Gerald's Game - Stephen King [112]
Punkin was wearing a blue flannel nightie with a big yellow exclamation point on the front — hardly Puritan dress, although it was certainly modest enough, covering her from neck to feet. Jessie knew the garment well, and was delighted to see it again. Between the ages of ten and twelve, when she had finally been persuaded to donate it to the rag-basket, she must have worn that silly thing to two dozen slumber parties.
Punkin's hair, which had obscured her face completely while the neck-stock held her head down, was now tied back with a velvet bow of darkest midnight blue. The girl looked lovely and deeply happy, which didn't surprise Jessie at all. The girl had, after all, escaped her bonds; she was free. Jessie felt no jealousy of her on this account, but she did have a strong desire — almost a need — to tell her that she must do more than simply enjoy her freedom; she must treasure it and guard it and use it.
I went to sleep after all. I must have, because this has got to he a dream.
Another cramp, this one not quite as terrible as the one which had set fire to her solar plexus, froze the muscles in her right thigh and set her right foot wagging foolishly in the air. She opened her eyes and saw the bedroom, where the light had once again grown long and slanting. It was not quite what the French call l'heure bleue, but that time was now fast approaching. She heard the banging door, smelled her sweat and urine and sour, exhausted breath. All was exactly as it had been. Time had moved forward, but it had not leaped forward, as it so often seems to have done when one awakens from an unplanned doze. Her arms were a little colder, she thought, but no more or less numb than they had been. She hadn't been asleep and she hadn't been dreaming . . . but she had been doing something.
I can do it again, too, she thought, and closed her eyes. She was back on the improbably huge town common the moment she did. The girl with the big yellow exclamation point sprouting UP between her small breasts was looking at her gravely and sweetly.
There's one thing you haven't tried, Jessie.
That's not true, she told Punkin. I've tried everything, believe me. And you know what? I think that if I hadn't dropped that damned jar of face cream when the dog scared me, I might have been able to squeak out of the left cuff, It was bad luck, that dog coming in when it did. Or had karma. Bad something, anyway.
The girl drifted closer, the grass whispering beneath her bare feet.
Not the left cuff, Jessie. It's the right one you can squeak out of. It's an outside shot, I'll grant you that, hut it's possible. The real question now, I think, is whether you really want to live.
Of course I want to live!
Closer still. Those eyes — a smoke color that tried to be blue and didn't quite make it — now seemed to peer right through her skin and into the heart of her.
Do you? I wonder.
What are you, crazy? Do you think I want to still be here, handcuffed to this bed, when —
Jessie's eyes — still trying to be blue after all these years and still not quite making it — slowly opened again. They gazed around the room with an expression of terrified solemnity. Saw her husband, now lying in an impossibly twisted position, glaring UP at the ceiling.
'I don't want to still be handcuffed to this bed when it gets dark and the boogeyman comes back,' she told the empty room.
Close your eyes, Jessie.
She closed them. Punkin stood there in her old flannel nightie, gazing at her calmly, and Jessie could now see the other girl as well — the fat one with the pimply skin. The fat girl hadn't been as lucky as Punkin; there had been no escape for her, unless death itself was an escape in certain cases — a hypothesis Jessie had become quite willing to accept. The fat girl had either choked to death or suffered some sort of seizure. Her face was the purpleblack color of