dk.intensity-第16部分

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e　to　understand　wasn't　worth　the　pain　of　experience。　Her　sobbing　would　bring　the　motor　home　to　a　sudden　halt；　and　the　driver　would　e　back　to　find　her　huddled　at　the　step　well。　He　would　club　her；　drag　her　into　the　bedroom；　rape　her　beside　the　body　of　her　friend；　there　would　be　terror　beyond　anything　that　she　had　ever　known　before；　but　it　would　be　brief。　And　this　time　it　would　be　final。　He　would　free　her　forever　from　the　need　to　ask　why；　from　the　torment　of　repeatedly　falling　through　the　fragile　floor　of　hope　into　this　too　familiar　desolation。
　For　a　long　time；　maybe　even　since　the　stormy　night　of　her　eighth　birthday　and　the　frenzied　palmetto　beetle；　she'd　known　that　being　a　victim　was　often　a　choice　people　made。　As　a　child；　she　hadn't　been　able　to　put　this　insight　into　words；　and　she　hadn't　known　why　so　many　people　chose　suffering；　when　older；　she　had　recognized　their　self…hatred；　masochism；　weakness。
　Not　all　or　even　most　suffering　is　at　the　hands　of　fate；　it　befalls　us　at　our　invitation。
　She'd　always　chosen　not　to　be　victimized；　to　resist　and　fight　back；　to　hold　on　to　hope　and　dignity　and　faith　in　the　future。　But　victimhood　was　seductive；　a　release　from　responsibility　and　caring：　Fear　would　be　transmuted　into　weary　resignation；　failure　would　no　longer　generate　guilt　but；　instead；　would　spawn　a　forting　self…pity。
　Now　she　trembled　on　an　emotional　high　wire'　not　sure　whether　she　would　be　able　to　keep　her　balance　or　would　allow　herself　to　fail　and　fall。
　The　motor　home　slowed　again。　They　were　angling　to　the　right。　slowing。　Maybe　pulling　off　the　highway　and　stopping。
　She　tried　the　door。　She　knew　that　it　was　locked；　but　she　quietly　worked　the　lever…action　handle　anyway；　because　she　wasn't　capable；　after　all；　of　simply　giving　up。
　As　they　climbed　a　slight　incline；　their　speed　continued　to　drop。　Wincing　at　the　pain　in　her　calves　and　thighs　as　she　moved；　yet　relieved　to　be　off　her　butt；　she　rose　just　far　enough　to　look　across　the　dining　nook。
　The　back　of　the　killer's　head　was　the　most　hateful　thing　that　Chyna　had　ever　seen；　and　it　aroused　fresh　anger　in　her。　The　brain　beneath　that　curve　of　bone　hummed　with　vicious　fantasies。　It　was　infuriating　that　he　should　be　alive　and　Laura　dead。　That　he　should　be　sitting　here　so　smug；　so　content　with　all　his　memories　of　blood；　recalling　the　pleas　for　mercy　that　must　be　like　music　to　him。　That　he　should　ever　see　a　sunset　again　and　take　pleasure　from　it；　or　taste　a　peach；　or　smell　a　flower。　To　Chyna；　the　back　of　this　man's　skull　seemed　like　the　smooth　chitinous　helmet　of　an　insect；　and　she　believed　that　if　she　ever　touched　him；　he　would　be　as　cold　as　a　squirming　beetle　under　her　hand。
　Beyond　the　driver；　beyond　the　windshield；　at　the　top　of　the　low　rise　toward　which　they　were　headed；　a　structure　appeared；　indistinct　and　unidentifiable。　A　few　tall　sodium…vapor　arc　lamps　cast　a　sour；　sulfurous　light。
　She　squatted　below　the　back　of　the　dining　nook　again。　She　picked　up　the　knife。　They　had　reached　the　top　of　the　rise。　They　were　on　level　ground　once　more。　Steadily　slowing。
　Turning　around；　facing　away　from　the　exit；　she　eased　into　the　step　well。　Left　foot　on　the　lower　step；　right　foot　on　the　higher。　Back　pressed　to　the　locked　door；　crouching　in　shadows　beyond　the　reach　of　the　nook　lamp；　she　was　ready　to　launch　herself　up　and　at　him　if　he　came　back　through　the　motor　home　and　gave　her　a　chance。
　With　a　final　sigh　of　air　brakes；　the　vehicle　stopped。　Wherever　they　were；　people　might　be　nearby。　People　who　could　help　her。
　But　if　she　screamed；　would　those　outside　be　near　enough　to　hear？
　Even　it　they　heard；　they　would　never　reach　her　in　time。　The　killer　would　get　to　her　first；　gun　in　hand。
　Besides；　maybe　this　was　a　roadside　rest　area：　nothing　more　than　a　parking　lot；　some　picnic　tables；　a　poster　warning　about　the　dangers　of　campfires；　and　rest　rooms。　He　might　have　taken　a　break　to　use　the　public　facilities　or　the　john　in　the　trailer。　At　this　dead　hour；　after　three　o'clock　in　the　morning；　they　were　likely　to　be　the　only　vehicle　on　site；　in　which　case　she　could　scream　until　she　was　hoarse；　and　no　one　would　e　to　her　assistance。
　The　engine　cut　off。　Quiet。　No　vibrations　in　the　floor。　Now　that　the　motor　home　was　still；　Chyna　was　shaking。　No　longer　depressed。　Stomach　muscles　fluttering。　Scared　again。　Because　she　wanted　to　live。
　She　would　have　preferred　that　he　go　outside　and　give　her　a　chance　to　escape；　but　she　expected　him　to　use　the　trailer　facilities　instead　of　the　public　rest　room。　He　would　e　right　past　her。　If　she　couldn't　escape；　then　she　was　hot　to　finish　this。
　Crazily；　she　wondered　if　what　came　out　of　him　when　he　was　cut　would　be　blood…or　the　stuff　that　oozed　from　a　fat　beetle　when　it　was　crushed。
　She　expected　to　hear　the　bastard　moving；　heavy　footfalls　and　the　hollow　spong　when　he　stepped　on　a　weak　seam　in　the　floor；　but　there　was　silence。　Maybe　he　was　taking　a　moment　to　stretch　his　arms；　roll　his　achy　shoulders；　massage　the　back　of　his　bull　neck；　and　shrug　off　the　weariness　of　travel。
　Or　perhaps　he　bad　glimpsed　her　in　the　rearview　mirror；　her　face　moon…bright　in　the　light　from　the　dining…table　lamp。　He　could　ease　out　of　his　seat　and　creep　toward　her；　avoiding　all　the　creaks　in　the　floor　because　he　knew　where　they　were。　Slide　into　the　dining　nook。　Lean　over　the　back　of　the　booth。　Shoot　her　point…blank　where　she　crouched　in　the　step　well。　Shoot　her　in　the　face。
　Chyna　looked　up　and　to　her　left；　across　the　back　of　the　booth。　Too　low　to　see　the　lamp　hanging　over　the　center　of　the　table；　she　saw　only　the　glow　of　it。　She　wondered　if　the　angle　of　his　approach　would　give　her　a　warning　or　if　he　would　just　be　a　sudden　silhouette　popping　up　from　the　booth　as　he　opened　fire　on　her。
　Intensity。
　He　believes　in　living　with　intensity。　Sitting　at　the　steering　wheel；　he　closes　his　eyes　and　massages　the　back　of　his　neck。
　He　isn't　trying　to　get　rid　of　the　pain。　It　came　on　its　own；　and　it　will　leave　him　naturally　in　time。　He　never　takes　Tylenol　and　other　crap　like　that。
　What　he's　trying　to　do　is　enjoy　the　pain　as　fully　as　possible。　With　his　fingertips　he　finds　an　especially　sore　spot　just　to　the　left　of　the　third　cervical　vertebra；　and　he　presses　on　it　until　the　pain　causes　faint　sprays　of　twinkly　white　and　gray　lights　in　the　blackness　behind　his　eyelids；　like　distant　fireworks　in　a　world　without　color。
　Very　nice。　Pain　is　merely　a　part　of　life。　By　embracing　it；　one　can　find　surprising　satisfaction　in　suffering。　More　important；　getting　in　touch　with　his　01％M　pain　makes　it　easier　for　him　to　take　pleasure　in　the　pain　of　others。
　Two　vertebrae　farther　down；　he　locates　an　even　more　sensitive　point　of　inflamed　tendon　or　muscle；　a　wonderful　little　button　buried　in　the　flesh　which；　when　pressed；　causes　pain　to　shoot　all　the　way　across　his　shoulder　and　down　his　trapezius。　At　first　he　works　the　spot　with　a　lover's　tender　touch；　groaning　softly；　then　he　attacks　it　vigorously　until　the　sweet　agony　makes　him　suck　air　between　his　clenched　teeth。
　Intensity。　He　does　not　expect　to　live　forever。　His　time　in　this　body　is　finite　and　precious…and　therefore　must　not　be　wasted。
　He　does　not　believe　in　reincarnation　or　in　any　of　the　standard　promises　of　an　afterlife　that　are　sold　by　the　world's　great　religionsalthough　at　times　he　senses　that　he　is　approaching　a　revelation　of　tremendous　importance。　He　is　willing　to　contemplate　the　possibility　that　the　immortal　soul　exists；　and　that　his　own　spirit　may　one　day　be　exalted。　But　if　he　is　to　undergo　an　apotheosis；　it　will　be　brought　about　by　his　own　bold　actions；　not　by　divine　grace；　if　he；　in　fact；　bees　a　god；　the　transformation　will　occur　because　he　has　already　chosen　to　live　like　a　god…without　fear；　without　remorse；　without　limits；　with　all　his　senses　fiercely　sharpened。
　Anyone　can　smell　a　rose　and　enjoy　the　scent。　But　he　has　long　been　training　himself　to　feel　the　destruction　of　its　beauty　when　he　crushes　the　flower　in　his　fist。　If　he　were　to　have　a　rose；　now；　and　if　he　were　to　chew　the　petals；　he　would　be　able　to　taste　not　merely　the　rose　itself　but　the　redness　of　it；　likewise；　he　could　taste　the　yellowness　of　buttercups；　the　blue　of　hyacinths。　He　could　taste　the　bee　that　had　crawled　across　the　blossom　on　its　eternal　buzzing　task　of　poll