Footsteps and other stories
by LC
8/03Homoeroticism is par for the course in Stephen King books, but The Long Walk is...something else. Wow. This is the less-gay version, right here.
In the space between footsteps--that sweet low space, like the fractal spread of milk through tea, how it threads--he builds new worlds and new homes for himself. No, himself and McVries, if he's being honest, which he isn't always. Because the space is very long, and also somehow narrow as the space between the raindrops, and did not a wise man once say, honest? That's just another word for nothing left to lose.
You're getting it wrong. I'm very certain that you're getting it all wrong. He slaps down the frowning voice in his head, the voice that sounds like a typewriter click clack click clack black on white, he shoves it to the back of the drawer because he can do that. His head. His voices. Honest is the same as naked and he's not there yet. But he will be. He's honest enough to admit that, at least.
So in that warm tea-smelling space between the footsteps he curls himself up like a dog and imagines ways his life could go if he got to have it.
Sometimes there's kissing. A lot of the time. What's it to you? But with his world all narrowed to the width of the highway--his cast of characters is smaller, knocked down one by one by one by one and who is left to him now except McVries? Nobody that's who nobody could blame him for wanting--the rain on his skin feels so cold. He's learning what it means to be wet. All his heat sinking deep within to his core, huddling close to itself, abandoning his far-out corners--
We'll run away and rent an apartment and get shitty factory jobs. Step. Grow to hate each other and smash a bottle open on the bathroom counter, stalk across the room with the neck of the bottle in my fist--
But he's heard this one before. Step. Skip the jobs then, McVries can drive, can't he? Sure he can, he'll drive them north and norther and maybe they can turn on the radio and maybe Garraty can sing along to whatever starts playing, whether he knows it or not.
Sentimental bullshit, says the typewriter. Step step step.
Feels the incline rising out from under him and oh, god, how he wants to cry. His face is soaked with rainwater, it drips into his mouth. There is no space between his paces now no break in the song for a breath. He leans into his stride.
In his head the typewriter is whipping through page after page, writing down in thick black letters all the lives he'll never get to live.
I could fall down. Backwards. Trip over my own heel.
It would be quick and beautiful. Like a roller coaster--he wants to fly, he wants to fly all the way down to the ground the water in his hair, god, if he could just dry his hair--
The hand on his back startles him so much he almost does fall backwards. Jumps a little and looks to the left, all the muscles in his back starting to tremble. His skin's trying to crawl, that's what it is, not out of sickness or disgust but just raw hunger. All the skin on his body trying to shove itself under that hand.
Looks to the left and sees nothing but a smile. The hand slides up under his sodden shirt and it's hot like a kettle against his skin--McVries has no right to be so warm, he's soaked through just like Garraty, just like the rest of them--but he burns like an oven against Ray's skin and Jesus, it's just so good. It's just so nice.
Mouth barely shaping the question before McVries shrugs, keeps smiling, and only says: "Watch your step, beautiful," gives a nod to Garraty's feet.
They crest the hill and the hand is gone, McVries stepping faster, further ahead. Garraty picks up his pace as the incline--on his side now--carries him down.