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she said so. The pain! "That night, around eight o'clock, he hoisted himself carefully into the wheelchair. I could get you up there in the back of the police-car, out getting you back down would be impossible. During the next three weeks, Paul Sheldon felt surrounded by a queer electric peacefulness. One could usually handle such moments — no matter how much one might feel one was entering one's dotage while trying to maintain an ordinary conversation with a person whose name one should be able to recall but could not; things only reached the more cosmic realms of embarrassment when two such familiar faces arrived at the same time, and one felt called upon to make introductions. But instead of weeping with exalted grief as she should have done when Misery expired giving birth to the boy whom Ian and Geoffrey would presumably raise together, she was mad as hell."I know that, Mister Smart Guy. Or here. but his stomach growled at the sight of it. "Just what you asked for, isn't it? then a little more.

But, Annie, you've got: to settle d- " I "This is what they want,»she said, and raised one hooked hand to her forehead. In the end, in spite of his having grown to despise her, Misery's death had been something of a surprise to him. "That was the question I had to ask myself, and as much as I may have wanted to pull the wool over my eyes, I knew the answer to that — I knew even before I saw the marks on the door over there. Yeah, he supposed he would get through it, if the goddam typewriter held together. He giggled at this, a shrill, relieved sound, and he realized the medication wasn't just working on his legs. Dr Frank Canley, the admitting physician, said that Wilkes died of multiple skull fractures and a broken neck. On the first page was a single column of newsprint, headed WILKES-BERRYMAN NUPTIALS. The wild gales of mirth ended when he looked at the mangled body of the rat in the corner. He could see a short hallway leading down to what was clearly the parlor: a dark-red rug on the floor, an old-fashioned divan upholstered in similar material, a lamp with tassels hanging from its shade. "Paul screamed, and instead of shooting Annie Wilkes with his big old Dirty (birdie) Harry gun, he first fumbled, then dropped it. And this had caused another memory to resurface: finishing William Golding's Lord of the Flies at the age of twelve on a hot summer day, going to the refrigerator for a cold glass of lemonade. She turned Mary up the lane which ran beside it, shivering at the ghostly sound of the wind playing along the eaves. Oh Annie oh my Jesus Annie killed that stupid broad — He rolled back and peeked through the window. He thought briefly of his car in the snow, and then picked up a piece of paper and rolled it into the Royal. He was sure he could hoist himself into the chair, knew it was probably a bad idea to let Annie know he could, but he needed his other fix, goddammit, and he could not write lying here in bed. The wheelchair thumped against the right side of the doorway and bounced back a little. The fingers trailed down his cheek, across the side of his neck, and then squeezed his shoulder briefly, with compassion, before drawing away. He had not put anything under there since the knife, and he did not intend to leave the lighter fluid there long, but it would have to stay there for the rest of the day. "The dope was coming in heavier and heavier waves, and now he just wished she would shut up and go away. It hurt furiously while he wrote, but that was not the worst — the worst was the hour or two afterward, when the healing stump would madden him with a droney itch, like swarming, sleepy bees. Her smile suddenly collapsed into a narrow watchfulness he didn't like much — it was like discovering a deep crevasse almost obscured by summer flowers in the midst of a smiling, jocund meadow. A bee could have been the cause of Miss Evelyn-Hyde's unfortunate live burial; it even made sense, since it had happened in mid-spring; in the garden, to boot.