Death Kit by Susan Sontag Read Free Book Online Page A

says the girl.
    Could one really weep oneself blind? Or will oneself blind? Maybe Diddy had been thinking of that. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I am curious about how it happened. Though maybe you don’t like to talk about it. But … is that how … I mean, why you’re—”
    â€œMaybe,” the girl says. She puts her hands to his belt. “Why aren’t you taking your clothes off?”
    No more stalling. The girl is taking off her bra. Diddy feels his body weaken again, his sex cringe. “Do you really want to, Hester? You can’t see me. You don’t know me.” The humiliation of the Done-Done knotted his groin.
    â€œI know you.” The girl puts her arms around his neck. She smells of salt water, the sea. Diddy holds her at the waist, licks her closed eyes and ears. Is she forgiving him? By accepting his touch, does she prove that it can be a caress and not just a murderous blow? One can’t forgive oneself. There must be two: forgiver and forgiven.
    He unknots his tie; takes off his shirt, T-shirt, shoes, and trousers. Then his shorts. Diddy piles their clothes on the sink. She reaches for his sex, he for hers. The gestures are all too easy, weightless. A clandestine festivity with nothing to celebrate. Diddy feels unmanned. With his skinny body, he holds her gently in place against the wall but, for a moment, does little. Then, he can do more. Begins weakly, gathering strength as he goes along. His sex is taut again. The cadence of the train assisted him; and when it swerved and their bodies collided more roughly than he intended, he received the train’s impetus into his own body, accepted its directives gratefully, and shared his augmented energy with her. Bowing his head to kiss her breasts, Diddy imagines he is in the cold tunnel. With the distances different, smaller, more intimate. But the lavatory floor seems very far away, as if seen in exaggerated perspective. Towering above the floor, giants are entangled in the act of life.
    Diddy will have to give over his image, and does so gladly. As he enters the girl’s body, the space shrinks. Intimate space, warm instead of cold, known instead of unknown. He was outside, (now) he is inside. They are both inside.
    Diddy’s blind body is happily housed in the girl’s body, moving without constraint. Surely she knows (now) what really happened. But does the act of life annul his crime? Don’t look, don’t listen—not even to the rattling windowpane. The girl guides Diddy’s body in and out of hers, moves toward and away from him. She comes softly, quietly. It’s hard for her to stand; Diddy has to hold her up. Hooking his bent arms under her armpits, bracing his forearms and palms against the wall, as he drives his last sightless thrust deep into her and surrenders to his body’s need to weep. A stream which flows; not a chain, which is jointed. He rests his head on her shoulder. They lean together in a stupor of self-forgetfulness. Diddy, his eyes tightly closed, stands in the darkness as though at the bottom of a pool of water. Opens his eyes. The sounds of the train instantly acquire a different, harsher tonality. Time to wake up. He sighs.
    Reaching for his T-shirt among the clothes stacked on the sink. Stooping down in front of the girl, and gently wiping her thighs. For the first time Diddy notices a number of yellow and blue bruises on the girl’s hips and thighs; no doubt, from falling or bumping into things. Then wipes himself, and stuffs the damp shirt into the disposal slot under the sink. When he turns around, kisses her. “Are you all right?” Diddy murmurs. She makes a purring sound, smiles. Diddy begins to hand the girl her clothing item by item, helping with her dressing when he can. Then hastily dresses himself. Washes his hands. Asks her if she wants to wash hers. She does; and to comb her hair.
    â€œWhere are my