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He
threw
the
spool
extra-hard
.
It
hit
low
on
the
wall
,
took
a
crazy
bounce
,
and
squirted
out
between
the
bars
of
his
cell
door
and
onto
the
Mile
.
Mr.
Jingles
raced
out
after
it
,
and
Percy
saw
his
chance
.
"
No
,
you
fool
!
"
Brutal
yelled
,
but
Percy
paid
no
attention
.
Just
as
Mr.
Jingles
reached
the
spool
--
too
intent
on
it
to
realize
his
old
enemy
was
at
hand
--
Percy
brought
the
sole
of
one
hard
black
workshoe
down
on
it
.
There
was
an
audible
snap
as
Mr.
Jingles
's
back
broke
,
and
blood
gushed
from
his
mouth
.
His
tiny
dark
eyes
bulged
in
their
sockets
,
and
in
them
I
read
an
expression
of
surprised
agony
that
was
all
too
human
.
Delacroix
screamed
with
horror
and
grief
He
threw
himself
at
the
door
of
his
cell
and
thrust
his
arms
out
between
the
bars
,
reaching
as
far
as
he
could
,
crying
the
mouse
's
name
over
and
over
.
Percy
turned
toward
him
,
smiling
.
Toward
the
three
of
us
.
"
There
,
"
he
said
.
"
I
knew
I
'd
get
him
,
sooner
or
later
.
Just
a
matter
of
time
,
really
.
"
He
turned
and
walked
back
up
the
Green
Mile
,
not
hurrying
,
leaving
Mr.
Jingles
lying
on
the
linoleum
in
a
spreading
pool
of
his
own
blood
.
All
this
other
writing
aside
,
I
've
kept
a
little
diary
since
I
took
up
residence
at
Georgia
Pines
--
no
big
deal
,
just
a
couple
of
paragraphs
a
day
,
mostly
about
the
weather
--
and
I
looked
back
through
it
last
evening
.
I
wanted
to
see
just
how
long
it
has
been
since
my
grandchildren
,
Christopher
and
Danielle
,
more
or
less
forced
me
into
Georgia
Pines
.
"
For
your
own
good
,
Gramps
,
"
they
said
.
Of
course
they
did
.
Is
n't
that
what
people
mostly
say
when
they
have
finally
figured
out
how
to
get
rid
of
a
problem
that
walks
and
talks
?
It
's
been
a
little
over
two
years
.
The
eerie
thing
is
that
I
do
n't
know
if
it
feels
like
two
years
,
or
longer
than
that
,
or
shorter
.
My
sense
of
time
seems
to
be
melting
,
like
a
kid
's
snowman
in
a
January
thaw
.
It
's
as
if
time
as
it
always
was
--
Eastern
Standard
Time
,
Daylight
Saving
Tune
,
Working-Man
Time
--
does
n't
exist
anymore
.
Here
there
is
only
Georgia
Pines
Time
,
which
is
Old
Man
Time
,
Old
Lady
Time
,
and
Piss
the
Bed
Tune
.
The
rest
...
all
gone
.
This
is
a
dangerous
damned
place
.
You
do
n't
you
think
it
's
only
a
boring
dangerous
as
a
nursery
school
at
naptime
,
but
it
's
dangerous
,
all
right
.
I
've
seen
a
lot
of
people
slide
into
senility
since
I
came
here
,
and
sometimes
they
do
more
than
slide
--
sometimes
they
go
down
with
the
speed
of
a
crash-diving
submarine
.
They
come
here
mostly
all
right
--
dim-eyed
and
welded
to
the
cane
,
maybe
a
little
loose
in
the
bladder
,
but
otherwise
okay
--
and
then
something
happens
to
them
.
A
month
later
they
're
just
sitting
in
the
TV
room
,
staring
up
at
Oprah
Winfrey
on
the
TV
with
dull
eyes
,
a
slack
jaw
,
and
a
forgotten
glass
of
orange
juice
tilted
and
dribbling
in
one
hand
.
A
month
after
that
,
you
have
to
tell
them
their
kids
"
names
when
the
kids
come
to
visit
.
And
a
month
after
that
,
it
's
their
own
damned
names
you
have
to
refresh
them
on
.
Something
happens
to
them
,
all
right
:
Georgia
Pines
Time
happens
to
them
.
Time
here
is
like
a
weak
acid
that
erases
first
memory
and
then
the
desire
to
go
on
living
.
You
have
to
fight
it
.
That
's
what
I
tell
Elaine
Connelly
,
my
special
friend
.
It
's
gotten
better
for
me
since
I
started
writing
about
what
happened
to
me
in
1932
,
the
year
John
Coffey
came
on
the
Green
Mile
.
Some
of
the
memories
are
awful
,
but
I
can
feel
them
sharpening
my
mind
and
my
awareness
the
way
a
knife
sharpens
a
pencil
,
and
that
makes
the
pain
worthwhile
.
Writing
and
memory
alone
are
n't
enough
,
though
.
I
also
have
a
body
,
wasted
and
grotesque
,
though
it
may
now
be
,
and
I
exercise
it
as
much
as
I
can
.
It
was
hard
at
first
--
old
fogies
like
me
are
n't
much
shakes
when
it
comes
to
exercise
just
for
the
sake
of
exercise
--
but
it
's
easier
now
that
there
's
a
purpose
to
my
walks
.
