Nguyên tác một đoạn trong Darkly Dreaming Dexter

Đây là nguyên tác. Bạn nào muốn đọc bản tiếng Việt thì đọc cái post ở bên dưới cái post này. Dịch chơi giải trí, không chịu trách nhiệm việc dịch hay hay dở, đúng hay sai đâu nhé.

Moon.
Glorious moon. Full, fat, reddish moon, the night as light as day, the moonlight
flooding down across the land and bringing joy, joy, joy. Bringing too the
full-throated call of the tropical night, the soft and wild voice of the wind
roaring through the hairs on your arm, the hollow wail of starlight, the teeth-grinding
bellow of the moonlight off the water.

All
calling to the Need. Oh, the symphonic shriek of the thousand hiding voices,
the cry of the Need inside, the entity, the silent watcher, the cold quiet
thing, the one that laughs, the Moondancer. The me that was not-me, the thing that
mocked and laughed and came calling with its hunger. With the Need. And the
Need was very strong now, very careful cold coiled creeping crackly cocked and
ready, very 
strong,
very much ready now—and still it waited and watched, and it made me wait and
watch.

I
had been waiting and watching the priest for five weeks now. The Need had been
prickling and teasing and prodding at me to find one, find the next, find this
priest.

For
three weeks I had known he was it, he was next, we belonged to the Dark
Passenger, he and I together. And that three weeks I had spent fighting the
pressure, the growing Need, rising in me like a great wave that roars up and
over the beach and does not recede, only swells more with every tick of the
bright night’s clock.

But
it was careful time, too, time spent making sure. Not making sure of the
priest, no, I was long sure of him. Time spent to be certain that it could be
done right, made neat, all the corners folded, all squared away. I could not be
caught, not now. I had worked too hard, too long, to make this work for me, to
protect my happy little life.

And
I was having too much fun to stop now.

And
so I was always careful. Always tidy. Always prepared ahead of time so it would
be right. And when it was right, take extra time to be sure. It was the
Harry way, God bless him, that farsighted perfect policeman, my foster father. Always
be sure, be careful, be exact, he had said, and for a week now I had been sure
that everything was just as Harry-right as it could be. And when I left work
this night, 
I
knew this was it. This night was the Night. This night felt different. This
night it would happen, had to happen. Just as it had happened before.
Just as it would happen again, and again.

And
tonight it would happen to the priest.

His
name was Father Donovan. He taught music to the children at St. Anthony’s
Orphanage in Homestead, Florida.

The
children loved him. And of course he loved the children, oh very much indeed.
He had devoted a whole life to them. Learned Creole and Spanish. Learned their 
music,
too. All for the kids. Everything he did, it was all for the kids.

Everything.

I
watched him this night as I had watched for so many nights now. Watched as he
paused in the orphanage doorway to talk to a young black girl who had followed
him out.

She
was small, no more than eight years old and small for that. He sat on the steps
and talked to her for five minutes. She sat, too, and bounced up and down. They
laughed. She leaned against him. He touched her hair. A nun came out and stood
in the doorway, looking down at them for a moment before she spoke. Then she
smiled and held out a hand. The girl bumped her head against the priest. Father 
Donovan
hugged her, stood, and kissed the girl good night.

The
nun laughed and said something to Father Donovan.

He
said something back.

And
then he started toward his car. Finally: I coiled myself to strike and—

Not
yet. A janitorial service minivan stood fifteen feet from the door. As Father
Donovan passed it, the side door slid open. A man leaned out, puffing on a
cigarette, and greeted the priest, who leaned against the van and talked to 
the
man.

Luck.
Luck again. Always luck on these Nights. I had not seen the man, not guessed he
was there. But he would have seen me. If not for Luck.

I
took a deep breath. Let it out slow and steady, icy cold. It was only one small
thing. I had not missed any others. I had done it all right, all the same, all
the way it had to be done. It would be right.

Now.

Father
Donovan walked toward his car again. He turned once and called something. The
janitor waved from the doorway to the orphanage, then stubbed out his cigarette
and disappeared inside the building. Gone.

Luck.
Luck again.

Father
Donovan fumbled for his keys, opened his car door, got into his car. I heard
the key go in. Heard the engine turn over. And then —

NOW.

I
sat up in his backseat and slipped the noose around his neck. One quick,
slippery, pretty twist and the coil of fiftypound- test fishing line settled
tight. He made a small ratchet of panic and that was it.

“You
are mine now,” I told him, and he froze as neat and perfect as if he had
practiced, almost like he heard the other voice, the laughing watcher inside
me.

“Do
exactly as I say,” I said.

He
rasped half a breath and glanced into his rearview mirror. My face was there,
waiting for him, wrapped in the white silk mask that showed only my eyes.

“Do
you understand?” I said. The silk of the mask flowed across my lips as I spoke.

Father
Donovan said nothing. Stared at my eyes. I pulled on the noose.

“Do
you understand?” I repeated, a little softer.

This
time he nodded. He fluttered a hand at the noose, not sure what would happen if
he tried to loosen it. His face was turning purple.

I
loosened the noose for him. “Be good,” I said, “and you will live longer.”

He
took a deep breath. I could hear the air rip at his throat. He coughed and
breathed again. But he sat still and did not try to escape.

This
was very good….”

“trích
Darkly Dreaming Dexter”

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