pzb.drawingblood-第53章
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in the silent house； and he hoped he wouldn't wake Trevor。
Trevor 。 。 。 asleep in the next room； in Birdland 。 。 。
Zach was suddenly wide awake and very conscious of where he was。 His stream of urine dried up。 As he let go of his dick he felt a single warm drop slide down his thigh。 The ghost of cheap red wine still swirled in his brain； making him dizzy； making him aware of just how easy it would be to panic。
But there was no need。 All he had to do was turn； step away from the toilet； and…and he knew he hadn't shut the door behind him when he came in。
Though he had been mostly asleep； he remembered groping past it； hearing the knob rattle against the wall。 The hinges were caked with rust and could not have closed silently。 But though Zach had heard nothing； the door was now shut tight。
He swallowed； felt his throat click dryly。
Well； you live in a haunted house； you're going to have doors shutting themselves once in a while。 But that doesn't mean anything in here can hurt you。 All you have to do is walk over and turn the knob and you're out of here。
（and don't look at the tub）
That last thought came unbidden。 Zach threw himself at the door； clawed at the knob。 It slipped through his fingers and he realized that his hands were slick with sweat。 He wiped them on his bare chest and made himself try again。 The knob would not turn； would not even rattle in its moorings。 It was as if the workings of the lock had fused。
Or as if something were holding the door shut from the other side。
He yanked at the door with all his strength。 Though he could feel the old wood bowing inward； nothing gave。 He wondered what would happen if he managed to tear the knob clean out of the door。 If there was something in the hall； would it e rushing in through the hole and engulf him？
Zach let go of the knob and stared around the bathroom。 The ancient linoleum had begun to curl at the corners； exposing the rotting wood beneath。 The peeling paint was streaked from ceiling to floor with long rusty watermarks。 The bare shower curtain rod was cruelly bowed； the bottom of the tub glazed with a thin layer of filth； the black hole of the drain ringed in green mold。 He thought of pounding on the wall； trying to wake Trevor to e get him out of here； but the tub was set into the wall that adjoined their room。 He would have to lean way over it； or climb right in。
He looked quickly away from the tub； and his gaze fell on the mirror over the sink。 It reflected his own pale sweaty face； his own wide scared eyes； but Zach thought he saw something else in there too。 Some subtle movement； a rippling in the surface of the glass itself； a strange sparkling in its depths as if the glass were a silver vortex trying to draw him in。
Frowning； he moved closer。 The cold lip of the sink pushed against his lower belly。 Zach leaned closer until his forehead was nearly touching the glass。 It occurred to him that the mirror could simply explode outward； burying razor…shards of glass in his face； his eyes； his brain。
Part of his mind was cowering； gibbering； begging him to get away。 But part of him…the larger part…had to know。
One of the taps twisted on。
Hot liquid gushed into the sink； splashed up onto his belly； his chest； his hands and arms。 Zach jumped back； looked down at himself； and felt his well…trained gag reflex try to trigger for the second time that night。
He was covered with dark streaks and splotches of the blood that was still globbing out of the faucet； pooling in the sink。 But this was no fresh vivid crimson like the blood from his lip yesterday。 This blood was thick and rank； already half…clotted。 Its color was the red…black of a scab； and it stank of decaying meat。
As he watched； the other tap turned slowly on。 A second fluid began to mingle with the rotting blood； a thinner fluid； viscous and milky…white。 The odor of decay was suddenly laced with the raw fresh smell of semen。 As they came out of the faucet； the two streams twisted together like some sort of devil's candy cane； red and white （and Black all over 。 。 。 wouldn't Trevor love to put this in a story？）。
Zach felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat。 Tom Waits's drunken piano had nothing on this bathroom。 The sink was bleeding and ejaculating： great。 Maybe next the toilet would decide to take a shit or the bathtub would begin to drool。
He looked back up at the mirror and felt the laughter turn sour； caustic； like harsh vomit on the back of his tongue。
But for certain familiar landmarks…his green eyes； the dark tangle of his hair…Zach barely knew his own reflection in the glass。 It was as if a sculptor had taken a plane to his face and shaved layers of flesh from the already prominent bones。 His forehead and cheekbones and chin were carved in stark relief； the skin stretched over them like parchment； sickly white and dry； as if the lightest touch would start it sifting from the bones。 His nostrils and eye sockets seemed too large； too deep。 The shadowy smudges beneath his eyes had bee enormous dark hollows in which his pupils glittered feverishly。 The skin around his mouth looked desiccated； the lips cracked and peeling。
It was not the face of a nineteen…year…old boy in any kind of health。 It was the face of the skull hiding beneath his skin； waiting to be revealed。 Zach suddenly understood that the skull always grinned because it knew it would emerge triumphant； that it would prise the sole identity of the face long after vain baubles like lips and skin and eyes were gone。
He stared at his wasted image in fascination。 There was a certain consumptive beauty to it； a certain dark flame like that which burns in the eyes of mad poets or starving children。
He put out his hand to touch the mirror； and the lesions began to appear。
Just a few tiny purplish spots at first； one on the stark jut of his cheekbone； one bisecting the dark curve of his eyebrow； one nestled in the small hollow at the corner of his mouth。 But they began to spread； deepening like enormous bruises； like a stop…motion film of blighted orchids blooming beneath the surface of his skin。 Now nearly half his face was suffused with the purple rot； tinged necrotic blue at the edges and shot through with a scarlet web of burst capillaries； and there was no semblance of beauty to it； no dark flame； nothing but corruption and despair and the promise of death。
Zach felt his stomach churning； his chest constricting。 He had never obsessed about his looks； had never needed to。 His parents had usually avoided fucking up his face too badly because it might be noticed。 He still had faint belt marks on his back and two lumpy finger joints on his left hand from breaks that had healed badly； but no facial scars。 He'd never even had zits to speak of。 He had grown up with no particular awareness of his own beauty； and once he realized he had it and learned what it was good for； he had taken it for granted。
Now watching it rot away was like feeling the ground disappear from under his feet； like having a limb severed； like watching the knife descend for the final stroke of the lobotomy。
（Or like watching a loved one die； and knowing you had a hand in that death 。 。 。 Zach； do you love yourself？）
The faucet was still gushing； the sink clogged nearly to overflowing with the twin fluids。 A small black pinhole had appeared in the center of each lesion on his face。 As he watched； the dots swelled and erupted。 Pain zigzagged across the network of his facial nerves。 Beads of greasy glistening whiteness welled from the tiny wounds。
Zach felt a sudden； blinding flash of rage。 What the hell was the white stuff supposed to be？ Maggots？ Pus？ More e？ What kind of cheap morality play was this； anyway？
〃FUCK IT！〃 he yelled； and seized the edges of the mirror and ripped it off its loose moorings and flung it into the bathtub。 It shattered with a sound that could have woken all of St。 Louis Cemetery。 The faucet slowed to a trickle； then stopped。
Zach took a deep breath and put his hands to his face； rubbed them over his cheeks。 His skin was smooth and firm； his bones no sharper than usual。 He looked down at his body。 No huge
