Сияние

Tony

           

           "WhereamI?"hecalledsoftlytoTony.

           "Sleeping,"Tonysaid."Sleepinginyourmommyanddaddy’sbedroom."TherewassadnessinTony’svoice.

           "Danny,"Tonysaid."Yourmotherisgoingtobebadlyhurt.Perhapskilled.Mr.Hallorann,too,"

           "No!"

           Hecrieditoutinadistantgrief,aterrorthatseemeddampedbythesedreamy,drearysurroundings.Nonetheless,deathimagescametohim:deadfrogplasteredtotheturnpikelikeagrislystamp;Daddy’sbrokenwatchlyingontopofaboxofjunktobethrownout;gravestoneswithadeadpersonundereveryone;deadjaybythetelephonepole;thecoldjunkMommyscrapedofftheplatesanddownthedarkmawofthegarbagedisposal.

           Yethecouldnotequatethesesimplesymbolswiththeshiftingcomplexrealityofhismother;shesatisfiedhischildishdefinitionofeternity.Shehadbeenwhenhewasnot.Shewouldcontinuetobewhenhewasnotagain.Hecouldacceptthepossibilityofhisowndeath,hehaddealtwiththatsincetheencounterinRoom217.

           Butnothers.

           NotDaddy’s.

           Notever.

           Hebegantostruggle,andthedarknessandthehallwaybegantowaver.Tony’sformbecamechimerical,indistinct.

           "Don’t!"Tonycalled."Don’t,Danny,don’tdothat!"

           "She’snotgoingtobedead!She’snot!"

           "Thenyouhavetohelpher.

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