pzb.drawingblood-第11节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　without　being　aware　of　it；　he　had　labeled　the　drawing。　And　he　had　labeled　it　wrong。　In　big；　dark　block　letters　he　had　printed　the　name　ROSENA　BLACK。
　　But　his　mother's　name　had　been　Rosena　McGee。　She　had　been　born　Rosena　Parks；　but　she　had　died　a　McGee。　Black　was　the　name　Trevor　had　chosen　for　himself　years　ago；　the　name　he　drew　under。
　　He　didn't　erase　the　mislabel；　it　was　too　heavily　penciled；　would　fuck　up　the　paper。　He　wasn't　much　for　erasing　anyway。　Sometimes　your　mistakes　showed　you　the　really　interesting　connections　between　your　brain；　your　hand；　and　your　heart；　the　ones　you　might　otherwise　never　know　were　there。　They　were　important　even　if　you　had　no　idea　what　they　meant。
　　Like　now；　for　instance。　ing　back　here　might　be　the　biggest　mistake　he'd　ever　made。　But　it　might　also　be　the　most　important　thing　he　had　ever　done。
　　He　couldn't　remember　his　last　sight　of　Missing　Mile。　His　mother's　friends　had　carried　him　out　of　the　house　that　morning；　and　that　was　all　he　had　known　for　a　while。　Only　one　of　them；　a　man　with　large；　gentle　hands；　had　been　brave　enough　to　edge　past　Bobby's　dangling　body　and　pry　Trevor　from　his　niche　between　the　toilet　and　the　sink。　The　next　thing　he　remembered　was　waking　up　in　a　blank　white　room；　smelling　medicine　and　vomit；　then　screaming　at　the　sight　of　a　tube　that　snaked　out　of　a　bag　hanging　by　the　bed　and　ran　straight　into　the　crook　of　his　arm。　The　flesh　where　it　went　in　was　puffy；　red；　sore。
　　Trevor　had　thought　the　thing　was　alive；　burrowing　into　him　as　he　slept。　He　would　never　really　trust　sleep　again。　You　closed　your　eyes　and　went　somewhere　else　for　a　few　hours；　and　while　you　were　gone；　anything　could　happen　…　anything　at　all。　The　whole　world　could　be　ripped　out　from　under　you。
　　The　nurse　said　Trevor　had　not　been　able　to　hear　people　trying　to　talk　to　him；　and　could　not　eat　or　drink。　The　tube　had　pumped　ground…up　food　into　his　arm　to　keep　him　from　starving　to　death；　or　so　he　understood　it。　He　was　embarrassed　to　find　himself　wearing　a　diaper。　Even　Didi　was　too　old　for　diapers。　Then　he　remembered　that　Didi　wasn't　anything　anymore　but　a　memory　of　a　smashed　shape　on　a　stained　mattress。　His　family　had　been　dead　five　days；　had　been　buried　while　Trevor　floated　in　that　hazy　twilight　world。
　　The　doctors　at　the　hospital　in　Raleigh　called　it　catatonia。　Trevor　knew　it　was　Birdland。　Not　just　the　place　where　no　one　else　could　touch　you；　but　the　place　you　went　when　the　real　world　scared　you　away。
　　After　it　became　apparent　that　no　relative　or　friend　of　the　family　was　going　to　claim　him；　and　a　series　of　cognitive　tests　proved　he　was　functional　（if　withdrawn）；　the　court　declared　Trevor　McGee　a　ward　of　the　state。　He　was　placed　in　the　North　Carolina　Boys'　Home　on　the　outskirts　of　Charlotte；　an　orphanage　and　school　whose　operating　budget　had　been　shaved　to　the　bone　the　previous　year。　There　was　no　foster　family　program；　no　special　training　for　the　gifted；　no　therapy　for　the　disturbed。　There　was　only　an　enormous　drafty　pillared　school　building　and　four　outlying　dorms　all　built　of　smooth　gray　stone　that　held　a　chill　even　in　the　heart　of　summer。　There　were　only　three　hundred　boys　aged　five　to　eighteen；　all　kept　crew…cut　and　conservatively　dressed；　each　with　his　own　personal　hell　and　none　of　them　much　inclined　to　help　ease　the　weight　of　anyone　else's。
　　The　place　seemed　to　have　no　color；　no　texture。　Trevor's　thirteen　years　there　were　a　collage　of　blurred　edges；　featureless　gray　expanses；　empty　city　streets　sectioned　into　little　diamonds　by　the　chain…link　fence　that　surrounded　the　Home　and　its　grounds。　His　room　was　a　cold　square　box；　but　safe　because　he　could　draw　there　without　anyone　looking　over　his　shoulder。
　　Most　of　the　other　boys　used　sports　as　their　escape；　built　their　dreams　around　athletic　scholarships　to　State　or　UNC。　Trevor　was　painfully　clumsy；　except　for　his　right　hand；　his　body　felt　wrong　to　him；　like　something　he　wasn't　entitled　to　and　shouldn't　have。　He　dreaded　the　afternoons　he　was　forced　out　to　the　playing　fields　with　his　gym　class；　hot　dusty　tedium　broken　only　by　occasional　panic　when　someone　screamed　at　him　to　run　or　swing　or　catch　a　hurtling　ball　that　looked　like　a　bomb　falling　at　a　thousand　miles　per　hour　out　of　a　dizzying　clear　blue　sky。
　　His　life　at　the　Boys'　Home　had　been　neither　good　nor　terrible。　He　never　tried　to　make　friends；　and　mostly　he　was　ignored。　On　the　rare　occasions　that　a　group　of　predators　chose　him　as　their　next　target；　Trevor　returned　their　taunts　until　he　goaded　them　into　attacking　him。　They　always　attacked　him　eventually。　Then　he　would　hurt　as　many　of　them　as　badly　as　he　could。　He　learned　to　land　a　hard　punch　with　his　left　fist；　to　kick　and　claw　and　bite；　anything　that　did　not　risk　his　drawing　hand。　He　usually　got　the　worst　of　it；　but　that　particular　group　would　leave　him　alone　afterward；　and　Trevor　would　mind　his　own　business　until　the　next　group　came　along。　From　things　he　read；　he　suspected　it　was　a　lot　like　prison。
　　The　state　had　cut　him　loose　at　eighteen　with　an　option　to　attend　vocational　school。　Instead；　Trevor　headed　for　the　Greyhound　station　and　bought　a　ticket　for　as　far　as　the　hundred　dollars　in　his　pocket　would　take　him。
　　He　had　traveled　haphazardly　in　those　years；　zigzagging　between　cities　and　coasts；　picking　up　work　here　and　there；　occasionally　selling　a　sketch　or　a　ic　strip　for　the　price　of　a　bus　ticket；　often　more。　Sometimes　he　met　people　that　under　other　circumstances　he　thought　he　might　have　called　friends。　At　any　rate；　people　in　the　real　world　were　more　interesting　than　any　he　had　met　in　the　Home。　But　as　soon　as　he　left　a　place；　these　acquaintances　were　gone　as　if　erased　from　the　world。
　　He　never　let　anyone　touch　him。　Mostly　he　preferred　to　be　alone。　If　he　was　ever　unable　to　draw；　Trevor　thought　he　would　probably　die。　It　was　a　possibility　he　always　kept　tucked　away　in　a　corner　of　his　mind；　the　fort　of　the　razor　or　the　rope；　the　security　of　poison　on　the　shelf　waiting　to　be　swallowed。　But　he　wouldn't　take　anyone　with　him　when　he　went。
　　He　had　not　cut　his　hair　for　seven　years。　He　had　never　had　a　permanent　address。　He　seldom　visited　a　town　or　a　city　more　than　once。　There　were　only　a　few　places　he　avoided。　Austin。　New　Orleans。　And　North　Carolina；　until　now。
　　His　twenty…fifth　birthday　had　recently　e　and　gone；　celebrated　only　by　the　crossing　of　state　lines；　a　thing　that　always　exhilarated　him　a　little　no　matter　how　often　he　did　it。　Trevor　often　came　close　to　forgetting　his　own　birthday。　All　it　had　meant　in　the　Boys'　Home　was　an　ugly　new　shirt　and　a　cupcake　with　a　single　candle　on　it；　reminders　of　everything　he　didn't　have。
　　And　besides；　his　birthday　was　overshadowed　by　the　more　important　anniversary　just　after　it。　The　anniversary　that　fell　tomorrow。
　　Twenty　years　since　it　happened；　and　every　year　strung　heavy　as　a　millstone　round　his　heart。　Four…fifths　of　his　life　spent　wondering　why　he　wasn't　dead。　It　was　too　long。
　　Recently　he　had　started　having　a　dream　of　the　house　on　Violin　Road。　All　through　his　childhood　Trevor　had　dreamed　of　that　last　morning；　that　bloody　morning　that　seemed　to　drip　through　his　memory　like　molasses；　dark　and　slow。　That　was　a　familiar　nightmare；　infrequent　now。　But　this　new　dream　was　different；　and　had　been　ing　several　times　a　week。
　　He　would　find　himself　sitting　in　the　little　back　bedroom　Bobby　had　used　as　a　studio；　staring　at　a　blank　sheet　of　paper　on　the　drawing　board。　Trevor　usually　drew　ics　in　his　sketchbook；　but　Bobby　had　used　looseleaf　paper　for　Birdland。　Only　there　was　no　Birdland　on　this　sheet　of　paper。　There　was　nothing　on　it；　and　he　could　think　of　nothing　to　put　on　it。　It　stared　him　in　the　eye　and　laughed　at　him；　and　Trevor　could　almost　hear　its　dry　sardonic　whisper：　The　abyss　stares　back　into　you？　Ha！　Nothing　to　see　but　a　liver　pickled　in　whiskey　and　the　ashes　of　a　million　burnt…out　dreams。
　　Awake；　Trevor　couldn't　imagine　not　being　able　to　draw。　He　could　always　make　his　hand　move。　An　empty　page　had　always　been　a　challenge；　a　space　for　him　to　fill。　Awake；　it　still　was。　But　in　this　dream；　the　blank　sheet　of　paper　was　a　mockery。
　　And　he　didn't　drink　whiskey；　or　any　other　kind　of　alcohol。　He　had　never　taken　a　drink　in　his　life。
　　Trevor　found　that　this　dream　bothered　him　more　than　the　ones　in　which　he　saw　his　family　dead。　Drawing　had　been　the　only　thing　he　cared　about　for　such　a　long　time。　Now　he　was　beginning　to　understand　how　the　loss　of　it　could　drive　someone　insane。
　　He　started　to　worry：　what　if　the　hollow；　paralyzed　feeling　of　the　dream　infiltrated　his　waking　life？　What　if　someday　he　opened　his　sketchbook　and　his　hand　went　stiff；　his　mind　numb？
　　The　night　he　woke　up　with　a　broken　pencil　in　his　hands；　the　edges　of　the　wood　as　raw　as　a　fractured　bone；　the　sound　of　the　snap　still　echoing　like　a　leftover　shred　of　nightmare　through　his　lonely　boardinghouse　room；　Trevor　knew　he　had　to　go　back　to　the　house。　He　was　sick　of　wearing　his　past　like　a　millstone。　He　would　not　let　his　art　bee　one　too。
　　The　bus　passed　a　wreck　just　outside　Missing　Mile；　a　small　car　crumpled　in　a　ditch；　sparkling　shards　of　glass　picking　up　the　whirling　red　and　blue　lights；　making　the　scene　seem　to　revolve　psychedelically。　Trevor　cupped　his　hands　to　the　window；　pressed　his　forehead　to　t