Misery Chastain was dead. Paul Sheldon had just killed her — with relief, with joy. Misery had made him rich; she was the heroine of a string of bestsellers. And now he wanted to get on to some real writing. That’s when the car accident happened, and he woke up in pain in a strange bed. But it wasn’t the hospital.
Авторы: King Stephen Edwin
was floating, floating, floating away. He closed his eyes and heard her speak as if from a long distance away… like a supernatural voice from a cloud. Goddess, he thought.
“Have you ever read about the early days at the Kimberley diamond mines, Paul?”
“I wrote the book on that one, he said for no reason at all, and laughed.
(pre-op? pre-op shot?) “Sometimes, the native workers stole diamonds. They wrapped them in leaves and poked them up their rectums. If they got away from the Big Hole without being discovered, they would run. And do you know what the British did to them if they got caught before they could get over Oranjerivier and into Boer country?”
“Killed them, I suppose,” he said, eyes still closed.
“Oh, no! That would have been like junking an expensive car just because of a broken spring. If they caught them they made sure that they could go on working… but they also made sure they would never run again. The operation was called hobbling, Paul, and that is what I’m going to do to you. For my own safety… and yours as well. Believe me, you need to be protected from yourself. Just remember, a little pain and it will be over. Try to hold that thought.” Terror sharp as a gust of wind filled with razor-blades blew through the dope and Paul’s eyes flew open. She had risen and now drew the bedclothes down, exposing his twisted legs and bare feet.
“No,” he said. “No… Annie… whatever it is you’ve got on your mind, we can talk about it, can’t we?… please… “ She bent over. When she straightened up she was holding the axe from the shed in one hand and a propane torch in the other. The blade of the axe gleamed. Written on the side of the propane torch was the word Bernz-O-matiC. She bent down again and this time came up with a dark bottle and the box of matches. There was a label on the dark bottle. Written on the label was the word Betadine.
He never forgot these things, these words, these names.
“Annie, no!” he screamed. “Annie, I’ll stay right here! I won’t even get out of bed! Please! Oh God please don’t cut me!”
“It’ll be all right,” she said, and her face now had that slack, unplugged look — that look of perplexed vacuity — and before his mind was completely consumed in a forest fire of panic he understood that when this was over, she would have only the vaguest memories of what she had done, as she had only the vaguest memories of killing the children and the old people and the terminal patients and Andrew Pomeroy. After all, this was the woman who, although she’d gotten her cap in 1966, had told him only minutes ago that she had been a nurse for ten years.
She killed Pomeroy with that same axe. I know she did.
He continued to shriek and plead, but his words had become inarticulate babble. He tried to turn over, turn away from her, and his legs cried out. He tried to draw them up, make them less vulnerable less of a target, and his knee screamed.
“Only a minute more, Paul,” she said, and uncapped the Betadine. She poured a brownish-red muck over his left ankle. “Only a minute more and it’s over.” She tipped the blade of the axe flat, the tendons standing out in her strong right wrist, and he could see the wink of the amethyst ring she still wore on the pinkie finger of that hand. She poured Betadine on the blade. He could smell it, a doctor’s office smell. That smell meant you were going to get a shot.
“Just a little pain, Paul. It won’t be bad.” She turned the axe over and splashed the other side of the blade. He could see random flowers of rust blooming on this side before the goop covered it.
“Annie Annie oh Annie please please no please don’t Annie I swear to you I’ll be good I swear to God I’ll be good please give me a chance to be good OH ANNIE PLEASE LET ME BE GOOD — “
“Just a little pain. Then this nasty business will be behind us for good, Paul.” She tossed the open bottle of Betadine over her shoulder, her face blank and empty and yet so unarguably solid; she slid her right hand down the handle of the axe alnost to the steel head. She gripped the handle farther up in her left hand and spread her legs like a logger.
“ANNIE OH PLEASE PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!” Her eyes were mild and drifting. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m a trained nurse.” The axe came whistling down and buried itself in Paul Sheldon’s left leg just above the ankle. Pain exploded up his body in a gigantic bolt. Dark-red blood splattered across her face like Indian war-paint. It splattered the wall. He heard the blade squeal against bone as she wrenched it free. He looked unbelievingly down at himself. The sheet was turning red. He saw his toes wriggling. Then he saw her raising the dripping axe again. Her hair had fallen free of its pins and hung around her blank face.
He tried to pull back in spite of the pain in his leg and knee and realized
