Misery(5)

"My legs hurt."

"Yes, I'm sure they do. In an hour you can have some medication."

"Now. Please." It shamed him to beg, but he could not help it. The tide had gone out and the splintered pilings stood bare, jaggedly real, things which could neither be avoided nor dealt with.

"In an hour." Firmly. She moved toward the door with the spoon and the soup-bowl in one hand.

"Wait!" She turned back, looking at him with ail expression both stern and loving. He did not like the expression. Didn't like it at all.

"Two weeks since you pulled me out?" She looked vague again, and annoyed. He would come to know that her grasp of time was not good. "Something like that."

"I was unconscious.

"Almost all the time."

"What did I eat?" She considered him.

"IV," she said briefly.

"IV?" he said, and she mistook his stunned surprise for ignorance.

"I fed you intravenously," she said. "Through tubes. That's what those marks on your arms are." She looked at him with eyes that were suddenly flat and considering. "You owe me your life, Paul. I hope you'll remember that. I hope you'll keep that in mind." Then she left.

7

The hour passed. Somehow and finally, the hour passed.

He lay in bed, sweating and shivering at the same time. From the other room came first the sounds of Hawkeye and Hot Lips and then the disc jockeys on WKRP, that wild and crazy Cincinnati radio station. An announcer's voice came on, extolled Ginsu knives, gave an 800 number, and informed those Colorado watchers who had simply been panting for a good set of Ginsu knives that Operators Were Standing By.

Paul Sheldon was also Standing By.

She reappeared promptly when the clock in the other room struck eight, with two capsules and a glass of water.

He hoisted himself eagerly on his elbows as she sat on the bed.

"I finally got your new book two days ago," she told him. Ice tinkled in the glass. It was a maddening sound. "Misery's Child. I love it... It's as good as all the rest. Better! The best!"

"Thank you," he managed. He could feel the sweat standing out on his forehead. "Please my legs very painful... "

"I knew she would marry Ian," she said, smiling dreamily, and I believe Geoffrey and Ian will become friends again, eventually. Do they?" But immediately she said: "No, don't tell! I want to find out for myself. I'm making it last. It always seems so long before there is another one." The pain throbbed in his legs and made a deep steel circlet around his crotch. He had touched himself down there, and he thought his pelvis was intact, but it felt twisted and weird. Below his knees it felt as if nothing was intact. He didn't want to look. He could see the twisted, lumpy shapes outlined in the bedclothes, and that was enough.

"Please? Miss Wilkes? The pain - "

"Call me Annie. All my friends do." She gave him the glass. It was cool and beaded with moisture. She kept the capsules. The capsules in her hand were the tide. She was the moon, and she had brought the tide which would cover the pilings. She brought them toward his mouth, which he immediately dropped open... and then she withdrew them.

"I took the liberty of looking in your little bag. You don't mind, do you?"

"No. No, of course not. The medicine - " The beads of sweat on his forehead felt alternately hot and cold. Was he going to scream? He thought perhaps he was.

"I see there is a manuscript in there," she said. She held the capsules in her right hand, which she now slowly tilted. They fell into her left hand. His eyes followed them. "It's called Fast Cars. Not a Misery novel, I know that." She looked at him with faint disapproval - but, as before, it was mixed with love. It was a maternal look. "No cars in the nineteenth century, fast or otherwise!" She tittered at this small joke. "I also took the liberty of glancing through it... You don't mind, do you?"

"Please," he moaned. "No, but please - " Her left hand tilted. The capsules rolled, hesitated, and then fell back into her right hand with a minute clicking sound.

"And if I read it? You wouldn't mind if I read it?"

"No - " His bones were shattered, his legs filled with festering shards of broken glass. "No..."He made something he hoped was a smile. "No, of course not."

"Because I would never presume to do such a thing without your permission," she said earnestly. "I respect you too much. In fact, Paul, I love you." She crimsoned suddenly and alarmingly. One of the capsules dropped from her hand to the coverlet. Paul snatched at it, but she was quicker. He moaned, but she did not notice; after grabbing the capsule she went vague again, looking toward the window. "Your mind," she said, "Your creativity, That is all I meant" In desperation, because it was the only thing he could think of, he said: "I know. You're my number-one fan." She did not just warm up this time; she lit up. "That's it!" she cried. "That's it exactly! And you wouldn't mind if I read it in that spirit, would you? That spirit of... of fan-love? Even though I don't like your other books as well as the Misery stories?"

"No," he said, and closed his eyes. No, tum the pages of the manuscript into paper hats if you want, just... please... I'm dying in here...