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And
although
I
suppose
it
will
sound
strange
to
some
reading
this
in
spite
of
all
I
have
said
,
part
of
me
relished
the
pain
that
came
when
that
gallstone
went
.
It
was
the
only
serious
pain
I
'd
had
since
that
problem
with
my
waterworks
,
twenty-four
years
before
.
The
ills
that
have
taken
my
friends
and
same-generation
loved
ones
until
there
are
none
of
them
left
--
the
strokes
,
the
cancers
,
the
heart
attacks
,
the
liver
diseases
,
the
blood
diseases
--
have
all
left
me
untouched
,
have
swerved
to
avoid
me
the
way
a
man
driving
a
car
swerves
to
avoid
a
deer
or
a
raccoon
in
the
road
.
The
one
serious
accident
I
was
in
left
me
untouched
save
for
a
scratch
on
the
hand
.
In
1932
,
John
Coffey
inoculated
me
with
life
.
Electrocuted
me
with
life
,
you
might
say
.
I
will
pass
on
eventually
--
of
course
I
will
,
any
illusions
of
immortality
I
might
have
had
died
with
Mr.
Jingles
--
but
I
will
have
wished
for
death
long
before
death
finds
me
.
Truth
to
tell
,
I
wish
for
it
already
and
have
ever
since
Elaine
Connelly
died
.
Need
I
tell
you
?
I
look
back
over
these
pages
,
leafing
through
them
with
my
trembling
,
spotted
hands
,
and
I
wonder
if
there
is
some
meaning
here
,
as
in
those
books
which
are
supposed
to
be
uplifting
and
ennobling
.
I
think
back
to
the
sermons
of
my
childhood
,
booming
affirmations
in
the
church
of
Praise
Jesus
,
The
Lord
Is
Mighty
,
and
I
recall
how
the
preachers
used
to
say
that
God
's
eye
is
on
the
sparrow
,
that
He
sees
and
marks
even
the
least
of
His
creations
.
When
I
think
of
Mr.
Jingles
,
and
the
tiny
scraps
of
wood
we
found
in
that
hole
in
the
beam
,
I
think
that
is
so
.
Yet
this
same
God
sacrificed
John
Coffey
,
who
tried
only
to
do
good
in
his
blind
way
,
as
savagely
as
any
Old
Testament
prophet
ever
sacrificed
a
defenseless
lamb
...
as
Abraham
would
have
sacrificed
his
own
son
if
actually
called
upon
to
do
so
.
I
think
of
John
saying
that
Wharton
killed
the
Detterick
twins
with
their
love
for
each
other
,
and
that
it
happens
every
day
,
all
over
the
world
.
If
it
happens
,
God
lets
it
happen
,
and
when
we
say
"
I
do
n't
understand
,
"
God
replies
,
"
I
do
n't
care
.
"
I
think
of
Mr.
Jingles
dying
while
my
back
was
turned
and
my
attention
usurped
by
an
unkind
man
whose
finest
emotion
seemed
to
be
a
species
of
vindictive
curiosity
.
I
think
of
Janice
,
jittering
away
her
last
mindless
seconds
as
I
knelt
with
her
in
the
rain
.
Stop
it
,
I
tried
to
tell
John
that
day
in
his
cell
.
Let
go
of
my
hands
,
I
'm
going
to
drown
if
you
do
n't
.
Drown
or
explode
.
"
You
wo
n't
"
splode
,
"
he
answered
,
hearing
my
thought
and
smiling
at
the
idea
.
And
the
horrible
thing
is
that
I
did
n't
.
I
have
n't
.
I
have
at
least
one
old
man
's
ill
:
I
suffer
from
insomnia
.
Late
at
night
I
lie
in
my
bed
,
listening
to
the
dank
and
hopeless
sound
of
infirm
men
and
women
coughing
their
courses
deeper
into
old
age
.
Sometimes
I
hear
a
call-bell
,
or
the
squeak
of
a
shoe
in
the
corridor
,
or
Mrs.
Javits
's
little
TV
tuned
to
the
late
news
.
I
lie
here
,
and
if
the
moon
is
in
my
window
,
I
watch
it
I
lie
here
and
think
about
Brutal
,
and
Dean
,
and
sometimes
William
Wharton
saying
That
's
right
,
nigger
,
bad
as
you
'd
want
.
I
think
of
Delacroix
saying
Watch
this
Boss
Edgecombe
,
I
teach
Mr.
Jingles
a
new
trick
.
I
think
of
Elaine
,
standing
in
the
door
of
the
sunroom
and
telling
Brad
Dolan
to
leave
me
alone
.
Sometimes
I
doze
and
see
that
underpass
in
the
rain
,
with
John
Coffey
standing
beneath
it
in
the
shadows
.
It
's
never
just
a
trick
of
the
eye
,
in
these
little
dreams
;
it
's
always
him
for
sure
,
my
big
boy
,
just
standing
there
and
watching
.
I
lie
here
and
wait
.
I
think
about
Janice
,
how
I
lost
her
,
how
she
ran
away
red
through
my
fingers
in
the
rain
,
and
I
wait
.
We
each
owe
a
death
,
there
are
no
exceptions
,
I
know
that
,
but
sometimes
,
oh
God
,
the
Green
Mile
is
so
long
.