"Mark Morris - The Other One" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Mark)

each side obscurely terrifying. Worse, though, was the certainty that they
were watching him at every moment, waiting for the slightest error, the
chance to be provoked. They were ghouls feeding on his uncertainties,
doubtless crowing with savage glee whenever he let slip the anguish he was
surely entitled to feel. That, indeed, was why it was imperative that he
mask his true feelings - to starve their sadism, frustrate their joy at
his awful predicament. They might be the ones who set the traps but he was
not the animal here. Wasn't he the only one who had retained his dignity,
after all? Wasn't he the only one who had a reason for his actions?
He washed himself slowly and methodically, paying particular attention to
his feet and his genitals. The towels they provided were not much use
(although rough, they merely moved the water around on his skin rather
than soaking it up) but he never complained. They were probably gawping at
his nakedness now, making jokes about his weenie, but he didn't care; let
them. He would simply rise above it. He wondered where the cameras were.
In the mirror? The taps? The light bulbs? Behind the tiles?
Already the anticipation of his boredom was starting to depress him but he
would never let that show in his face. There were things to do yet - get
dressed, see if his food had arrived, look out of the window. He tried to
make everything he did last a long time. In that way he could convince
both himself and them that he was calm and in control. He didn't even mind
when they hid his clothes; indeed, rather than disorienting him, it helped
to pass the time. Upon returning to the bedsitting room, he discovered
that they'd hidden his clothes today. He searched for them with no real
sense of urgency, and eventually found them in the fridge.
He'd been naked for a long time and was starting to feel the cold, but
putting on his clothes made him feel far colder. For a while, until the
heat of his body began to warm them through, his clothes would feel as if
they'd been made of ice. He was shivering, but only on the inside; he
clamped his teeth together beneath his lips to stop them from chattering.
They must have run out of jokes about his weenie, now they would be
congratulating each other on hiding his clothes in such a fabulous place.
So intent was he on not giving them the satisfaction that he forgot to
close the fridge door.
The thing that formed out of the whiteness and tried to speak to him
almost emerged, but he managed to slam the door just in time. Now he was
shivering on the outside. Damn them! Damn them! Damn them! It might be
only a small victory for them but it was a victory nevertheless. He had to
subjugate the effects of it as quickly as he could.
Every nerve, every sinew, screamed at him not to, but he opened the fridge
door and, what was more, made it look nonchalant. He bent down and peered
into the fridge, fear closing up his throat. He felt the cold whiteness
shining out and caressing his face, felt the hum change and crack and try
to become a voice.
He closed the door again before it could, but this time without revealing
his panic. So that they would not see through his show of bravado, he
opened every single cupboard and peered inside as if searching for
something, though he knew full well that the cupboards were empty. The
pristine whiteness of the kitchen units disturbed him, reminded him of the
other place. He tried not to squint, though the glare made his eyes ache.