Misery

would have done that — but even an unlisted number would not comfort a deep neurotic like Annie Wilkes for long. 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… only her. So best to eradicate the phone, silence it, as she would silence him if she knew he had gotten even this far.
Panic burst shrilly up in his mind, telling him that he had to get out of here and back into his room, hide the pills somewhere, return to his place by the window so that when she returned she would see no difference, no difference at all, and this time he agreed with the voice. He agreed wholeheartedly. He backed carefully away from the phone, and when he gained the room’s one reasonably clear area, he began the laborious job of turning the wheelchair around, careful not to bump the occasional table as he did so.
He had nearly finished the turn when he heard an approaching car and knew, simply knew it was her, returning from town.

He nearly fainted, in the grip of the greatest terror he had ever known, a terror that was filled with deep and unmanning guilt. He suddenly remembered the only incident in his life that came remotely close to this one in its desperate emotional quality. He had been twelve. It was summer vacation, his father working, his mother gone to spend the day in Boston with Mrs Kaspbrak from across the street. He had seen a pack of her cigarettes and had lit one of them. He smoked it enthusiastically, feeling both sick and fine, feeling the way he imagined robbers must feel when they stick up banks. Halfway through the cigarette, the room filled with smoke, he had heard her opening the front door. “Paulie? It’s me I’ve forgotten my purse!” He had begun to wave madly at the smoke, knowing it would do no good, knowing he was caught, knowing he would be spanked.
It would be more than a spanking this time.
He remembered the dream he’d had during one of his gray-outs: Annie cocking the shotgun’s twin triggers and saying If you want your freedom so badly, Paul, I’ll be happy to grant it to you.
The sound of the engine began to drop as the approaching car slowed down. It was her.
Paul settled hands he could barely feel on the wheels and rolled the chair toward the hallway, sparing one glance at the ceramic penguin on its block of ice. Was it in the same place it had been? He couldn’t tell. He would have to hope.
He rolled down the hall toward the bedroom door, gaining speed. He hoped to shoot right through, but his aim was a little off. Only a little… but the fit was so tight that a little was enough. The wheelchair thumped against the right side of the doorway and bounced back a little.
Did you chip the paint? his mind screamed at him. Oh Jesus Christ, did you chip the paint, did you leave a track?
No chip. There was a small dent but no chip. Thank God. He backed and filled frantically, trying to navigate the fineness of the doorway’s tight fit.
The car motor swelled, nearing, still slowing. Now he could hear the crunch of its snow tires.
Easy… easy does it…
He rolled forward and then the hubs of the wheels stuck solid against the sides of the bedroom door. He pushed harder, knowing it wasn’t going to do any good, he was stuck in the doorway like a cork in a wine-bottle, unable to go either way — He gave one final heave, the muscles in his arms quivering like overtuned violin strings, and the wheelchair passed through with that same low squealing noise.
The Cherokee turned into the driveway.
She’ll have packages, his mind gibbered, the typewriter paper, maybe a few other things as well, and she’ll be careful coming up the walk because of the ice, you’re in here now, the worst is over, there’s time, still time…
He rolled farther into the room, then turned in a clumsy semicircle. As he rolled the wheelchair parallel to the open bedroom door, he heard the Cherokee’s engine shut off.
He leaned over, grasped the doorknob, and tried to pull the door shut. The tongue of the lock, still stuck out like a stiff steel finger, bumped the jamb. He pushed it with the ball of his thumb. It began to move… then stopped. Stopped dead, refusing to let the door close.
He stared at it stupidly for a moment, thinking of that old Navy maxim: Whatever CAN go wrong WILL go wrong.
Please God, no more, wasn’t it enough she killed the phone?
He let go