Stephen King - Gerald’s Game

I f you made that worse- Goody began dolefully.

Oh, give me a break, the Ruth-voice responded. It spoke briskly but not unkindly. If I die of blood-loss now, am I supposed to blame it on four aspirin after I damned near scalped my right hand in order to get off the bed in the first place? That’s surreal!

Yes indeed. Everything seemed surreal now. Except that wasn’t exactly the right word. The right word was…

“ Hyper -real,” she said in a low, musing voice.

Yes, that was it. Definitely it. Jessie turned around so she was facing out the bathroom door again, then gasped in alarm. The part of her head which monitored equilibrium reported that she was still turning. For a moment she imagined dozens of Jessies, an overlapping chain of them, documenting the arc of her turn like frames of movie-film. Her alarm deepened as she observed that the golden bars of light slanting in through the west window had taken on an actual texture-they looked like swatches of bright yellow snakeskin. The dust motes spinning through them had become sprays of diamond grit. She could hear the fast light beat of her heart, could smell the mixed aromas of blood and well-water. It was like sniffing an ancient copper pipe.

I’m getting ready to pass out.

No, Jess, you’re not. You can’t afford to pass out.

That was probably true, but she was pretty sure it was going to happen, anyway. There was nothing she could do about it.

Yes, there is. And you know what.

She looked down at her skinned hand, then raised it. There would be no need to actually do anything except relax the muscles of her right arm. Gravity would take care of the rest. If the pain of her peeled hand striking the edge of the counter weren’t enough to drag her out of this terrible bright place she suddenly found herself in, nothing would be. She held the hand beside her bloodsmeared left breast for a long moment, trying to nerve herself up enough to do it. Finally she lowered it to her side again. She couldn’t-simply could not. It was one thing too much. One pain too much.

Then get moving before you pass out.

I can’t do that, either, she responded. She felt more than tired; she felt as if she had just smoked a whole bong of absolutely primo Cambodian Red by herself. All she wanted to do was stand here and watch the motes of diamond-dust spin their slow circles in the sunbeams coming in through the west window. And maybe get one more drink of that dark-green, mossy-tasting water.

“Oh jeez,” she said in a faraway, frightened voice. “Jeez, Louise.”

You have to get out of the bathroom, Jessie-you have to. Just worry about that, for now. I think you better crawl over the bed this time; I’m not sure you can make it underneath again.

But… but there’s broken glass on the bed. What if I cut myself?

That brought Ruth Neary out again, and she was raving.

You’ve already taken most of the skin off your right hand-do you think a few more lacerations are going to make a difference? Jesus Christ, tootsie, what if you die in this bathroom with a cunt-diaper on your wrist and a big stupid grin on your face? How’s that for a what-if? Get moving, bitch!

Two careful steps took her back to the bathroom doorway. Jessie only stood there for a moment, swaying and blinking her eyes against the sundazzle like someone who has spent the whole afternoon in a movie-theater. The next step took her to the bed. When her thighs were touching the bloodstained mattress, she carefully put her left knee up, grasped one of the footposts to ensure her balance, and then got onto the bed. She was unprepared for the feelings of fear and loathing which washed over her. She could no more imagine ever sleeping in this bed again than she could imagine sleeping in her own coffin. just kneeling on it made her feel like screaming.

You don’t need to have a deep, meaningful relationship with it, Jessie-just get across the fucking thing.

Somehow she managed to do that, avoiding the shelf and the crumbles and jags of broken water-glass by crossing at the foot of the mattress. Each time her eyes caught sight of the handcuffs dangling from the posts at the head of the bed, one sprung open, the other a closed steel circle covered with blood- her blood-a little sound of loathing and distress escaped her. The handcuffs didn’t look like inanimate things to her. They looked alive. And still hungry.

She reached the far side of the bed, gripped the footpost with her good left hand, turned herself around on her knees with all the care of a hospital convalescent, then lay on her belly and lowered her feet to the floor. She had a bad moment when she didn’t think she had strength enough to stand up again; that she would just lie there until she passed out and slid off the bed. Then she pulled in a deep breath and used her left hand to shove. A moment later she was on her feet. The sway was worse now-she looked like a sailor lurching into the Sunday morning segment of a weekend binge-but she was up, by God. Another wave of darkheadedness sailed across her mind like a pirate galleon with huge black sails. Or an eclipse.

Blind, rocking back and forth on her feet, she thought: Please, God, don’t let me pass out. Please God, okay? Please.

At last the light began to come back into the day. When Jessie thought things had gotten as bright as they were going to, she slowly crossed the room to the telephone table, holding her left arm a few inches out from her body to maintain her balance. She picked up the receiver, which seemed to weigh as much as a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary, and brought it to her ear. There was no sound at all; the line was smooth and dead. Somehow this didn’t surprise her, but it raised a question: had Gerald unplugged the phone from the wall, as he sometimes did when they were down here, or had her night-visitor cut the wires outside someplace?

“It wasn’t Gerald,” she croaked. “I would have seen him.”

Then she realized that wasn’t necessarily so-she had headed for the bathroom as soon as they were in the house. He could have done it then. She bent down, grasped the flat white ribbon that went from the back of the phone to the connector-box on the baseboard behind the chair, and pulled. She thought she felt a little give at first, and then nothing. Even that initial give might have been just her imagination; she knew perfectly well that her senses were no longer very trustworthy. The jack might just be bound up on the chair, but-

No, Goody said. It won’t come because it’s still plugged in-Gerald never disconnected it at all, The reason the phone doesn’t work is because that thing that was in here with you last night cut the wire.

Don’t listen to her; underneath that loud voice of hers, she’s scared of her own shadow, Ruth said. The connector-plug’s hung up on one of the chair’s back legs-I practically guarantee it. Besides, it’s easy enough to find out, isn’t it?

Of course it was. All she had to do was pull the chair out and take a look behind it. And if the plug was out, put it back in.

What if you do all that and the phone still doesn’t work? Goody asked. Then you’ll know something else, won’t you?

Ruth: Stop dithering-you need help, and you need it fast.

It was true, but the thought of pulling out the chair filled her with weary gloom. She could probably do it-the chair was big, but it still couldn’t weigh a fifth of what the bed had weighed, and she had managed to move that all the way across the room but the thought was heavy. And pulling the chair out would only be the beginning. Once it was moved, she would have to get down on her knees… crawl into the dim, dusty corner behind it to find the connector-box…