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
bees will sleep. And Mis’wess, she is goan sleep, too.
Now the bees covered her in a thick and moving blanket; her eyes, open but unseeing, seemed to be receding into a living cave of crawling, stumbling, droning bees.
“And if the drums stop?” Geoffrey asked in a low almost strengthless voice, and just then, the drums did.
For a mom h hr of h m
Paul looked unbelievingly at the last line, then picked the Royal up — he had gone on lifting it like some weird barbell when she was out of the room, God knew why — and shook it again. The keys clittered, and then another chunk of metal fell out on the board which served as his desk.
Outside he could hear the roaring sound of Annie’s bright-blue riding lawnmower — she was around front, giving the grass a good trim so those cockadoodie Roydmans wouldn’t have anything to talk about in town.
He set the typewriter down, then rocked it up so he could fish out this new surprise. He looked at it in the strong late afternoon sunlight slanting in through the window. His expression of disbelief never altered.
Printed in raised and slightly ink-stained metal on the head of the key was:
E
e
Just to add to the fun, the old Royal had now thrown the most frequently used letter in the English language.
Paul looked at the calendar. The picture was of a flowered meadow and the month said May, but Paul kept his own dates now on a piece of scrap paper, and according to his home-made calendar it was June 21.
Roll out those lazy hazy crazy days of summer, he though sourly, and threw the key-hammer in the general direction of the wastebasket.
Well, what do I do now? he thought, but of course he knew what came next. Longhand. That was what came next.
But not now. Although he had been tearing along like house afire a few seconds ago, anxious to get Ian, Geoffrey, and the ever-amusing Hezekiah caught in the Bourkas ambush so that the entire party could be transported to the caves behind the face of the idol for the rousing finale, he was suddenly tired. The hole in the paper had closed with an adamant bang.
Tomorrow.
He would go to longhand tomorrow.
Fuck longhand. Complain to the management, Paul.
But he would do no such thing. Annie had gotten to too weird.
He listened to the monotonous snarl of the riding lawnmower, saw her shadow, and, as so often happened when he thought of how weird Annie was getting, his mind recalled the image of the axe rising, then falling; the image of her horrid impassive deadly face splattered with his blood. I was clear. Every word she had spoken, every word he had screamed, the squeal of the axe pulling away from the severed bone, the blood on the wall. All crystal-clear. And, as he also so often did, he tried to block this memory; and found himself a second too late.
Because the crucial plot-twist of Fast Cars concerned Tony Bonasaro’s near-fatal crack-up in his last desperate effort to escape the police (and this led to the epilogue, which consisted of the bruising interrogation conducted by the late Lieutenant Gray’s partner in Tony’s hospital room), Paul had interviewed a number of crash victims. He had heard the same thing time and time again. It came in different wrappers, but it always boiled down to the same thing: I remember getting into the car, and I remember waking up here. Everything else is a blank.
Why couldn’t that have happened to him Because writers remember everything, Paul. Especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he’ll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels, not amnesia. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is that ability to remember the story of every scar.
Art consists of the persistence of memory.
Who had said that? Thomas Szasz? William Faulkner? Cyndi Lauper?
But that last name brought its own association, a painful and unhappy one under these circumstances: a memory of Cyndi Lauper hiccuping her way cheerfully through “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” that was so clear it was almost auditory: Oh daddy dear, you’re still number one / But girls, they wanna have fuh-un / Oh when the workin day is done / Girls just wanna have fun.
Suddenly he wanted a hit of rock and roll worse than he had ever wanted a cigarette. It didn’t have to be Cyndi Lauper. Anyone would do. Jesus Christ, Ted Nugent would be just fine.
The axe coming down.
The whisper of the axe.
Don’t think about it.
But that was stupid. He kept telling himself not to think about it, knowing all the while that it was there, like a bone in
