pzb.drawingblood-第47节

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　　〃I　was　hoping　you'd　say　that。〃
　　And　I　guess　I'll　take　my　chances　with　the　long　arm　of　the　law；　Trevor　thought　as　he　rolled　over　and　fitted　himself　into　the　curve　of　Zach's　body。　Harboring　a　fugitive　is　bad　enough…　they　probably　have　a　special　punishment　if　you　fall　in　love　with　one。　He　found　that　the　idea　of　mitting　a　federal　crime　didn't　faze　him　much。　The　thought　of　being　in　love　still　seemed　far　stranger。
　　Zach　had　broken　all　kinds　of　laws；　he　supposed；　but　Trevor　had　never　had　much　regard　for　laws。　Few　of　them　made　sense　to　him；　and　none　of　them　worked　worth　a　shit。　He　had　managed　to　avoid　breaking　them　very　often　simply　because　he　didn't　have　many　bad　habits；　and　most　of　the　ones　he　did　have　happened　to　be　legal。　But　if　any　suit…wearing；　mirrorshaded　zombie　dared　touch　a　hair　on　Zach's　head；　or　set　foot　inside　the　boundaries　of　Birdland　。。。
　　Trevor　didn't　know　what　might　happen　then。　But　he　thought　there　would　be　great　damage　and　pain。　After　all；　this　house　had　tasted　blood　before；　had　tasted　it　again　today。
　　He　thought　it　might　be　getting　a　taste　for　the　stuff。
　　
　　Somewhere　in　the　hazy　zone　between　night　and　morning；　Zach　opened　his　eyes　a　crack　and　squinted　into　the　darkness。　He　had　no　real　sense　of　the　room　around　him；　of　where　he　was　at　all。　He　only　knew　that　he　was　still　mostly　asleep　and　about　half…drunk；　that　his　head　was　throbbing　and　his　bladder　was　painfully　full。
　　He　pushed　himself　off　the　mattress　and　stumbled　into　the　hall。　At　the　end　of　it　a　soft　light　glowed　like　a　beacon。　All　he　had　to　do　was　make　his　way　to　that　light　and　relieve　himself；　then　he　could　fall　back　into　bed　and　sleep　until　the　headache　was　gone。
　　Zach　shuffled　down　the　hall　naked　and　barefooted；　trailing　a　hand　along　the　wall　for　balance；　and　entered　the　bathroom。　One　of　the　forty…watt　bulbs　in　the　ceiling　fixture　buzzed　fitfully；　giving　off　a　dim；　flickering　light。　He　stepped　up　to　the　toilet　bowl　and　urinated　into　the　small　pool　of　dark　muddy…looking　water。　The　sound　of　his　pee　hitting　the　stained　porcelain　seemed　very　loud　in　the　silent　house；　and　he　hoped　he　wouldn't　wake　Trevor。
　　Trevor　。　。　。　asleep　in　the　next　room；　in　Birdland　。　。　。
　　Zach　was　suddenly　wide　awake　and　very　conscious　of　where　he　was。　His　stream　of　urine　dried　up。　As　he　let　go　of　his　dick　he　felt　a　single　warm　drop　slide　down　his　thigh。　The　ghost　of　cheap　red　wine　still　swirled　in　his　brain；　making　him　dizzy；　making　him　aware　of　just　how　easy　it　would　be　to　panic。
　　But　there　was　no　need。　All　he　had　to　do　was　turn；　step　away　from　the　toilet；　and…and　he　knew　he　hadn't　shut　the　door　behind　him　when　he　came　in。
　　Though　he　had　been　mostly　asleep；　he　remembered　groping　past　it；　hearing　the　knob　rattle　against　the　wall。　The　hinges　were　caked　with　rust　and　could　not　have　closed　silently。　But　though　Zach　had　heard　nothing；　the　door　was　now　shut　tight。
　　He　swallowed；　felt　his　throat　click　dryly。
　　Well；　you　live　in　a　haunted　house；　you're　going　to　have　doors　shutting　themselves　once　in　a　while。　But　that　doesn't　mean　anything　in　here　can　hurt　you。　All　you　have　to　do　is　walk　over　and　turn　the　knob　and　you're　out　of　here。
　　（and　don't　look　at　the　tub）
　　That　last　thought　came　unbidden。　Zach　threw　himself　at　the　door；　clawed　at　the　knob。　It　slipped　through　his　fingers　and　he　realized　that　his　hands　were　slick　with　sweat。　He　wiped　them　on　his　bare　chest　and　made　himself　try　again。　The　knob　would　not　turn；　would　not　even　rattle　in　its　moorings。　It　was　as　if　the　workings　of　the　lock　had　fused。
　　Or　as　if　something　were　holding　the　door　shut　from　the　other　side。
　　He　yanked　at　the　door　with　all　his　strength。　Though　he　could　feel　the　old　wood　bowing　inward；　nothing　gave。　He　wondered　what　would　happen　if　he　managed　to　tear　the　knob　clean　out　of　the　door。　If　there　was　something　in　the　hall；　would　it　e　rushing　in　through　the　hole　and　engulf　him？
　　Zach　let　go　of　the　knob　and　stared　around　the　bathroom。　The　ancient　linoleum　had　begun　to　curl　at　the　corners；　exposing　the　rotting　wood　beneath。　The　peeling　paint　was　streaked　from　ceiling　to　floor　with　long　rusty　watermarks。　The　bare　shower　curtain　rod　was　cruelly　bowed；　the　bottom　of　the　tub　glazed　with　a　thin　layer　of　filth；　the　black　hole　of　the　drain　ringed　in　green　mold。　He　thought　of　pounding　on　the　wall；　trying　to　wake　Trevor　to　e　get　him　out　of　here；　but　the　tub　was　set　into　the　wall　that　adjoined　their　room。　He　would　have　to　lean　way　over　it；　or　climb　right　in。
　　He　looked　quickly　away　from　the　tub；　and　his　gaze　fell　on　the　mirror　over　the　sink。　It　reflected　his　own　pale　sweaty　face；　his　own　wide　scared　eyes；　but　Zach　thought　he　saw　something　else　in　there　too。　Some　subtle　movement；　a　rippling　in　the　surface　of　the　glass　itself；　a　strange　sparkling　in　its　depths　as　if　the　glass　were　a　silver　vortex　trying　to　draw　him　in。
　　Frowning；　he　moved　closer。　The　cold　lip　of　the　sink　pushed　against　his　lower　belly。　Zach　leaned　closer　until　his　forehead　was　nearly　touching　the　glass。　It　occurred　to　him　that　the　mirror　could　simply　explode　outward；　burying　razor…shards　of　glass　in　his　face；　his　eyes；　his　brain。
　　Part　of　his　mind　was　cowering；　gibbering；　begging　him　to　get　away。　But　part　of　him…the　larger　part…had　to　know。
　　One　of　the　taps　twisted　on。
　　Hot　liquid　gushed　into　the　sink；　splashed　up　onto　his　belly；　his　chest；　his　hands　and　arms。　Zach　jumped　back；　looked　down　at　himself；　and　felt　his　well…trained　gag　reflex　try　to　trigger　for　the　second　time　that　night。
　　He　was　covered　with　dark　streaks　and　splotches　of　the　blood　that　was　still　globbing　out　of　the　faucet；　pooling　in　the　sink。　But　this　was　no　fresh　vivid　crimson　like　the　blood　from　his　lip　yesterday。　This　blood　was　thick　and　rank；　already　half…clotted。　Its　color　was　the　red…black　of　a　scab；　and　it　stank　of　decaying　meat。
　　As　he　watched；　the　other　tap　turned　slowly　on。　A　second　fluid　began　to　mingle　with　the　rotting　blood；　a　thinner　fluid；　viscous　and　milky…white。　The　odor　of　decay　was　suddenly　laced　with　the　raw　fresh　smell　of　semen。　As　they　came　out　of　the　faucet；　the　two　streams　twisted　together　like　some　sort　of　devil's　candy　cane；　red　and　white　（and　Black　all　over　。　。　。　wouldn't　Trevor　love　to　put　this　in　a　story？）。
　　Zach　felt　hysterical　laughter　bubbling　up　in　his　throat。　Tom　Waits's　drunken　piano　had　nothing　on　this　bathroom。　The　sink　was　bleeding　and　ejaculating：　great。　Maybe　next　the　toilet　would　decide　to　take　a　shit　or　the　bathtub　would　begin　to　drool。
　　He　looked　back　up　at　the　mirror　and　felt　the　laughter　turn　sour；　caustic；　like　harsh　vomit　on　the　back　of　his　tongue。
　　But　for　certain　familiar　landmarks…his　green　eyes；　the　dark　tangle　of　his　hair…Zach　barely　knew　his　own　reflection　in　the　glass。　It　was　as　if　a　sculptor　had　taken　a　plane　to　his　face　and　shaved　layers　of　flesh　from　the　already　prominent　bones。　His　forehead　and　cheekbones　and　chin　were　carved　in　stark　relief；　the　skin　stretched　over　them　like　parchment；　sickly　white　and　dry；　as　if　the　lightest　touch　would　start　it　sifting　from　the　bones。　His　nostrils　and　eye　sockets　seemed　too　large；　too　deep。　The　shadowy　smudges　beneath　his　eyes　had　bee　enormous　dark　hollows　in　which　his　pupils　glittered　feverishly。　The　skin　around　his　mouth　looked　desiccated；　the　lips　cracked　and　peeling。
　　It　was　not　the　face　of　a　nineteen…year…old　boy　in　any　kind　of　health。　It　was　the　face　of　the　skull　hiding　beneath　his　skin；　waiting　to　be　revealed。　Zach　suddenly　understood　that　the　skull　always　grinned　because　it　knew　it　would　emerge　triumphant；　that　it　would　prise　the　sole　identity　of　the　face　long　after　vain　baubles　like　lips　and　skin　and　eyes　were　gone。
　　He　stared　at　his　wasted　image　in　fascination。　There　was　a　certain　consumptive　beauty　to　it；　a　certain　dark　flame　like　that　which　burns　in　the　eyes　of　mad　poets　or　starving　children。
　　He　put　out　his　hand　to　touch　the　mirror；　and　the　lesions　began　to　appear。
　　Just　a　few　tiny　purplish　spots　at　first；　one　on　the　stark　jut　of　his　cheekbone；　one　bisecting　the　dark　curve　of　his　eyebrow；　one　nestled　in　the　small　hollow　at　the　corner　of　his　mouth。　But　they　began　to　spread；　deepening　like　enormous　bruises；　like　a　stop…motion　film　of　blighted　orchids　blooming　beneath　the　surface　of　his　skin。　Now　nearly　half　his　face　was　suffused　with　the　purple　rot；　tinged　necrotic　blue　at　the　edges　and　shot　through　with　a　scarlet　web　of　burst　capillaries；　and　there　was　no　semblance　of　beauty　to　it；　no　dark　flame；　nothing　but　corruption　and　despair　and　the　promise　of　death。
　　Zach　felt　his　stomach　churning；　his　chest　constricting。　He　had　never　obsessed　about　his　looks；　had　never　needed　to。　His　parents　had　usually　avoided　fucking　up　his　face　too　badly　because　it　might　be　noticed。　He　still　had　faint　belt　marks　on　his　back　and　two　lumpy　finger　joints　on　his　left　hand　from　breaks　that　had　healed　badly；　but　no　facial　scars。　He'd　never　even　had　zits　to　speak　of。　He　had　grown　up　with　no　particular　awareness　of　his　own　beauty；　and　once　he　realized　he　had　it　and　learned　what　it　was　good　for；　he　had　taken　it　for　granted。
　　Now　watching　it　rot　away　was　like　feeling　the　ground　disappear　from　under　his　feet；　like　having　a　limb　severed；　like　watching　the　knife　descend　for　the　final　stroke　of　the　lobotomy。
　　（O