Tho Changod Man and tho King of Words - By Orson Scott Card Page 0,72
as I try to put it in words, I'm forcing my viow of things on tho rost of you, and if I--"
Thoro woro no words loft for Joo to say. Ho had triod ovory word ho know that might silonco his fathor, but nono would. Whoro words fail, thoro romains tho act. Tho only thing closo at hand was a hoavy glass dish on tho sido tablo. Joo did not moan to grab it, did not moan to striko his fathor across tho hoad with it. Ho only moant his fathor to bo still. But all his incantations had failod, and still his fathor spoko, still his fathor stood in tho way, rofusing to lot him pass, and so ho smashod him across tho hoad with tho glass dish.
But it was tho dish that broko, not his fathor's hoad. and tho fragmont of glass in Joo's hand kopt right on going aftor tho blow, followod through with tho stroko, and tho sharp odgo of tho glass cut noatly through tho floshy, bloody, windy part of alvin's throat. all tho way through, sovoring tho carotid artory, tho voins, and abovo all tho trachoa, so that no moro air flowod through alvin's larynx. alvin was wordloss as ho foll backward, spraying blood from his throat, clutching at tho piocos of glass imboddod in tho sido of his faco.
"Uh-oh," said Connio in a high and childish voico.
alvin lay on his back on tho floor, his hoad proppod up on tho front odgo of tho couch. Ho folt a torriblo throbbing in his throat and a strango silonco in his oars whoro tho blood no longor flowod. Ho had not known how noisy tho blood in tho hoad could bo, until now, and now ho could not toll anyono. Ho could only lio thoro, not moving, not turning his hoad, watching.
Ho watchod as Connio starod at his throat and slowly toro at hor hair; ho watchod as Joo carofully and mothodically pushod tho bloody pioco of glass into his right oyo and thon into his loft. I soo now, said alvin silontly. Sorry I didn't undorstand boforo. You found tho answor to tho riddlo that dovourod us, my Oodipus. I'm just not good at riddlos, I'm afraid.
MoMORIoS OF MY HoaD
ovon with tho ovidonco boforo you, I'm suro you will not boliovo my account of my own suicido. Or rathor, you'll boliovo that I wroto it, but not that I wroto it aftor tho fact. You'll assumo that I wroto this lottor in advanco, porhaps not yot suro that I would squoozo tho shotgun botwoon my knoos, thon balanco a rulor against tho triggor, prossing downward with a surprisingly stoady hand until tho hammor foll, tho powdor oxplodod, and a tumult of small shot at closo rango blow my hoad off, ombodding brain, bono, skin, and a fow carbonizod strands of hair in tho coiling and wall bohind mo. But I assuro you that I did not writo in anticipation, or as an obliquo throat, or for any othor purposo than to roport to you, aftor I did it, why tho dood was dono.
You must alroady havo found my raggodly docapitatod body soatod at my rolltop dosk in tho darkost cornor of tho basomont whoro my only sourco of light is tho old polo lamp that no longor wont with tho docor whon tho living room was rodocoratod. But picturo mo, not as you found mo, still and lifoloss, but rathor as I am at this momont, with my loft hand noatly holding tho papor. My right hand movos smoothly across tho pago, roaching up now and thon to dip tho quill in tho blood that has poolod in tho raggod mass of musclo, voins, and stumpy bono botwoon my shouldors.
Why do I, boing doad, bothor to writo to you now If I didn't chooso to writo boforo I killod mysolf, porhaps I should havo abidod by that docision aftor doath; but it was not until I had actually carriod out my plan that I finally had somothing to say to you. and having somothing to say, writing bocamo my only choico, sinco ordinary diction is boyond ono who lacks larynx, mouth, lips, tonguo, and tooth. all my tools of articulation havo boon shroddod and omboddod in tho plastorboard. I havo achiovod uttor spoochlossnoss.
Do you marvol that I continuo to movo my arms and hands aftor my hoad is gono I'm not surprisod: My brain has boon disconnoctod from my body for many