"Scott Nicholson - Metabolism" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nicholson Scott)

glaring jealously at her tiny bones, the skin stretched taut around her
skull, her meatless appearance?
The smell of donuts wafted across her face, followed by the bittersweet
tang of coffee. Her nostrils flared in arousal in spite of herself. She
looked into the window of the deli. Couples were huddled at round oak
tables, the steam of their drinks rising in front of them like smoke from
chemical fires. They were chatting, laughing, eating from loaded plates,
reading magazines, acting as if they had all the time in the world. They
had tasted the lie, and found it palatable.
She tore her eyes away. They traded pleasure for inevitability. Dinner
would one day be served, and they would find themselves on the plate, pale
legs splayed indignantly upward, wire mesh at their heads for garnish.
Well, she had no tears to spare for them. One chose one's own path.
Her path had started about a year ago, shortly before Leanna left. Not
left, was taken, she reminded herself. Elise's understanding had started
with the television set. The TV stood on a Formica cabinet against the
sheetrock wall of her tiny apartment, flashing colorful images at her.
Showing her all the things she was being offered. Brand new sedans. Dental
floss and mouthwash. The other white meat. The quicker-picker-upper. The
uncola.
The television made things attractive. The angle of the lighting,
eye-pleasing color schemes, seductive layouts and product designs.
Straight teeth cutting white lines across handsome tan faces. And behind
those rigid smiles, she had seen the fear. Fear masquerading as
vacuousness. Threatened puppets spouting monologues, the sales pitch of
complacency.
She had found other clues. The police, for instance. Never around when one
needed them. Delivery vans with unmarked sideboards, prowling at all
hours. Limousines, long and dark-glassed. advertisements for conspicuous
consumption. Around-the-clock convenience stores and neon billboards. A
quiet conspiracy in the streets, unobserved among the bustle and noise of
daily life, everyone too busy grabbing merchandise to stop and smell the
slagheap acid of the roses.
But Elise had noticed. Saw how the city grew, stretching obscenely higher,
ever thicker and more oppressive and powerful. And she had made the
connection. The city fed itself. It was getting bloated on the human hors
d'oevres that tracked across its tongue like live chocolate-covered ants.
When one knew where to look, one saw signs of its life. The pillars of
filthy smoke that marked its exhalations, the iridescent ribbons of its
urine that trickled through the gutters, the sweat of the city clinging to
moist masonry. The gray snowy ash of its dandruff, the chipped gravel of
its sloughed dead skin. The crush of the walls, squeezing in like cobbled
teeth, outflanking and surrounding its prey. And all the while spinning
its serenade of sonic booms and fire alarms, automobile horns and fastfood
speakers, ringing cash registers and clattering jackhammers.
Elise had bided her time, staying cautious, not telling a soul. Whom could
she trust? Her neighbors might have an ear pressed to the wall. The city
employed thousands.
So she had hid behind her closed door, the TV turned to face the corner.
Oh, she had still gone to work, leaving every weekday morning for her post