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Before he looked at the food stored on the shelves, he looked at the matches. "Ian — Geoffrey — are we at sea? He didn't know the answer to that one, either The pain was somewhere below the sounds. "Wicks paused for a moment, wanting to better express how it had been, the conflicting emotions he had felt — horror and pity and sorrow and disgust — most of all wonder that a man who looked this bad should still be alive. He had dreamed that Annie Wilkes was Scheherazade, her solid body clad in diaphanous robes, her big feet stuffed into pink sequined slippers with curly toes as she rode on her magic carpet and chanted the incantatory phrases which open the doors of the best stories. They were all in league against her, they could get the number if they wanted, probably the lawyers who had been against her would be glad to pass it out to anyone who asked for it, and people would ask, oh yes — for she would see the world as a dark place full of moving human masses like seas, a malevolent universe surrounding a single small stage upon which a single savagely bright pinspot illuminated. But this was a different accident, and the reason for the similarity was simplicity itself: neither had really been an accident at all.Really? Paul marvelled at how composed she sounded, how pleasant. "Let me go, damn you! "Get the hell out of here! "he asked.

He thought he had heard the cow bellow like that once before, but it had been an evil sound dimly heard in an evil dream, because then he had been full of his own pain. So best to eradicate the phone, silence it, as she would silence him if she knew he had gotten even this far. "It really is the best Misery story of them all, and I do so much want to know how it all comes out. Paul heard its bones break, and then the thick pads of her fingers punched into its body, disappearing up to the first knuckle. Halfway through the cigarette, the room filled with smoke, he had heard her opening the front door. He often heard the animals; they were as much a part of the general background as the chiming parlor-clock — but he had never heard the pig squeal so. "But you must bum a few of the single pages, Paul — as a symbol of your understanding. But the stairs were too steep, the possibility of being burned alive if Annie's flaming house collapsed into the cellar-hole before the Sidewinder fire engines could get here was too real, and the rats down there. " He looked again, as if to confirm the dreadfulness of the sight, and again made as if to rush to where Misery had been tied to a post in a jungle clearing, her arms over her head. You were the tough young gunsel looking to make a rep off the tired old turd of a sheriff, right? Ramage, hardly dressed for a court ball herself in her long white nightgown and muskrat's-nightcap with the untied curling ribbons hanging around her face like the fringe on a lampshade, stared at him with mounting concern. In his mind he heard the voice of Ronald Reagan in King's Raw, shrieking "Where's the rest of me? There was a rough purring sound as Ian's dress shirt, now sun-faded and already torn in a dozen places, began to come apart in Geoffrey's grasp. "I knew it — the real part of my mind did — but I can still hardly be — " Wicks said: "There's blood and broken glass and charred paper in there. That trooper had been a weedy young man hardly out of his teens, a rookie cop pulling a shit detail, chasing the cold trail of some numbnuts writer who had wrecked up his car and then either staggered deeper into the woods to die or walked blithely away from the whole mess with his thumb cocked. Here too, he thought, was his own ghost in a series of overlays, like still pictures which, when riffled rapidly, give the illusion of movement. It was guilt he cried from, and he hated that most of all: in addition to everything else that this monstrous woman had done to him, she had made him feel guilty as well. He hit the keys harder than necessary, so she would be sure to hear he was typing something, at least. Then he saw that the first Paul Sheldon's face had turned a ghastly white as soon as the sand struck it and fear jerked him out of the dream and into the bedroom, where Annie Wilkes was standing over him. Although the curtains guarding the bow windows were only half-drawn, affording a lovely view of the mountains, the room seemed too dark — because its colors were too dark, he thought. He knew just how long because of the pen, the Flair Fine-Liner he had been carrying in his pocket at the time of the crash. He sat in his chair, eyes half-closed, hoping madly that he had gotten the chair back where it had been (or at least close enough to it so she wouldn't notice), hoping that she would take his sweat-drenched face and quivering body simply as reactions to missing his medication, hoping most of all that he hadn't left a track — It was as the door swung open that he looked, down and saw that by looking for individual tracks with such agonized concentration, he had ignored a whole buffalo run: the boxes of Novril were still in his lap.