"Songbirds of Pain by Garry Kilworth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kilworth Garry)

In there, deep inside, lay the quintessential spark of being, where she was pure Anita. To reach that spark, it was necessary to use an agent-drugs, medication, will, faith, religion, or perhaps pain. Pain was her vehicle to that interior world, that inscape that made the rest of life seem a wasteland of experience. There was the power, the energy of birth. The cold release of death. Heady. Unequivocally the center of the universe. So strange to find that all else revolved around her. That nothing existed that was not derived from her. Even Philip. She was the sun, the moon, the stars, the earth. She was void, she was matter, she was light.
Anita and her pain.
"How do you feel?" asked the surgeon.
She smiled. "I really do feel like a new woman. How do I look?"
"See for yourself . . . ." He indicated the mirror on the wall, but she. had already studied herself for hours before the mirror in her room. The scars were now invisible, the blemishes and bruises gone. Blue-black skin had been replaced by her normal cream complexion. And now? Now her features were . . . breathtaking, yes. Her whole body was absolutely perfect in its proportions. This was what she had desired for so many years. Beauty, absolute.
"I'm very pleased," she said. "I really haven't the words to express my thanks."
He held up a hand. "I've been adequately rewarded," he said. "We don't do it for love of beautyalthough I admit to being proud of my art. And I
must congratulate you on your courage. You withstood the pain with as much bravery as I've ever seen."
She shrugged. "It isn't something I'd like to go through again," she lied, "but I think it's been worth it. It has been worth it," she hastily amended.
They shook hands.
"You're a beautiful woman," he said, in a voice that suggested he had forgotten he had created her.
On the drive away, she barely looked at the trees, still dripping with colors. Their blooms no longer interested her. Nor did the birds upon their branches. She had her own colors, her own songbirds.
Philip was waiting by the exit of the airport arrival lounge. She saw him from the far side of the room.
He was looking directly at her, and she realized that he did not recognize her. He looked away and began searching the faces of the other passengers.
She began walking toward him. Twice more he looked at her, as if expecting a sign from her to tell him she was Anita, then back to the other passengers.
She noticed his expression was expectant but calm. He thought he had no need to be anxious. Anita was supposed to declare herself. As she drew closer she almost wavered in her purpose.
Her heart flooded with emotion. God, he was her life. Never would she have the same feelings for any other man. He was everything to her. Philip. Even the name was enough to fill her heart with the desire, the passion, the tender feelings of love.
She needed him, wanted him above all else except ....
She studied his eyes, his face, his quizzical expres-
sion as she passed him and then went through the exit, her feelings choking her. She was leaving him. She wanted him desperately, but she was leaving him-and the delicious pain, the emotional agony, was exquisite. She nurtured the hurt inside her, listening to the music that ran through her veins. This was beauty: the delight, the ecstasy of spiritual pain, even sweeter than a physical hurt. Her songbirds would be with her till death, and her indulgence in the music they created washed through her whole being and made her complete, made the whole of existence complete, for everyone-even Philip.