Chapter 7 Part Two AD 4000000000

The pain was unbearable, and even morphine didn't help.It was bought by Diane at the pharmacy in Padang, and it was ridiculously expensive.Fever is more terrible. The fever is not continuous, but like waves, coming in waves, one after another, the heat and noise are like bubbles, bursting in my head unexpectedly.Fever makes my physical condition capricious and unpredictable.One night I reached for a non-existent drinking glass and shattered the bedside lamp, waking up a couple in the next room. The next morning, my head briefly cleared again.I don't remember that, but I saw puddles of blood clotted on my knuckles, and I heard Diane stuffing money to get the angry porter off.

Did I really break the lamp?I ask her. I'm afraid it's true. She sat on the wicker chair by the bed.She ordered room service with scrambled eggs and orange juice.I guess it's probably morning.Outside the tulle-like curtains, the sky was blue.The balcony door was open, and a warm and comfortable wind blew in, mixed with the smell of the ocean.terribly sorry.I said. That's because you're out of your mind, so you'd better forget about it.You obviously did forget, though.She touched my forehead with her hand to comfort me.And, I'm afraid it's not over yet. How long?

It's been a week. Only a week? It's only been a week. I'm not even halfway through my ordeal. ☆ However, when the fever is intermittent, the mind is clear and can write. That drug has many side effects, and writer's block is one of them.When Diane was going through the same torment, she wrote the sentence Am I not my brother’s patron saint over and over again, hundreds of times in a row, covering fourteen large pages, with almost the same handwriting.When I myself have a writing mania, at least the content of what I write is still understandable.I stacked my manuscripts on the bedside table so that I could take advantage of the intervals before the fever returned to reread my manuscripts and revise the memories in my mind.

Diane wasn't in the hotel that day.When she came back, I asked her where she had gone. She said: Find someone to connect with.She told me she had contacted a shipping broker.He is a Minangkabau man named Jala.He does the import and export business just to deceive others, and the real money he makes is the commission for arranging the smuggling of immigrants.Everyone on the pier knew Jarrah, she said.For a place on the boat, she bids against a group of anarchist zealots from the Israeli kibbutzim.That said, the deal hasn't been sealed yet.However, conservative estimates, she is still quite optimistic.

I said: Be careful, someone might be searching us. So far, I haven't noticed, but she shrugged and looked at the notebook in my hand.Are you writing again? Writing can make me forget the pain. can you hold a pen It feels a bit like end-stage arthritis, but I'm coping.I thought to myself, at least so far I can handle it.It's worth the torment for a pastime. Of course, it's not actually just a pastime.Writeria is not just a side effect.Writing is a way for me to express my inner fears. You write very well.Diane said. Startled, I stared at her.Have you seen it? Tyler, you told me to watch it, you asked me to watch it.

Am I out of my mind? Apparently, though, you seemed quite sober at the time. When I wrote it, I didn't intend to show it to others.And, much to my shock, I forgot that I showed it to her.How many other things might I have forgotten? That being the case, I won't watch it anymore.However, when you wrote, she raised her head and said, I was surprised that your feelings for me were so strong back then.I am really happy. You shouldn't be surprised. You can never imagine, I was really surprised.But, Tyler, that doesn't seem real, the girl you're writing about feels so cold, even a little grim.

I never thought you were cold. It's not how you feel about me that worries me, it's how I feel about myself. I have sat up in bed.I thought this was a sign of strength and proof that I had suffered a lot.In fact, this only proves that the painkillers are working temporarily.I'm shivering.Shivering is the first sign that another fever is imminent.Do you want to know when I fell in love with you?Maybe I should write this down.That's important.I was ten years old Tyler, Taylor, no one falls in love at ten. That's when St. Augustine died. St. Augustine is a very lively purebred spaniel with black and white coat.It is Diane's sweetheart.She calls him Holy Dog.

There was a pained look on her face.That's terrible. But, I mean it.Edward.Rawdon probably bought the puppy on impulse, because he wanted something to decorate the fireplace in the big house, like the pair of antique firewood stands.But holy dogs are not willing to be decorations.Saint Dogs are not only pleasing to the eye, they are also curious and very playful.After a long time, Edward finally began to spurn the dog.And Carol didn't take the dog seriously.Jason was a little overwhelmed by the puppy, but still loved it.Only twelve-year-old Diane clings to the Holy Dog all day long.They found the best in each other.For six months, they were inseparable wherever Diane went, except on the school bus.At dusk in summer, they would play on the big grass.It was then that I first discovered a special side of Diane.For the first time, I felt how happy it was to just look at her like this.Diane ran after the holy dog ​​until she ran out of strength, and the holy dog ​​always waited patiently for her to catch her breath.Her care for the puppy was something that the rest of the Lawton family never thought of paying.She can feel the puppy's emotions, and little St. Augustine can also feel Diane's mood.

I can't tell why I like her like that.Yet in the restless, emotionally charged world of the Lawtons, Diane's innocent affections seem like an oasis in Desert Storm.If I were a dog, I'd probably be jealous of St. Augustine.but I do not have.I'm just fascinated by Diane's unique emotions.She and her family are different in some ways, and to me, that's important.She opens up her feelings and faces the world.The rest of the Lawton family had either lost that feeling, or never understood it. St. Augustine died suddenly that autumn.It was just a puppy and died too early.Diane was devastated and I suddenly knew I was in love with her

No, it sounds a little scary to say that.I'm not in love with her because she's sad for the puppy.I fell in love with her for her ability to grieve for puppies while her family seemed either indifferent or secretly relieved to finally have St. Augustine gone from the family. She stopped looking at me and turned to look at the bright sunshine outside the window.It broke my heart when that puppy died. We buried the holy dog ​​in the forest beyond the lawn.Diane made a small stone mound for a tombstone.For the next ten years, she would make a new stack every spring, until she left home.

When the seasons change, she will pray quietly in front of the tombstone, clasped her hands.I don't know who she was praying to, or what she was praying to.I don't know what other people are doing when they pray.I don't feel like I have the ability to pray. However, this proves one thing.Diane lives in a world that is bigger than a big house.In that world, the ups and downs of emotions are as deep and heavy as the ebb and flow of the tide, carrying the entire vast ocean on their backs. ☆ That night, I had a fever again.I don't remember anything but the fear that once again overwhelmed me (that fear came about every hour or so).I am afraid that the medicine will turn my memory into a blank, which will never be restored.It feels like an irreparable loss, as if looking for something in a dream, but can't find it.Find a lost wallet, a watch, a treasured trifle, or, find your lost self.I seem to feel the Martian medicine reacting in my body.Drugs attack my muscles, and my immune system protocols a temporary truce, building a beachhead of cells to sequester dangerous chromosome sequences. When I woke up again, Diane was gone.I took the morphine she gave me to suppress the pain.I got out of bed, struggled to the bathroom, then trudged out to the balcony. It's time for dinner.The sun was still in the sky, but the sky was getting dark and dark blue.The aroma of coconut milk wafts in the air, mixed with the stench of diesel exhaust.At sea level to the west, the arch shimmered like frozen quicksilver. I found myself wanting to write again.The longing surged up, like a reflex action after a fever.I have a notebook in my hand, and more than half of it is filled with doodles that are almost incomprehensible.I'm going to have to ask Diane to buy me another copy, or a few more, so I can keep writing. Words are like anchors, fastening the boat of memory, lest the boat sink in a storm.