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| Original book information
Title: The Catcher in the Rye New finalchapter information
Author name: Ghost Writer Synopsis of the original finalchapter It sounds like he is in some type of therapy and regrets writing all that he has put into the book.
Chapter 26 Old Phoebe winds up falling off the stupid horse before we leave. She breaks her arm, so we need to stop by the hospital before heading home. God, my parents were mad. Welcome home son! Compound fracture- it was pretty gruesome. However, it took some of the heat off the other shit I have done - like getting expelled from school. And either way I wound up really sick for a few weeks until they sent me to this place. Like, why do you even care about this? Don't you really want to know the real me? Or even care? Does anyone? Creepy place. Nice, but creepy. Know what I mean? No, you probably do not. As I sit on the white, velvety, worn-down smelly couch (with stains of an unknown origin) now, the people in the long, white coats (hey, are they stained too?) are always asking me questions. I hate questions. And these people. Damn questions. My brother is the worst at this point. He came in from California and is incessantly asking me more and more questions - what will I do with my life now and crap like that. But maybe he is not really that bad. I am being judgmental and that is not good. I know. Who knows, I may become someone like that child molesting "friend" of mine, or a boarding school principal. Who the hell knows? Who really cares? D.B.'s girlfriend is a hot dish- someone I'd really like to shack up with. Maybe…. No, I could not do that to my brother. He is the only one I have left, after my baby brother was killed. I really did not do it. Really. Phoebe is different… she does not count. One thing I found in my gym bag was a six shooter from my old roommate Jed. He is someone I have not told you about yet. I hid that piece of cold iron in the bottom compartment of the bag before being sent here. He used to tell me about this game people play called Russian Roulette. I do not think I have any real problems. When I talk to my psychoanalytical nut case friend, he tells me that the best way to die is by drowning. Why am I always going off on tangents, he asks. How we got on that topic I have no idea. Suicide is for cowards. Only because I ask him about it constantly. I am curious. Death. So damn final. Only, I cannot see myself going to the center of the pond in Central Park and doing that to myself - am much too much of a coward. No backing out. I have no idea what kind of gun this is, but it is definitely one that has six chambers. If I am a coward and suicide is for cowards, then what does that mean? I unload all the chambers save one, close it, and spin the barrel. It makes a strange whizzing sound (the best way I can describe it). Kind of like when you are on the carousel and your sister falls off by accident and breaks her arm by accident and you were not even close to her when it (the ACCIDENT, shit, it WAS an accident OK???!!!) happened. Really. Hell, maybe jumping off the bridge into the East river would do it… during the middle of winter the shock of the fall into the icy, stinging, cold water would probably do it for me. I spin the barrel one more time. Heat and cold are on the opposite extremes, but if you think about it both extremes are seriously painful. What to do… what others would not expect from me. A dangerous and scary move….
Wow, what a sound that makes. Emptiness. As I have the cannon pointing at the top of my head, I wonder what it would sound like. Would the click be the last thing I hear? Or would I hear the explosion? I mean, I know that sound travels faster than the bullet, but would I really hear the boom of the cannon, or even feel anything? I hear drowning is a painful way to die. I wonder if I would hear the bullet echoing through my skull - now what kind of sound would THAT make? Or what if it ricocheted through my skull (ping), down my spine (whoosh), off the liver (booing), explode through my heart (powee), and zing (zing) off my collar bone, tearing through my stomach (rip) and shredding the remains of my gall bladder (zzzzzzz, the sound of a chain saw starting) as it passes down my leg, just shaving my knee, while continuing down and making minced meat (yucky stuff, like that damn fruit cake at Christmas time) out of my Achilles heel, and finally creating a thumping sound as it explodes through the ant that I am currently crushing.. However, I also understand that.
Nothing, once again. Maybe I am not as much of a coward as I originally thought. Anyway, I understand that even if you do jump into a near freezing river, they can revive you after something like hours of being considered dead. I would not want that to happen. Now if an ant can lift something like a hundred times its body weight, how many ants would it take to lift me off of stomping them to a cruel death? Again, too much of a coward. I also think that drowning is pretty gross - I mean with your lungs filling up with liquid and having nowhere to choke it up. I swallowed water one time in the pond while playing around with Jed and thought I was going to hack up my left lung. Did I mention how and where Jed was found deceased? What a hollow sound, that click. ? Now that I think about it, funny thing is, I do not think anyone has found his body. What is love anyway, really? How the hell are these little black ants getting in here anyhow? I talked to the psychoanalytical freak just this morning about that, and he had some interesting comments about that. I am a normal teenager of my generation. Nobody understands me. Maybe Sally. All of it is bullshit. They will not let me smoke here. There is nothing to that love emotion. Or any emotion for that matter. Anything I felt towards my dead little brother or my baby sister is all just shit flying around in my head. My older brother, well, what can I say. Although what I'd like to do with his girlfriend….
Wow, the odds are getting better that this will be successful. Or not. Thinking back on everything I have told you, I really do regret saying a lot of what I said. Understand? I mean, if I am, in fact, having a mental breakdown and am acting schizophrenic (as my analyst has presupposed), well, then what? You really do not have a right to hear my thoughts. I can't believe I was able to pick up the gym bag from that locker. I also think Jed was really odd, but he is no longer with us. He had an unfortunate accident. I do not understand why you would be even remotely interested in my boring old life. And how did I get this in here… did they let me without realizing it? Really. Nothing happens with me. The most interesting thing was when I should have left this damn town to raise chickens and make money that way. Incredible. And to think….
Stop thinking. No. Pondering now. Only two ways left if I keep up this game. Even though this roulette is usually played with two people - something Jed forgot to mention but that I read about in the library early last Tuesday - the thrill is still here. Actually, I have never felt more alive. Maybe there is really more than one person inside my head. How screwed up is that? Ha. There is a knock on the door. Old Phoebe starts to open the door. In the last seconds before pulling the trigger, I wonder if her seeing me die would be the same as me trying to help my little dead brother. Really. Just before pulling it, I rip out the old baseball glove with the corny poems on it and throw it towards the door. Phoebe enters the room and looks at me strangely. She sees the gun pointed at my head and does not understand how far in the game of life that I have survived. She will never know what it is to know what I know. Or maybe she will some day. I look down and see an ant crawling towards my left foot, me ready to stomp on it. Time stands still for a half second as we smile at each other. Maybe she does understand. She always was wise for her age. The End So... what did you think? Please send comments to me, the Ghost Writer.
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Last Update:
November 25, 2003 |
