Misery

truth, nothing but the truth, so help you God?
(«I don’t know where he gets it.”) I do.
(«He’s ALWAYS writing things like this down.”) State your name.
(«Nobody on my side of the family had an imagination like his.”) Annie Wilkes.
(«So vivid!”) My name is Annie Wilkes.
He willed her to say more; she would not.
“Come on,” he muttered, his arm over his eyes — this was the way he thought best, the way he imagined best. His mother liked to tell Mrs Mulvaney on the other side of the fence what a marvellous imagination he had, so vivid, and what wonderful little stories he was always writing down (except, of course, when she was calling him a sissy and a bawl-baby). “Come on, come on, come on.” He could see the courtroom in Denver, could see Annie Wilkes on the stand, not wearing jeans now but a rusty purple-black dress and an awful hat. He could see that the courtroom was crowded with spectators, that the judge, vas bald and wearing glasses. The judge had a white moustache. There was a birthmark beneath the white moustache. The white moustache covered most of it but not quite all.
Annie Wilkes.
(He read at just three! Can you imagine!”) That spirit of… of fan-love…
(«He’s always writing things down, making things up.”) Now I must rinse.
(Africa. That bird came from») “Come on,” he whispered, but could get no further. The bailiff asked her to state her name, and over and over again she said it was Annie Wilkes, but she said no more; she sat there with her fibrous solid ominous body displacing air and said her name over and over again but no more than that.
Still trying to imagine why the ex-nurse who had taken him prisoner might have once been put on the stand in Denver, Paul drifted off to sleep.

He was in a hospital ward. Great relief swept through him — so great he felt like crying. Something had happened when he was asleep, someone had come, or perhaps Annie had had a change of heart or mind. It didn’t matter. He had gone to sleep in the monster-woman’s house and had awakened in the hospital.
But surely they would not have put him in a long ward like this? It was as big as an airplane hangar! Identical rows of men (with identical bottles of nutrient hung from identical IV trays beside their beds) filled the place. He sat up and saw that the men themselves were also identical — they were all him. Then, distantly, he heard the clock chime, and understood that it was chiming from beyond the wall of sleep. This was a dream. Sadness replaced the relief.
The door at the far end of the huge ward opened and in came Annie Wilkes — only she was dressed in a long aproned dress and there was a mobcap on her head; she was dressed as Misery Chastain in Misery’s Love. Over one arm she held a wicker basket. There was a towel over the contents. She folded the towel back as he watched. She reached in and took out a handful of something and flung it into the face of the first sleeping Paul Sheldon. It was sand, he saw this was Annie Wilkes pretending to be Misery Chastain pretending to be the sandman. Sandwoman.
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. She was holding the fat paperback of Misery’s Child in one hand. Her bookmark suggested she was about three-quarters of the way through.
“You were moaning,” she said.
“I had a bad dream.”
“What was it about?” The first thing which was not the truth that popped into his head was what he replied: “Africa.”

She came in late the following morning, her face the color of ashes. He had been dozing, but he came awake at once; jerking up on his elbows.
“Miss Wilkes? Annie? Are you all r — “
“No.” Christ, she’s had a heart attack, he thought, and there was a moment’s alarm which was immediately replaced by joy. Let her have one! A big one! A fucking chest-buster! He would be more than happy to crawl to the telephone, no matter how much it might hurt. He would crawl to the telephone over broken glass, if that was what it took.
And it was a heart attack… but not the right kind.
She came toward him, not quite staggering but rolling, the way a sailor will when he’s just gotten off his ship at the enc of a long voyage.
“What — “ He tried to shrink away from her, but there was no place to go. There was only the headboard, and behind that, the wall.
“No!” She reached the side of the bed, bumped it, wavered and for a moment seemed on the verge of falling on top