*Okay, this one is a little bit schmaltzy. I usually don't buy into all of
the "they were abused as children" thing, but I kinda like Percy and needed
an excuse. Pardon the deviation from a usual King fic macabre style.*
Chapter Four: A Change and a Story
I watched from the crack in the door to see exactly how Percy behaved when he went in. He presented himself in front of the desk. I was glad to see that he didn't apologize, just said:
"Mind if I take up my seat again?"
Harry blinked. "No- go right ahead, Percy."
"Thanks." My "pupil" sat down and watched the game with interest for a little bit, and when they were finished with the hand, Brutal grudgingly asked if he'd like to cut in. Percy nodded, and played a fair game, not cheating like he usually did. He lost, but didn't make a big deal about it.
Dean started up a conversation on the recent rash of burglaries and the heat it was causing down in the other blocks of the prison.
"We're sort of apart from all that sort of commotion," Brutal said. "The Mile isn't like the rest of the prison- not in the slightest."
Percy frowned in thought. I think he was truly speaking of himself when he finally did say something.
"It's that down there, they know that they're going to get out- most of them, anyway. They have something to hope for, something to wait for other than to die. The days go faster because they don't hang onto them. When up here, every man in a cell is counting the days he has left to live."
He was right, and I still think about that sometimes, about how he was right. The days did go slower on the Green Mile, and you never forgot a day or a prisoner. It was like you were clinging to life along with the rest of them. Brutal had been pouring a cup of coffee at that moment, looked up at Percy, and kept pouring it- right onto the table. Wiping it up, he stared at Percy like the young man had suddenly sprouted a second head right in front of him (and now that I think of it, I don't think it would have alarmed Brutal half as much if Percy actually had).
I think I've mentioned that all of my men were good men- but they each had a character trait that stood out more. Brutal was quickly irritated, Harry was smart, Percy was- well, it's probably up to you to determine what Percy was, but Dean was the peacemaker. He smoothed everything over, and he smoothed this over as well.
"That's right, Percy," he said calmly. "That's just what it's like. We hang onto each day like it's going to be our last."
I came out at that moment, resolutely trying not to look at Percy as if I thought anything was different about him. Brutal passed me a few cards.
"What's the topic, boys?" I asked.
"I believe it was death," Dean said placidly. "That and how different the Mile is from the rest of the prison. Percy said it was because we clung to life here."
Brutal shot me a quizzical look. I read the message in his eyes.
Did you chew Percy out or something?
I shook my head a little bit. "That's true. We live on Green Mile time, all of us." Harry handed me a cup of coffee. Nodding my thanks, I explained further. "Each minute is an hour, and all."
"Enough of philosophy," Brutal said. "Let's play rummy, men."
Percy didn't talk much through the hands that we played, just mostly listened to the chatter. I think now that he was unsure of what exactly to say about anything, he just paid up what he lost and took low, safe bets that didn't hurt him too much. I didn't do much in the way of winning, because my mind was on something else- what Percy must have been doing all that time on the block. It was a game of trying to impress us, but he hadn't been winning it, and he stopped playing that one and switched to the power game.
When I ordered him off the block- how it must have stung, to realize that I still had some control over him, still had something that I could hold over him. How he must have felt when he saw John Coffey, the dull achy fear that began in his heart and prompted him to do the call "dead man walking." How much he must be afraid of Brutal, who sometimes hated him like poison and who maybe reminded him of his older brothers, who wanted to hurt him, wanted to hit him.
It might not be something worth mentioning here, unless its purpose is to make your blood run cold, but sometime afterwards, when John Coffey showed me a bit of what his life was like, when he said he was ready to die, I was around Percy a little. And I saw something play out before my eyes- well, in my mind, actually, that chilled me to the bone.
"No, no, please stop!" A whiny voice, familiar but little, so much smaller than it was. "Please, Michael, please don't!"
A hoarse laugh. "Like he thinks I'm not. Itty-bitty Percy, the baby of the family." There was a silence followed by a dull thud- the sound of a fist hitting flesh. "Look, I opened one of the cuts Papa gave him last night! Yuck, get it cleaned up, Bill, before he bleeds all over the sheets."
"Make him clean it up. I don't want to."
Michael tossing a much smaller Percy a rag. Percy who hadn't grown used to hair care yet, Percy who had wild messy brown hair and a pale face streaky from tears. He just sat there, blood soaking into his pillow, and a teddy bear, looking bewildered at what to do with it. Bill- I think it was, though I didn't know who the other one was- backhanded him up against the wall, nearly breaking the little boy's nose (Percy looked about seven).
"Get the blood up, you little idiot!"
Percy mopping at the blood while he cried… There was a silence, then, and I saw that terrified little boy's face morph slowly into a twelve year-old's. His hair was a that of a schoolboy's, matted close to his head with the sweat of either play or work, his brown eyes terrified but no longer innocent and confused. These were the eyes of a boy who understood perfectly what was happening.
"Father, don't, please."
Then I saw a wilder face, a face that almost reminded me of Wild Bill Wharton's, laugh. "You didn't get your chores done, boy."
"I'll do them!" Percy cried, trying to squirm away from his father's grip. "I promise I will- just don't use the whip again!"
"You have to learn, boy! Up against the old stump." And Percy flattened himself against the grizzled tree stump, tiny fingernails digging into the bark to provide an anchor for him. I saw the whip- and old- fashioned horse whip- hit his back and the blood hit the dirt- and I heard the screams.
The picture changed again. Percy looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, and still living in that same little country house. Before, I'd said the innocence in his eyes was gone. Now there was a slight hardness about his features. He was spreading butter on a slice of bread, standing in front of a counter. A bleary-eyed older woman sat at the table, half- asleep in front of a bowl with the remains of soup in it.
"Mother, do you want some bread?" Percy asked.
She shook her head. "Your father will be home soon, Percy. And you know he's irritable when he's been drinking."
But the man who came through the door was more than irritable, he was a sobbing, quivering mass of jelly. "The boys are dead, Lila!" he shouted. "Shot!"
"No," Percy's mother said weakly, kind of clutching at the table. "No."
The man's wandering eyes found Percy, and so did his fist. "Get out of here, you dirty little sonuva-" Percy backed away slowly away from him.
"Dan, don't," Lila said.
"You want to tell me what to do, woman?" He tried to slap her good and hard, but Percy caught his fist.
"Don't hit Mother!"
What followed was the worse pummeling of Percy's life, and when it was over, the boy crawled into bed, crying a little, and finally turned to a cigar box on the table.
"You can come out now, Bernie," he said to it softly. "Father's gone."
As if on cue, an ordinary brown mouse crawled out and settled himself on Percy's pillow. Percy stroked Bernie almost absently.
"We're going, Bernie," he whispered. "We're going tonight, to live with Aunt Kim and Uncle Denny. They'll take care of us."
The last picture was of Percy as I knew him now, hair perfect, stature straight, only the meanness out of his eyes. This was the Percy I'd seen in my office. His shirt was off, and he was clad only in pajama bottoms, standing out in the night, cool air biting at him. A drunk staggered out. I saw the flash of metal, but Percy didn't.
"Go away, Father. You can't hurt Mother anymore, not now that I'm back. I'm just as strong as you are, now. And the others are dead."
The man lashed out with his fist, and Percy landed a punch square in his jaw. He tripped backwards, and his father kicked him in his face, yanking out the knife and slashing up his side. And Percy's thoughts, running through his head-
He's going to kill me he's going to kill me he's going to kill me I'm going to die he's going to kill me after all oh heaven help me I'm going to die
Percy putting on bandages, looking with disdain at the bloodstains on his shirt. He wiped off sweat, winced as he buttoned up the blues over the cuts, and took a long look in the mirror at the welt.
Then he came to work.
Chapter Four: A Change and a Story
I watched from the crack in the door to see exactly how Percy behaved when he went in. He presented himself in front of the desk. I was glad to see that he didn't apologize, just said:
"Mind if I take up my seat again?"
Harry blinked. "No- go right ahead, Percy."
"Thanks." My "pupil" sat down and watched the game with interest for a little bit, and when they were finished with the hand, Brutal grudgingly asked if he'd like to cut in. Percy nodded, and played a fair game, not cheating like he usually did. He lost, but didn't make a big deal about it.
Dean started up a conversation on the recent rash of burglaries and the heat it was causing down in the other blocks of the prison.
"We're sort of apart from all that sort of commotion," Brutal said. "The Mile isn't like the rest of the prison- not in the slightest."
Percy frowned in thought. I think he was truly speaking of himself when he finally did say something.
"It's that down there, they know that they're going to get out- most of them, anyway. They have something to hope for, something to wait for other than to die. The days go faster because they don't hang onto them. When up here, every man in a cell is counting the days he has left to live."
He was right, and I still think about that sometimes, about how he was right. The days did go slower on the Green Mile, and you never forgot a day or a prisoner. It was like you were clinging to life along with the rest of them. Brutal had been pouring a cup of coffee at that moment, looked up at Percy, and kept pouring it- right onto the table. Wiping it up, he stared at Percy like the young man had suddenly sprouted a second head right in front of him (and now that I think of it, I don't think it would have alarmed Brutal half as much if Percy actually had).
I think I've mentioned that all of my men were good men- but they each had a character trait that stood out more. Brutal was quickly irritated, Harry was smart, Percy was- well, it's probably up to you to determine what Percy was, but Dean was the peacemaker. He smoothed everything over, and he smoothed this over as well.
"That's right, Percy," he said calmly. "That's just what it's like. We hang onto each day like it's going to be our last."
I came out at that moment, resolutely trying not to look at Percy as if I thought anything was different about him. Brutal passed me a few cards.
"What's the topic, boys?" I asked.
"I believe it was death," Dean said placidly. "That and how different the Mile is from the rest of the prison. Percy said it was because we clung to life here."
Brutal shot me a quizzical look. I read the message in his eyes.
Did you chew Percy out or something?
I shook my head a little bit. "That's true. We live on Green Mile time, all of us." Harry handed me a cup of coffee. Nodding my thanks, I explained further. "Each minute is an hour, and all."
"Enough of philosophy," Brutal said. "Let's play rummy, men."
Percy didn't talk much through the hands that we played, just mostly listened to the chatter. I think now that he was unsure of what exactly to say about anything, he just paid up what he lost and took low, safe bets that didn't hurt him too much. I didn't do much in the way of winning, because my mind was on something else- what Percy must have been doing all that time on the block. It was a game of trying to impress us, but he hadn't been winning it, and he stopped playing that one and switched to the power game.
When I ordered him off the block- how it must have stung, to realize that I still had some control over him, still had something that I could hold over him. How he must have felt when he saw John Coffey, the dull achy fear that began in his heart and prompted him to do the call "dead man walking." How much he must be afraid of Brutal, who sometimes hated him like poison and who maybe reminded him of his older brothers, who wanted to hurt him, wanted to hit him.
It might not be something worth mentioning here, unless its purpose is to make your blood run cold, but sometime afterwards, when John Coffey showed me a bit of what his life was like, when he said he was ready to die, I was around Percy a little. And I saw something play out before my eyes- well, in my mind, actually, that chilled me to the bone.
"No, no, please stop!" A whiny voice, familiar but little, so much smaller than it was. "Please, Michael, please don't!"
A hoarse laugh. "Like he thinks I'm not. Itty-bitty Percy, the baby of the family." There was a silence followed by a dull thud- the sound of a fist hitting flesh. "Look, I opened one of the cuts Papa gave him last night! Yuck, get it cleaned up, Bill, before he bleeds all over the sheets."
"Make him clean it up. I don't want to."
Michael tossing a much smaller Percy a rag. Percy who hadn't grown used to hair care yet, Percy who had wild messy brown hair and a pale face streaky from tears. He just sat there, blood soaking into his pillow, and a teddy bear, looking bewildered at what to do with it. Bill- I think it was, though I didn't know who the other one was- backhanded him up against the wall, nearly breaking the little boy's nose (Percy looked about seven).
"Get the blood up, you little idiot!"
Percy mopping at the blood while he cried… There was a silence, then, and I saw that terrified little boy's face morph slowly into a twelve year-old's. His hair was a that of a schoolboy's, matted close to his head with the sweat of either play or work, his brown eyes terrified but no longer innocent and confused. These were the eyes of a boy who understood perfectly what was happening.
"Father, don't, please."
Then I saw a wilder face, a face that almost reminded me of Wild Bill Wharton's, laugh. "You didn't get your chores done, boy."
"I'll do them!" Percy cried, trying to squirm away from his father's grip. "I promise I will- just don't use the whip again!"
"You have to learn, boy! Up against the old stump." And Percy flattened himself against the grizzled tree stump, tiny fingernails digging into the bark to provide an anchor for him. I saw the whip- and old- fashioned horse whip- hit his back and the blood hit the dirt- and I heard the screams.
The picture changed again. Percy looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, and still living in that same little country house. Before, I'd said the innocence in his eyes was gone. Now there was a slight hardness about his features. He was spreading butter on a slice of bread, standing in front of a counter. A bleary-eyed older woman sat at the table, half- asleep in front of a bowl with the remains of soup in it.
"Mother, do you want some bread?" Percy asked.
She shook her head. "Your father will be home soon, Percy. And you know he's irritable when he's been drinking."
But the man who came through the door was more than irritable, he was a sobbing, quivering mass of jelly. "The boys are dead, Lila!" he shouted. "Shot!"
"No," Percy's mother said weakly, kind of clutching at the table. "No."
The man's wandering eyes found Percy, and so did his fist. "Get out of here, you dirty little sonuva-" Percy backed away slowly away from him.
"Dan, don't," Lila said.
"You want to tell me what to do, woman?" He tried to slap her good and hard, but Percy caught his fist.
"Don't hit Mother!"
What followed was the worse pummeling of Percy's life, and when it was over, the boy crawled into bed, crying a little, and finally turned to a cigar box on the table.
"You can come out now, Bernie," he said to it softly. "Father's gone."
As if on cue, an ordinary brown mouse crawled out and settled himself on Percy's pillow. Percy stroked Bernie almost absently.
"We're going, Bernie," he whispered. "We're going tonight, to live with Aunt Kim and Uncle Denny. They'll take care of us."
The last picture was of Percy as I knew him now, hair perfect, stature straight, only the meanness out of his eyes. This was the Percy I'd seen in my office. His shirt was off, and he was clad only in pajama bottoms, standing out in the night, cool air biting at him. A drunk staggered out. I saw the flash of metal, but Percy didn't.
"Go away, Father. You can't hurt Mother anymore, not now that I'm back. I'm just as strong as you are, now. And the others are dead."
The man lashed out with his fist, and Percy landed a punch square in his jaw. He tripped backwards, and his father kicked him in his face, yanking out the knife and slashing up his side. And Percy's thoughts, running through his head-
He's going to kill me he's going to kill me he's going to kill me I'm going to die he's going to kill me after all oh heaven help me I'm going to die
Percy putting on bandages, looking with disdain at the bloodstains on his shirt. He wiped off sweat, winced as he buttoned up the blues over the cuts, and took a long look in the mirror at the welt.
Then he came to work.