pzb.lostsouls-第5部分

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sues　within　looked　wasted；　parched。　A　gray　blanket　settled　over　the　planes　and　angles　of　the　little　body。　A　small　brown　hand　protruded；　thin　and　dirty；　scraped　by　roadside　grit。
　　As　Steve　rolled　down　his　window　and　handed　his　driver's　license　to　one　of　the　cops；　Ghost　turned　his　head　and　stared　back　at　the　blanket；　at　the　body　beneath　it。　His　eyes　lost　their　focus；　then；　slowly；　they　closed。　Ghost　saw　through　the　blanket　through　death。　He　saw　how　the　boy　had　looked　alive；　curiosity　and　intelligence　in　his　young　eyes。　The　name　came　to　him　as　clearly　as　a　memory：　Robert。　He　felt　the　fury　that　had　made　Robert　climb　out　his　window；　steal　away　from　home　and　parents　who　used　him　as　a　receptacle　for　their　overprotective　love。　There　was　something　they　had　not　let　him　do…go　to　a　ball　game　or　spend　the　night　at　a　friend's　house。　Ghost　almost　had　the　knowledge；　then　it　slipped　away。　It　didn't　matter。　The　important　thing　was　that　the　boy　need　not　have　died。　Ghost　felt　Robert's　fear　at　being　alone　under　the　tab　trees　and　the　wide　midnight　sky；　the　great　glittering　impassive　sky。　He　felt　the　boy　almost　turn　around；　almost　save　his　own　life；　but　the　wounded　pride　of　adolescence　would　not　allow　him。
　　Ghost　felt　Robert's　terror　mount　as　he　caught　sounds…insidious　whispers；　soft　laughter…sounds　not　of　the　night　and　its　usual　spooks　but　something　darker；　stranger；　more　purposeful　and　far；　far　deadlier。　And　then　the　hands；　grabbing　him　from　behind；　four　strong　and　sharp…fingered　hands；　and　the　hungry　mouths　all　over　him；　sucking　out　his　strength　and　his　life。　At　the　end　there　was　only　pain　that　spiralled　up　and　up　and　stretched　itself　impossibly　thin…exquisite　pain；　pain　that　precluded　all　thought；　all　memory；　all　identity。　To　know　such　pain　was　to　lose　one's　self；　to　bee　the　pain；　to　die　borne　away　on　pain；　its　high　soundless　song　in　the　ears。　That　was　what　had　happened　to　Robert。
　　Ghost　lay　quiet；　and　he　knew　the　insensate　loneliness　of　a　corpse　on　the　roadside；　growing　cold；　the　taste　of　blood　melting　from　the　tongue；　the　eyes　filming　over；　the　impossibility　of　human　contact　ever　again；　of　fort　ever　again。　Ghost　tried　to　swallow；　but　his　throat　would　not　work；　and　he　made　some　small　gasping　sound　and　felt　Steve's　big　hand　covering　his　own；　enfolding　his　fingers；　squeezing　life　back　into　him。
　　〃Let　it　go；　Ghost；〃　Steve　said。　〃You　can't　take　on　all　the　pain　in　the　world。　Let　it　go；　man。〃
　　Ghost　shuddered；　then　began　to　slip　back。　Warmth。　Blood　where　it　ought　to　be；　in　his　veins；　flowing　safely　and　sanely。　The　ambulance；　the　police　cars；　the　lonely　dry　dead　thing　under　the　blanket　were　far　away　now；　left　behind。
　　〃What　happened　to　those　twins？〃　Steve　asked　as　they　drove　on。　〃In　your　dream。〃
　　Ghost　thought；　remembered。　Suddenly　he　didn't　want　to　think　about　those　twins。
　　But　Steve　wanted　to　hear　the　rest　of　the　story。　Ghost　hoped　it　was　only　a　story；　only　a　dream。　He　never　knew；　not　at　first。　'They　grew　weak；〃　he　said。　〃Eventually　they　had　to　spend　alternate　days　alive。　One　would　watch　over　the　other；　keeping　vigil　over　the　still　chest；　the　blotted…out　eyes；　the　drying　mouth。　At　the　first　tinge　of　dawn　the　dead　twin　would　begin　to　move；　and　the　living　twin　would　lie　down　and　stretch　himself　taut　on　the　mattress；　his　skin　already　crackling　on　his　bones；　his　hair　straggling　like　grass　across　his　bare　hollow　shoulders。　One　day　。　。　。　one　day　。　。　。　One　day　their　eyes　were　open；　but　neither　of　them　moved。〃
　　Ghost　finished　in　a　rush　of　breath；　whiskey　and　fear　breath；　upset　all　over　again。　Steve　kept　hold　of　Ghost's　hand。　Ghost's　fingers　twitched。
　　〃Jesus；　Ghost；〃　Steve　said。　〃Jeeesus；　Ghost。〃
　　
　　　Chapter　2
　　
　　The　last　dying　days　of　summer；　fall　ing　on　fast。　A　cold　night；　the　first　of　the　season；　a　change　from　the　usual　bland　Maryland　climate。　Cold；　thought　the　boy；　his　mind　felt　numb。　The　trees　he　could　see　through　his　bedroom　window　were　tall　charcoal　sucks；　shivering；　afraid　of　the　wind　or　only　trying　to　stand　against　it。　Every　tree　was　alone　out　there。　The　animals　were　alone；　each　in　its　hole；　in　its　thin　fur；　and　anything　that　got　hit　on　the　road　tonight　would　die　alone。　Before　morning；　he　thought；　its　blood　would　freeze　in　the　cracks　of　the　asphalt。
　　On　his　razor…scarred；　wax…scabbed　desk　before　him　lay　a　picture　postcard。　The　design　on　its　front　was　multicolored　and　abstract。　There　were　splotches　of　deep　lipstick　pink；　streaks　of　sea　green　and　storm　gray；　flecks　of　gold　embossed　in　thin　bright　leaves。　He　picked　up　his　fountain　pen　with　the　graceful　heart…shaped　nib；　dipped　its　delicate　tip　into　his　bottle　of　ink　（pen　and　ink　having　been　stolen　from　the　art　room　at　school）；　and　wrote　a　few　spidery　lines　on　the　roes…sage　side　of　the　postcard。
　　Then　the　boy　stretched　his　legs　under　the　desk　and　with　the　bare　toes　of　both　feet　grasped　the　bottle　he　had　hidden　there。　The　liquor　inside　was　a　darker　amber　than　he　was　used　to；　and　when　he　took　a　swig；　there　was　a　sharp　taste　of　smoke　behind　the　familiar　musky　burn　that　hurt　his　throat。　He　swallowed　the　whiskey；　licked　his　lips　to　wet　them　with　liquor…essence　and　his　clear　spit。　Then　he　picked　up　the　postcard；　brought　it　to　his　mouth；　gave　it　a　whiskey　tongue…kiss；　kissed　it　as　hungrily　as　he　had　ever　dreamed　of　kissing　the　sweetest；　richest　mouth。　And　he　picked　up　the　pen　again　and　signed　his　name：　Nothing。
　　His　capital　N　and　the　loop　of　his　g　swooped　like　kites'　tails。　His　't'　was　a　dagger　thrusting　down。　He　took　another　swig　of　his　parents'　Johnnie　Walker　and　realized　he　could　already　feel　the　familiar　half…queasy　anticipation　of　drunkenness　in　his　stomach；　the　floating　dizziness　in　his　head。　He　was　getting　drunk　on　two　shots　of　whiskey。　Evidently　the　shit　from　his　parents'　liquor　cabinet　was　stronger　than　the　shit　his　friends　poured　into　empty　Pepsi　bottles　and　passed　around　in　cars　going　too　fast　on　the　highway　outside　town。
　　He　looked　at　the　postcard；　frowned　at　the　signature；　Nothing　drying　dull　and　black；　wishing　he'd　signed　it　in　blood。　Maybe　it　wasn't　too　late。　With　the　pen's　tip　he　jabbed　at　his　wrist　until　a　bead　of　blood　appeared；　bright　red　against　his　pale　thin　skin；　with　a　prick　of　light　from　the　lamp　shining　in　it。　He　signed　his　name　again；　Nothing　in　blood；　tracing　over　the　black　letters　with　scarlet。　The　ink　ran　into　the　blood；　and　the　whole　thing　dried　rusty　brown…black；　the　color　of　an　old　scab。　The　results　did　not　altogether　disappoint　him。
　　His　blood　made　a　trickling　path　down　the　inside　of　his　forearm；　staining　the　fine　invisible　hairs；　covering　some　of　his　old　scars；　leaving　some　of　their　razor…tracery　exposed。　He　licked　the　blood　away。　It　smudged　his　lips　sticky；　and　he　smiled　at　himself　in　the　window's　reflection。　The　night…Nothing　in　the　glass　smiled　back。　The　boy　in　the　window　had　the　same　long　sheaf　of　dyed　black　hair；　the　same　pointed　chin；　the　same　almond…shaped　dark　eyes…but　his　smile　was　colder；　far　colder。
　　Nothing　turned　off　the　light　and　watched　the　reflection　of　his　bedroom　click　out　of　existence；　watched　the　cold　night　fill　the　panes。　He　lay　on　his　bed　and　watched　the　stars　and　planets　glowing　on　his　ceiling　behind　the　layers　of　black　fishnet　he　had　hung　up。　He'd　painted　them　there；　the　rings　of　Saturn　lopsided；　the　constellations　crazed。
　　He　felt　his　room　gather　itself　in　the　dark　and　stand　darkly　around　him；　not　frightening　but　surely　full　of　power。　He　was　never　certain　what　was　here。　Cigarettes；　he　thought。　Flowers　from　the　graveyard；　and　that　bone；　that　damned　bone；　his　friend　Sioux　wouldn't　say　where　it　came　from。　Books；　most　of　them　stolen　from　thrift…shop　shelves　where　he　left　only　his　finger　marks　in　the　dust。　Horror　stories；　thin　books　of　poems。　Dylan　Thomas；　of　course；　and　others。　A　copy　of　Look　Homeward；　Angel…on　the　cover　the　stone；　the　leaf；　the　unfound　door；　and　the　angel　with　its　expression　of　soft　stone　idiocy。　A　lily　drooped　from　the　angel's　hand；　dead　in　stone。　Dust。　His　old　stuffed　animals。　A　clay　skeleton　his　friend　Laine　had　brought　him　from　the　Day　of　the　Dead　festival　in　Mexico；　its　eyes　red　sequins；　its　ribs　dusted　With　glitter。　All　the　objects　here；　all　the　pencil　drawings　on　the　walls　and　pictures　cut　out　of　obscure　music　magazines　and　secret　lists　in　notebooks；　wove　a