Never mind. I need it. There’s plenty left, plenty. If I have to take the cure later on when I get back to the States, I’ll check into the best clinic in California and do it with a smile. That’s not the problem right now, is it?
When I did get in range, I didn’t want to throw the rock. I became insanely sure that I would miss, probably by feet. I had to get closer. So I continued to crawl up the rockpile, my head thrown back, the sweat pouring off my wasted, scarecrow body. My teeth have begun to rot, did I tell you that? If I were a superstitious man, I’d say it was because I ate–
Ha! We know better, don’t we?
I stopped again. I was much closer to it than I had been to either of the other gulls. I still couldn’t bring myself to commit. I clutched the rock until my fingers ached and still I couldn’t throw it. Because I knew exactly what it would mean if I missed.
I don’t care if I use all the merchandise! I’ll sue the ass off them! I’ll be in clover for the rest of my life! My long long life!
I think I would have crawled right up to it without throwing if it hadn’t finally taken wing. I would have crept up and strangled it. But it spread its wings and took off. I screamed at it and reared up on my knees and threw my rock with all my strength. And I hit it!
The bird gave a strangled squawk and fell back on the other side of the rockpile. Gibbering and laughing, unmindful now of striking the stump or opening the wound, I crawled over the top and to the other side. I lost my balance and banged my head. I didn’t even notice it, not then, although it has raised a pretty nasty lump. All I could think of was the bird and how I had hit it, fantastic luck, even on the wing I had hit it!
It was flopping down toward the beach on the other side, one wing broken, its underbody red with blood. I crawled as fast as I could, but it crawled faster yet. Race of the cripples! Ha! Ha! I might have gotten it I was closing the distance except for my hands. I have to take good care of my hands. I may need them again. In spite of my care, the palms were scraped by the time we reached the narrow shingle of beach, and I’d shattered the face of my Pulsar watch against a rough spine of rock.
The gull flopped into the water, squawking noisomely, and I clutched at it. i got a handful of tailfeathers, which came off in rny fist. Then I fell in, inhaling water, snorting and choking.
I crawled in further. I even tried to swim after it. The bandage came off my stump. I began to go under. I just managed to get back to the beach, shaking with exhaustion, racked with pain, weeping and screaming, cursing the gull. It floated there for a long time, always further and further out. I seem to remember begging it to come back at one point. But when it went out over the reef, I think it was dead.
It isn’t fair.
It took me almost an hour to crawl back around to my camp. I’ve snorted a large amount of heroin, but even so I’m bitterly angry at the gull. If I wasn’t going to get it, why did it have to tease me so’? Why didn’t it just fly off?
February 9
I’ve amputated my left foot and have bandaged it with my pants. Strange. All through the operation I was drooling. Drooooling. Just like when I saw the gull. Drooling helplessly. But I made myself wait until after dark. I just counted backward from one hundred . . . twenty or thirty times! Ha! Ha!
Then . . .
I kept telling myself: Cold roast beef. Cold roast beef. Cold roast beef.
February 11 (?)
Rain the last two days. And high winds. I managed to move some rocks from the central pile, enough to make a hole I could crawl into. Found one small spider. Pinched it between my fingers before he could get away and ate him up. Very nice. Juicy. Thought to myself that the rocks over me might fall and bury me alive. Didn’t care.