JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 37 из 425It suddenly occurred to me—with all the simple, powerful reality of ideas like up is over your head and down is under your feet—that I could write now. It was a new year, something had changed, and I could write now if I wanted to. The rock had rolled away.
I went into the study, sat down at the computer, and turned it on. My was beating normally, there was no sweat on my forehead or the of my neck, and my hands were warm. I pulled down the main the one you get when you click on the apple, and there was my Word Six. I clicked on it.
The pen-and-parchment logo came up, when it did I suddenly couldn’t breathe. It was as if iron bands had clamped around my chest. I pushed back from the desk, gagging and clawing at the round neck the sweatshirt I was wearing. The wheels of my office chair caught on little throw rug—one of Jo’s finds in the last year of her life and I tipped over backward. My head banged the floor and I saw a fountain of,arks go whizzing across my field of vision. I suppose I was lucky to black out, but I think my real luck on New Year’s Morning of 1998 that I tipped over the way I did. If I’d only pushed back from the desk that I was still looking at the logo—and at the hideous blank screen followed it—I think I might have choked to death.
“When I staggered to my feet, I was at least able to breathe. My throat the size of a straw, and each inhale made a weird screaming sound, I was breathing. I lurched into the bathroom and threw up in the with such force that vomit splashed the mirror. I grayed out and knees buckled. This time it was my brow I struck, thunking it the lip of the basin, and although the back of my head didn’t there was a very respectable lump there by noon, though), my did, a little. This latter bump also left a purple mark, which I lied about, telling folks who asked that I’d run into the bath-door in the middle of the night, silly me, that’ll teach a fella to get at two A.M. without turning on a lamp.
“When I regained complete consciousness (if there is such a state), I floor. I got up, disinfected the cut on my forehead, and on the lip of the tub with my head lowered to my knees until I felt enough to stand up. I sat there for fifteen minutes, I guess, that space of time I decided that barring some miracle, my career Harold would scream in pain and Debra would moan in disbut what could they do? Send out the Publication Police? me with the Book-of-the-Month-Club Gestapo? Even if they could, what difference would it make? You couldn’t get sap out of a brick or blood out of a stone. Barring some miraculous recovery, my life as a writer was over. And if it is? I asked myself.
I went into the study, sat down at the computer, and turned it on. My was beating normally, there was no sweat on my forehead or the of my neck, and my hands were warm. I pulled down the main the one you get when you click on the apple, and there was my Word Six. I clicked on it.
The pen-and-parchment logo came up, when it did I suddenly couldn’t breathe. It was as if iron bands had clamped around my chest. I pushed back from the desk, gagging and clawing at the round neck the sweatshirt I was wearing. The wheels of my office chair caught on little throw rug—one of Jo’s finds in the last year of her life and I tipped over backward. My head banged the floor and I saw a fountain of,arks go whizzing across my field of vision. I suppose I was lucky to black out, but I think my real luck on New Year’s Morning of 1998 that I tipped over the way I did. If I’d only pushed back from the desk that I was still looking at the logo—and at the hideous blank screen followed it—I think I might have choked to death.
“When I staggered to my feet, I was at least able to breathe. My throat the size of a straw, and each inhale made a weird screaming sound, I was breathing. I lurched into the bathroom and threw up in the with such force that vomit splashed the mirror. I grayed out and knees buckled. This time it was my brow I struck, thunking it the lip of the basin, and although the back of my head didn’t there was a very respectable lump there by noon, though), my did, a little. This latter bump also left a purple mark, which I lied about, telling folks who asked that I’d run into the bath-door in the middle of the night, silly me, that’ll teach a fella to get at two A.M. without turning on a lamp.
“When I regained complete consciousness (if there is such a state), I floor. I got up, disinfected the cut on my forehead, and on the lip of the tub with my head lowered to my knees until I felt enough to stand up. I sat there for fifteen minutes, I guess, that space of time I decided that barring some miracle, my career Harold would scream in pain and Debra would moan in disbut what could they do? Send out the Publication Police? me with the Book-of-the-Month-Club Gestapo? Even if they could, what difference would it make? You couldn’t get sap out of a brick or blood out of a stone. Barring some miraculous recovery, my life as a writer was over. And if it is? I asked myself.