See also: Clare, RN.
See also: Pearl, CNA.
See also: Colonial Dunsboro.
See also: The sexaholics.
I don't ask if they've bothered checking for Paige Marshall in the year 2556.
Digging in my pocket, I find a dime. I swallow it, and it goes down.
In my pocket, I find a paper clip. But it goes down, too.
While the detectives look through my mom's red diary, I look around for anything larger. Something too large to swallow.
I've been choking to death for years. By now this should be easy.
After a knock on the door, they bring in a dinner tray. A hamburger on a plate. A napkin. A bottle of ketchup. The backup in my guts, the swelling and pain, make it so I'm starving, but I can't eat.
They ask me, 'What's all this in the diary?'
I open the hamburger. I open the bottle of ketchup. I need to eat to survive, but I'm so full of my own shit.
It's Italian, I tell them.
Still reading, the detectives ask, 'What's this stuff that looks like maps? All these pages of drawings?'
It's funny, but I'd forgot all that. Those are maps. Maps I did when I was a little boy, a stupid, gullible little shit. You see, my mom told me that I could reinvent the whole world. That I had that kind of power. That I didn't have to accept the world the way it stood, all property-lined and micromanaged. I could make it anything I wanted.
That's how crazy she was.
And I believed her.
And I slip the cap from the bottle of ketchup into my mouth. And I swallow.
In the next instant, my legs snap straight so fast my chair flies over behind me. My hands go to gripping around my throat. I'm on my feet and gaping at the painted ceiling, my eyes rolled back. My chin stretches out away from my face.
Already the detectives are half out of their seats.
From not breathing, the veins in my neck swell. My face gets red, gets hot. Sweat springs up on my forehead. Sweat blots through the back of my shirt. With my hands, I hold tight around my neck.
Because I can't save anybody, not as a doctor, not as a son. And because I can't save anybody, I can't save myself.
Because now I'm an orphan. I'm unemployed and unloved. Because my guts hurt, and I'm dying anyway, from the inside out.
Because you have to plan your getaway.
Because after you've crossed some lines, you just keep crossing them.
And there's no escaping from constant escape. Distracting ourselves. Avoiding confrontation. Getting past the moment. Jacking off. Television. Denial.
The detectives look up from the diary, and one says, 'Don't panic. It's like it says in the yellow notebook. He's just faking it.'
They stand and watch me.
Вы читаете Удушье (Choke)
