what had I done to her? In God’s name, what? “I don’t believe these lies,” I heard myself say, and as though it were an incantation, I was slapped back together.