The Eyes of The Green Mile
"I helped it, didn't I?"
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the original author's (Stephen King) imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Note: -Nika Anatolyevna Volya rightfully belongs to me. Anything she says or does is completely fictional. - I honestly think this was a pretty bad story, but somewhere, there's someone who'd maybe appreciate this story a little, and that's one thing that kept me going. The book was not written in chronological order, I tried to put the events in order, but I have no idea how well I did. I suppose this story was an experiment of something…but what.
-Rhett
After Elaine passed, I had to go on writing, writing about the eyes that saw us through back in '32, they were astounding, I would have fallen for them myself, but they reminded me too much of the Mile. (Besides, I adore blue eyes.) These eyes—emerald eyes—belong to a full-blooded Russian woman named Nika Anatolyevna Volya. I didn't cite her before because this woman—I think—is my secret, the world's secret, and she is the wife of the ill-famed Percy Wetmore.
I woke up in heavy ache, a weight on my chest, yet, it was nothing, and I felt tranquility. I always felt tranquil when I thought of her, she's so benevolent, long-suffering, and she's still alive. She was a nurse in WWII even though she had been trained as a solider and not a wounded man's pincushion. Nika was touched by God's gift, John Coffey. The contact was short and long enough to have been a life-long effect.
Brad Dolan no longer worked here—supposedly before Elaine died in her bed, she contacted her connections about Brad Dolan—I was absolutely relieved, and I may possibly go for my walks again, but not today, I wanted, needed, to start writing.
My bed was hot and snug, I'm surprised I didn't get night sweats, descending my feet into the supple, soft grey slippers my granddaughter Danielle bought me, and slowly strolled out of my summer warm room, seemingly kissed by sunlight peeking through the curtains—this reminded me of the morning that I made sweet love with my Janice, right before leaving to Cold Mountain, I was a little tardy, but it was worth it. (A day after my urine infection was cured by John, not before, sorry if that thought popped into your head.)
I arrived in the kitchen, smelling a dense aroma of eggs, sausage, freshly squeezed oranges, and of light rain—for once, they served us cooked; prepared food and not what came in cans.
"Good morning Paul." One of the female cooks said, patiently stirring pancake mix.
"Good morning." I replied. "I don't know how you know my name, but may I ask yours?" I squinted a bit—though my ragged, soggy eyes did that for me already.
She smiled and said, "Laura Wetmore, a grandchild of Nika Wetmore, she's told me everything about you, Brutus, Dean, Harry and my Grandpa Percy." She laughed lightly. "I'm glad to actually meet you, though, I'm a bit surprised that you didn't notice me, I look similar to my Grandpa." She put the bowl of pancake mix on the counter, smiled, and gazed at me with the kindness Nika has in her eyes. She really did look like Percy, a strong firm jaw, one blue eye, one green, and even brown hair like Percy's to top it off, but her hair wasn't as short as his, it was shoulder length—wet dreams included?
"No kidding, did you always work here?" I asked.
"I began working here as soon as a position was open, odd position though." She said placing an elbow near the bowl on the counter, leaning with one leg behind the other. She must have taken Brad Dolan's job, but his job wasn't cooking, it really was odd.
"Hmm, well it was nice to meet-"I began, turning away.
"Wait. Aren't you going to tell me about my Grandpa and Grandma?"
"Bring this old man one sausage, two eggs and a pancake with butter and syrup on the side, and you've got a deal." I said, smirking.
She grinned, "Alright, I'll bring it up to your room in ten minutes, what number?"
"Room 5." I said, walking away, my slippers shuffling against the ebony tiles, it reverberated like the ocean, with a nice whish whish. I entered the bathroom where which Elaine smoked and set off the fire alarm, I could still smell faint smoke, but it was probably my imagination. Soon after, I emptied my small bladder, and washed up. I gaited passed the T.V room, the young'uns watching Opera Winfrey; God, how I hated T.V shows these days. I looked down as I went up the stairs—clutching onto wooden handrail to the left—watching my steps so I didn't stub my toe, or even worse, lose balance and fall, I wouldn't have survived at all. I know what you're thinking, 'why would they have Room 5 upstairs? Honestly, I don't have an answer to that.
I opened the door to my room, leaning onto the doorknob and surprisingly saw the tray sitting on the table nearest to the window. I entered a bit more.
"I know people, big people!"
I nearly fell over at the sound of Percy's voice—good thing I had a hold on the door knob—it was loud enough to seem he was yelling into a megaphone, my ears rung and I looked around, shocked, with my heart throbbing as if my old urinary infection was deep, dead center in my chest. No one was in my room; no one was out in the hall. The room suddenly lost its warmth and desire; there was some kind of fog that temporarily absorbed any light in the room. My eyes felt heavy, a dark figure of an arm appeared on my shoulder, I tried to move but it was not possible. The feeling of my lungs sunk into the pits of my intestines. The fog dissipated, but the light didn't return. I sat at the table, panting a bit to slow down my heart, looking at the tray; I've lost my appetite, trying to comprehend what happened just moments ago.
Laura trotted into my room, looking at me in a peculiar way. The room lighted up again.
"You look like as if you saw a ghost." Her brow rose. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't.
"Not exactly…" I said.
"Well, are you going to tell me about what happened in '32? You must be old, ancient." She said with an ignorant tone in her voice. She had the brains of Percy, alright.
"Well, yes, I'm one-hundred four. I'm not going to talk about what happened in '32, I'd rather you read it. I've got to start writing, if you don't mind." I walked to my nightstand, gathering the papers—the same papers that Elaine read when she was here, full of life and determined to keep on living, oh, how much I missed her. I waved them in front of me and sat on my bed; I didn't walk over to the door, heck, might have popped a hip.
Laura had a disappointed look on her face as she came to the bed, taking the papers out of my hand. She really wanted me to tell her everything that happened in '32? I'd rather write it all out with my father's fountain pen, and the wrist pain along with it.
She nodded with a slight smirk on her face, and went on her way elsewhere from my room, and returning to her duties, leaving a smear from her black work shoe on the room's carpet. Black work shoes…
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