Cactus Garden
Page 33
Then he heard his mother saying, “My son is not like that. He’s just a little upset, that’s all. How dare you label my son like that.” And he had felt such tenderness toward her. She had taken up for him. She was his companion. The only one he could count on; and yet, yet wasn’t it she who had made him that way? God, it was too terrible. He loved her, and yet when they left the office, and she tried to take his hand, he had violently pulled it away and then felt guilt for that, and inside him the Space began growing again, more violently now, like a jungle vine twisting around all his organs, smothering them, and it whispered a secret message to him, that it was never going to let him go—never—that he would pay for betraying it to that doctor, that he would always pay for the rest of his life. He was nothing, nobody, dead, no, worse than dead, he would be condemned to keep on living, while feeling hollow, scooped out, less than zero.
Now he got up and walked to the bedroom. Something strange was happening—something so new and delicious that he could barely understand it. He sat down on the bed, and with his right hand he touched his left bicep. It felt strong, full of muscle, and then he poked himself in the stomach. It too was all right—flat, muscular. God, he felt exhilarated, almost ecstatic. Those old memories of the Space, the persistent feeling of worthlessness which had never left him, never even after all these years, even after success as a doctor (For what was a doctor but a mama’s boy grown up?)—suddenly the memories were simply that—memories. It was as though they were somebody else’s life story, some poor, pathetic bastard who was lost and alone.
The Space had called to him and challenged him. He had met the challenge head on. He had killed—don’t try and hide it—he had killed. He had taken the leap that every man, woman and child wondered about and secretly desired. (After all, what child hadn’t thought about killing his punishing father, what poor working slob hadn’t fantasized about doing away with a manipulating boss?)
He had killed and he felt good about it. He was alive, a man, and sitting there he felt powerful, aware of his own magnetic presence in the room. For the first time in his life he liked himself. He lay back, stared up at the ceiling, and he couldn’t believe it—peace.
He was warm, very warm, and drowsy. And then, for the first night in years, Peter Cross fell into a deep, perfect sleep.
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Copyright © 1995 by Robert Ward Productions, Inc.
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