ib.thewaspfactory-第36部分

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sed　his　eyes　and　went　to　sleep。
　　
　　I'm　not　Francis　Leslie　Cauldhame。　I'm　Frances　Lesley　Cauldhame。　That's　what　it　boils　down　to。　The　tampons　and　the　hormones　were　for　me。
　　
　　My　father　dressing　Eric　up　as　a　girl　was　just；　as　it　turned　out；　a　rehearsal　for　me。　When　Old　Saul　savaged　me；　my　father　saw　it　as　an　ideal　opportunity　for　a　little　experiment；　and　a　way　of　lessening…perhaps　removing　entirely…the　influence　of　the　female　around　him　as　I　grew　up。　So　he　started　dosing　me　with　male　hormones；　and　has　been　ever　since。　That's　why　he's　always　made　the　meals；　that's　why　what　I've　always　thought　was　the　stump　of　a　penis　is　really　an　enlarged　clitoris。　Hence　the　beard；　no　periods；　and　all　the　rest。
　　
　　But　he　has　kept　tampons　for　the　last　few　years；　just　in　case　my　own　hormones　got　the　better　of　the　ones　he　had　been　pumping　me　with。　He　had　the　bromide　to　stop　the　added　androgen　making　me　feel　randy。　He　made　a　fake　set　of　male　genitals　from　the　same　wax　kit　I　found　under　the　stairs　and　made　my　candles　from。　He　was　going　to　confront　me　with　the　specimen…jar　if　I　ever　started　to　query　whether　I　really　was　castrated。　More　proof；　more　lies。　Even　the　stuff　about　farting　was　a　cheat；　he's　been　friends　with　Duncan　the　barman　for　years　and　buys　him　drinks　in　return　for　an　informative　phone　call　after　I've　been　drinking　in　the　Arms。　Even　now　I　can't　be　sure　he's　told　me　everything；　though　he　did　seem　to　be　gripped　by　the　urge　to　confess　all；　and　tears　were　in　his　eyes　last　night。
　　
　　Thinking　about　it；　I　feel　a　knot　of　anger　building　in　my　stomach　again；　but　I　fight　it。　I　wanted　to　kill　him；　there　and　then　in　the　kitchen　after　he　told　me　and　convinced　me。　Part　of　me　still　wants　to　believe　it's　just　his　latest　lie；　but　really　I　know　it's　the　truth。　I'm　a　woman。　Scarred　thighs；　outer　labia　a　bit　chewed　up；　and　I'll　never　be　attractive；　but　according　to　Dad　a　normal　female；　capable　of　intercourse　and　giving　birth　（I　shiver　at　the　thought　of　either）　。
　　
　　I　look　out　at　the　glittering　sea　while　Eric's　head　rests　on　my　lap　and　I　think　again　of　that　poor　horse。
　　
　　I　don't　know　what　I'm　going　to　do。　I　can't　stay　here；　and　I'm　frightened　of　everywhere　else。　But　I　suppose　I'll　have　to　go。　What　a　bummer。　Maybe　I'd　consider　suicide；　if　some　of　my　relatives　hadn't　produced　such　difficult　acts　to　follow。
　　
　　I　look　down　at　Eric's　head：　quiet；　dirty；　asleep。　His　face　is　calm。　He　feels　no　pain。
　　
　　I　watched　the　small　waves　fall　on　the　beach　for　a　while。　On　the　sea；　on　that　lens　of　water；　twice…bulged　and　wobbling　and　rolling　around　the　earth；　I　am　looking　at　a　rippled　desert；　and　I　have　seen　it　as　flat　as　a　salt　lake。　Elsewhere　the　geography　is　different；　the　sea　undulates；　sways　and　swells；　folds　into　rolling　downs　under　freshening　breezes；　piles　into　foothills　beneath　the　stiffening　trades；　and　finally　rears　white…topped　and　blizzard…streaked　in　circling　mountain　ranges　rammed　by　the　storm…forced　wind。
　　
　　And　where　I　am；　where　we　sit　and　lie　and　sleep　and　look；　on　this　warm　summer's　day；　the　snow　will　fall　in　a　half…year's　time。　The　ice　and　frost；　the　rime　and　hoar；　the　howling　gale　born　in　Siberia；　pushed　over　Scandinavia　and　swept　across　the　North　Sea；　the　world's　grey　waters　and　the　air's　dun　skies　will　lay　their　cold；　determined　hands　on　this　place；　make　it　theirs　for　a　while。
　　
　　I　want　to　laugh　or　cry　or　both；　as　I　sit　here；　thinking　about　my　one　life；　my　three　deaths。　Four　deaths　now；　in　a　way；　now　that　my　father's　truth　has　murdered　what　I　was。
　　
　　But　I　am　still　me；　I　am　the　same　person；　with　the　same　memories　and　the　same　deeds　done；　the　same　（small）　achievements；　the　same　（appalling）　crimes　to　myname。
　　
　　Why？　How　could　I　have　done　those　things？
　　
　　Perhaps　it　was　because　I　thought　I　had　had　all　that　really　mattered　in　the　world；　the　whole　reason…and　means…for　our　continuance　as　a　species；　stolen　from　me　before　I　even　knew　its　value。　Perhaps　I　murdered　for　revenge　in　each　case；　jealously　exacting…through　the　only　potency　at　my　mand…a　toll　from　those　who　passed　within　my　range；　my　peers　who　each　would　otherwise　have　grown　into　the　one　thing　I　could　never　bee：　an　adult。
　　
　　Lacking；　as　one　might　say；　one　will；　I　forged　another；　to　lick　my　own　wound；　I　cut　them　off；　reciprocating　in　my　angry　innocence　the　emasculation　I　could　not　then　fully　appreciate；　but　somehow…through　the　attitudes　of　others　perhaps　sensed　as　an　unfair；　irrecoverable　loss。　Having　no　purpose　in　life　or　procreation；　I　invested　all　my　worth　in　that　grim　opposite；　and　so　found　a　negative　and　negation　of　the　fecundity　only　others　could　lay　claim　to。　I　believe　that　I　decided　if　I　could　never　bee　a　man；　I…the　unmanned　would　out…man　those　around　me；　and　so　I　became　the　killer；　a　small　image　of　the　ruthless　soldier…hero　almost　all　I've　ever　seen　or　read　seems　to　pay　strict　homage　to。　I　would　find　or　make　my　own　weapons；　and　my　victims　would　be　those　most　recently　produced　by　the　one　act　I　was　incapable　of；　my　equals　in　that；　while　they　possessed　the　potential　for　generation；　they　were　at　that　point　no　more　able　to　perform　the　required　act　than　I　was。　Talk　about　penis　envy。
　　
　　Now　it　all　turns　out　to　have　been　for　nothing。　There　was　no　revenge　that　needed　taking；　only　a　lie；　a　trick　that　should　have　been　exposed；　a　disguise　which　even　from　the　inside　I　should　have　seen　through；　but　in　the　end　did　not　want　to。　I　was　proud；　eunuch　but　unique；　a　fierce　and　noble　presence　in　my　lands；　a　crippled　warrior；　fallen　prince。。。。
　　
　　Now　I　find　I　was　the　fool　all　along。
　　
　　Believing　in　my　great　hurt；　my　literal　cutting　off　from　society's　mainland；　it　seems　to　me　that　I　took　life　in　a　sense　too　seriously；　and　the　lives　of　others；　for　the　same　reason；　too　lightly。　The　murders　were　my　own　conception；　my　sex。　The　Factory　was　my　attempt　to　construct　life；　to　replace　the　involvement　which　otherwise　I　did　not　want。
　　
　　Well；　it　is　always　easier　to　succeed　at　death。
　　
　　Inside　this　greater　machine；　things　are　not　quite　so　cut　and　dried　（or　cut　and　pickled）　as　they　have　appeared　in　my　experience。　Each　of　us；　in　our　own　personal　Factory；　may　believe　we　have　stumbled　down　one　corridor；　and　that　our　fate　is　sealed　and　certain　（dream　or　nightmare；　humdrum　or　bizarre；　good　or　bad）；　but　a　word；　a　glance；　a　slip…anything　can　change　that；　alter　it　entirely；　and　our　marble　hall　bees　a　gutter；　or　our　rat…maze　a　golden　path。　Our　destination　is　the　same　in　the　end；　but　our　journey…part　chosen；　part　determined…　is　different　for　us　all；　and　changes　even　as　we　live　and　grow。　I　thought　one　door　had　snicked　shut　behind　me　years　ago；　in　fact　I　was　still　crawling　about　the　face。　Now　the　door　closes；　and　my　journey　begins。
　　
　　I　look　down　at　Eric　again；　and　smile；　nod　to　myself　in　the　breeze　while　the　waves　break　and　the　wind　moves　spray　and　grass　and　a　few　birds　call。　I　suppose　I'll　have　to　tell　him　what's　happened　to　me。
　　
　　Poor　Eric　came　home　to　see　his　brother；　only　to　find　（Zap！　Pow！　Dams　burst！　Bombs　go　off！　Wasps　fry：　ttssss！）　he's　got　a　sister。
　　
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