pzb.lostsouls-第14节

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is　lips　and　sucked　at　that　too。　The　two　tastes　mingling　in　his　mouth；　creamy　and　delicate　and　bitter　and　salty；　raw　as　life；　were　almost　too　exquisite　to　bear。
　　When　the　boy's　veins　ran　dry　and　his　hair　and　hands　trailed　limply　on　the　wet　ground；　Christian　picked　him　up　and　held　him　like　a　baby；　gazing　into　the　face　gone　paler　than　before；　the　rapturous　half…closed　eyes。　For　several　minutes　he　held　the　boy；　and　then　he　turned　his　cold　eyes　to　the　cold　moon；　and　something　passed　between　them；　between　Christian　and　the　moon；　something　as　ancient　and　implacable　as　the　tides；　as　the　distances　between　the　stars。
　　And　had　the　moon　been　able　to　look　into　Christian's　eyes；　it　would　have　seen　that　Christian　did　not　love　what　he　had　done；　but　now　he　was　no　longer　hungry。　He　was　no　longer　sick　and　cold。　The　drinking　of　a　life　left　him　a　little　less　alone　than　he　had　been　before；　and　if　the　boy　had　died　thinking　he　would　rise　again　as　one　with　Christian；　that　could　not　be　helped。　It　was　kinder　to　let　the　children　die　believing　as　they　did。　He　could　not　turn　the　boy　into　one　of　his　kind　any　more　than　the　boy　could　have　bitten　him　and　turned　him　human。　They　were　of　separate　races；　races　that　were　close　enough　to　mate　but　still　as　far　away　from　each　other　as　dusk　and　dawn。　But　the　dead　slept；　and　did　not　know。
　　Christian　kissed　the　white　forehead　and　eased　the　empty　little　body　into　the　river。　The　weight　of　the　leather　dragged　it　down；　and　for　a　moment　Christian　saw　it　hanging　beneath　the　surface；　limp　and　cold　as　a　dream。　Then　it　was　gone。
　　
　　　Chapter　6
　　
　　Nothing　cupped　his　hands　around　the　candle　again。　He　felt　the　heat　biting　into　his　palms；　the　bright　point　of　the　flame　embedding　itself　in　his　eyes。　When　he　looked　away；　yellow　light　burst　out　of　the　darkness　and　melted　across　his　vision。　He　knuckled　his　fists　against　his　eyes　and　rubbed　hard。
　　The　candleholder；　an　ornate　thing　of　black　iron　as　fluted　and　curlicued　as　a　balcony　in　some　exotic　city；　tipped　and　spilled。　Only　when　the　hot　wax　touched　his　foot　did　he　realize　that　something　was　wrong。　The　flame　had　begun　to　lick　at　the　quilt。　Small　tongues　of　fire　shot　up；　blackening　the　bright　cloth；　dazzling　Nothing's　eyes。　He　watched　the　flames　for　several　seconds；　caught　in　their　hot　thrall；　as　still　as　a　boy　dragged。　Then；　slowly；　he　put　out　his　hand　to　touch　them。
　　The　pain　yanked　him　out　of　his　trance。　He　grabbed　a　dirty　T…shirt　off　the　floor　and　threw　it　over　the　flames；　beat　at　them；　smothered　them。　Then；　cautiously；　he　lifted　the　shirt　and　examined　the　mess。　There　was　a　large　black…edged　hole　in　the　quilt；　and　the　room　was　filled　with　the　smell　of　charred　cloth。　It　smelled　almost　like　burnt　marshmallows；　but　he　couldn't　say　he　had　been　toasting　marshmallows　in　his　room；　that　would　be　pushing　things　too　far。
　　〃Fuck；〃　he　said　softly；　without　conviction。　He　would　catch　hell　for　burning　the　quilt；　but　he　couldn't　make　himself　care。　His　father's　impotent　anger；　his　mother's　puzzled　eyes　held　no　dread　for　him；　only　a　dull　guilt。　A　sadness　that　he　dismissed　as　stupid。
　　If　his　parents　watched　him　with　bewilderment　and　a　little　fear；　if　they　seemed　happier　when　he　asked　to　be　excused　from　supper　and　shut　himself　in　his　room；　that　was　all　right　with　Nothing。　He　was　strange　to　his　parents；　and　they　were　inprehensible　to　him。　He　rejected　their　world。　There　was　not　a　thing　in　it　that　touched　him；　not　a　thing　he　could　claim　as　his　own。　Sometimes　he　wondered　whether　there　was　a　place　for　him　outside　the　elaborate　juju　of　his　room；　whether　there　was　anyone　in　the　world　who　would　belong　to　him；　whether　he　could　ever　belong　to　anyone。　Who　would　want　him？　Not　his　parents；　for　sure。　He　had　never　belonged　to　them。　They　should　never　have　taken　him　in　from　the　doorstep　that　cold　dawn　fifteen　years　ago。
　　Nothing　pulled　the　quilt　around　him　again；　picked　at　the　edges　of　the　burn。　They　didn't　know　he　knew　about　that。　Long　ago　they　had　told　him　he　was　adopted；　making　it　all　sound　proper　and　respectable；　watching　him　for　signs　of　childish　trauma。　Maybe　the　knowledge　that　he　was　not　of　their　blood　assuaged　their　guilt　when　they　saw　their　son　looking　at　them　and　knew　that　he　had　caught　the　distance　in　their　faces。　Maybe　then　they　were　able　to　justify　their　longing　for　a　normal　son　who　would　keep　his　hair　brushed　out　of　his　eyes；　who　would　be　elected　student　council　president　instead　of　sitting　in　his　strange　bedroom　reading　strange　books；　who　would　bring　home　little　fresh…faced　girlfriends　in　clean　skirts　and　pink　blouses。　Maybe　they　looked　at　him　and　thought；　We　did　not　make　this　creature　out　of　our　seed。　He　is　not　our　mistake。　And　they　were　right。
　　They　would　never　show　him　the　adoption　papers。　They　said　he　had　been　left　at　the　orphanage　as　a　newborn；　that　his　parentage　was　unknown。　But　one　day　in　early　June；　when　he　was　twelve；　he　brought　home　an　end…of…term　progress　report　from　school：
　　
　　Jason　is　a　highly　intelligent　child。　His　achievements　in　areas　where　he　chooses　to　apply　himself；　such　as　art　and　creative　writing；　are　considerable。　However；　he　seems　unable　to　relate　well　to　the　other　children；　his　remoteness　and　his　apparent　determination　to　be　〃different〃　keep　him　from　being　a　successful　member　of　the　classroom　munity。　Due　to　this；　though　all　his　marks　are　above　average；　I　cannot　call　his　passage　through　the　sixth　grade　a　fully　satisfactory　one。
　　
　　Yours；
　　Geraldine　Clemmons
　　
　　Two　or　three　years　later　he　could　have　laughed。　But　all　through　his　sixth…grade　year　he　had　had　no　real　friends；　no　one　who　would　e　to　his　house　and　play　games　of　pretend　in　the　woods；　no　one　who　offered　to　trade　sandwiches　at　lunchtime　or　asked　him　to　one　of　the　boy…girl　parties　that　were　beginning　to　be　all　the　rage。　Through　the　girls'　thin　T…shirts　he　saw　their　sore　budding　breasts。　When　he　undressed　for　gym　with　the　other　boys；　he　tried　to　look　at　their　bodies　without　seeming　to　look。　On　some　of　them　he　noticed　those　same　fearfully　secret　hairs　he　had　begun　to　find　upon　himself。
　　He　could　not　laugh　at　Mrs。　Clemmons's　stupid　progress　report　because　he　had　begun　to　know　how　alone　he　was。　All　through　his　childhood　he　had　amused　himself　without　really　thinking　about　it…reading；　playing　alone　or　with　neighborhood　children；　never　noticing　that　they　were　unfortable　with　the　stories　he　liked　to　make　up；　that　they　seldom　came　back　more　than　two　or　three　times。
　　But　at　twelve　he　became　aware　of　himself；　painfully　so。　He　became　aware　that　he　did　not　know　who　he　was。　He　dreamed　often　of　a　strange　boisterous　family　who　laughed　all　the　time　and　cuddled　him　and　took　him　along　wherever　they　went。　He　discovered　how　to　masturbate；　thinking　at　first　that　it　was　something　he　had　made　up。　Then　he　connected　it　with　things　he　had　read；　and　he　learned　how　to　turn　it　into　a　highly　sensual　experience；　biting　himself　at　first　gently　and　then　harder；　thinking　of　other　children　in　his　class；　imagining　how　it　would　be　to　hold　them；　taste　them；　feel　their　flesh　between　his　teeth。　It　did　not　seem　strange　that　he　thought　about　these　things。
　　But　on　the　day　he　brought　the　progress　report　home；　he　knew　that　he　was　alone　and　that　he　might　be　alone　for　a　very　long　time。
　　His　parents　were　both　at　work；　his　mother　counselling　disturbed　children　at　a　day…care　center；　his　father　doing　something　that　had　vaguely　to　do　with　finance。　The　house　was　sunny　and　still；　and　all　that　afternoon　he　searched　through　their　desk　drawers；　through　their　files　and　boxes；　looking　for　his　adoption　papers。　He　had　to　know　who　his　real　parents　were。　He　had　to　know　where　he　had　e　from　and　whether　someday　he　might　find　his　way　back。
　　His　parents'　papers　were　remarkably　dull。　There　were　no　old　love　letters　scented　and　tied　with　pastel　ribbons；　no　scan…dais；　no　bloodstained　lace　handkerchiefs。　There　were　no　adoption　papers。　The　shadows　in　the　house　lengthened。　He　became　frantic；　knowing　with　the　terrible　conviction　of　a　twelve…year…old　that　these　strangers　named　Rodger　and　Marilyn　would　murder　him　if　they　caught　him　going　through　their　things；　they　would　have　an　excuse　at　last。　But　he　opened　one　final　dresser　drawer　in　their　bedroom；　not　really　expecting　to　find　anything；　and　under　his　mother's　old　granny　glasses　and　McGovern　buttons　was　the　note。　It　was　tucked　into　a　corner　of　the　drawer；　not　hidden　very　well。　By　this　time　he　was　sweaty　and　a　little　breathless。　His　hand　shook　as　he　extracted　the　note；　trying　not　to　disturb　the　rest　of　the　mess。
　　The　paper　was　thick　and　cream…colored；　with　two　small　holes　at　the　top　as　if　it　had　been　pinned　to　something。　Slowly　he　deciphered　the　spidery　handwriting：　His　name　is　Nothing。　Care　for　him　and　he　will　bring　you　luck。
　　All　at　once　the　story　fell　into　place　around　him。　A　baby　in　a　basket；　abandoned　on　two　strangers'　doorstep　some　night。　That　was　what　he　had　been。　Surely　this　note　had　been　pinned　to　his　blanket。　But　the　strangers　had　taken　him　in；　changed　his　name；　tried　to　make　him　into　one　of　their　kind。　If　he　had　brought　them　any　luck　at　all；　that　luck　had　surely　been　bad。　It　was　all　so　clear　now。　It　was　all　so　right。
　　He　slept　with　the　note　under　his　pillow　that　night　and　dreamed　of　a　place　where　the　buildings　were　gay　with　scrolled　ironwork　and　the　ri