Re: change

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Could he have made such a mistake? "the cop asked. "She waved a hand at him impatiently, and he understood it would be better — today, at least — not to interrupt her. For a moment he lay there with his legs drawn up, looking as helpless as a turtle on its shell. He kept seeing the trooper coming back to life — some sort of life — out in the barn, sitting up, the loose hay with which Annie had covered him falling to either side of him and into his lap, his face plowed into bloody senselessness by the mower's blade. He vaguely remembered an evening he'd spent drinking Scotch with a gloomy playwright named Bernstein at the Lion's Head, down in the Village (and if he lived to see the Village again he would get down on whatever remained of his knees and kiss the grimy sidewalk of Christopher Street). By the time their trash was stashed in the big drum with KEEP YOUR BEACH CLEAN stencilled on the side, Paulie's beach-toys picked up (that's my name Paulie I'm Paulie and tonight ma'll put Johnson's Baby Oil on my sunburn he thought inside the thunderhead where he now lived) and the blanket folded again, the piling had almost wholly reappeared, its blackish, slime-smoothed sides surrounded by sudsy scuds of foam.Paul groped on the knickknack table, knocking figurine over. "No! but neither would she allow him to cheat Misery back to life Paul began to scream at once. !

He didn't know, but the fact that he had felt almost no pain during the week following the amputation was a pretty clear indicator of just how close, perhaps. He decided suddenly, on the spur of the moment, that he would start dodging some of the medication as soon as he got a first chapter that Annie liked on paper — a chapter which Annie decided wasn't a cheat. Annie walked back to the mower, got on, started it up, and drove it around back. When she came in he thought at first that she must be a dream, but then reality — or mere brute survival — took over and he began to moan and beg and plead, all of it broken, all of it coming from a deepening well of unreality. He thought later that the world, in its unfailing perversity, would probably construe those things which he did next as acts of heroism. She was as close to pretty as Annie Wilkes ever could be, and when he tried to remember that scene later the only clear images he could fix upon were her flushed cheeks and the sprigged hat. I suppose this time it'll make me feel dizzy and like puking, but I'd like that little link with the past. In the evenings he sat quietly, listening to the pig squeal and thinking about how he would kill the Dragon Lady. And while she hadn't believed him — not then — she had allowed him to go back to work just the same. They had bought a house in March, and that was not step you took if you felt that your marriage was falling apart. His face was the face of a man either trying to pass a kidney stone or having a terrible gas attack. He was still backing and filling as her footsteps began to come down the hallway. It was as if he had been given control of the moon and the tides — or had just reached up and taken it. Had he known, before this had he really known how badly she had cowed him, or how much of his essential self — the liver and lights of his spirit — she had scraped away? "She looked at him with her black eyes burning in her solid yet doughy white face and Paul thought: If Andrew Pomeroy could get it up for you, Annie, he must have been as crazy as the caretaker that burned down the hotel. "He wouldn't have dared put the pills under the rug even if he thought he had time to do so before she came back — the packages were small, but the bulges would still be all too obvious. He could see the barnacles which encrusted them, could see pale drowned things lying limply in the clefts of the wood. "The dope was coming in heavier and heavier waves, and now he just wished she would shut up and go away. Creativity or the lack of it had no bearing on these things; to do them was as foolish as issuing a proclamation revoking the law of gravity or trying to play table-tennis with a brick. The feel of it was both refreshing and somehow nostalgic, like a note from an old friend. For the first time in weeks — it felt like years — he was able to look at a geography different from that of his room with its unchanging verities — blue wallpaper, picture of the Arc de Triomphe, the long, long month of February symbolized by the boy sliding downhill on his sled (he thought that his mind would turn to that boy's face and stocking cap each time January became February, even if he lived to see that change of months another fifty times). The pain was like the piling, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there.