Unsolicited Writings

Annie put it
on the mantel below the picture of the Arc de Triomphe without comment.
Paul made a wounded, baffled noise, lowered his hand, and then leaned back,
panting. His first cursory glance had taken in the
shelves with their stacks of folded sheets and pillow-cases and washcloths and
towels. He set the typewriter down, then rocked it up so he
could fish out this new surprise. He had purposely turned the top
sheet around so she could read this:Above this sopping pile of paper Paul's swollen
right hand hovered, and held between the thumb and first finger was a single burning
match.He would have some of those. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
And what was on her breath. "The night
herself died. "Remember, Paul.

She brought it to him, the old scuffed Lord Buston he'd had since college, and put
it in his hands. A horrible moaning sound
passed between his closed lips and his hands made light, haphazard drumming sounds
on either side of the Royal, but that was all he could do, all the control of his
destiny he could seem to take. What he needed to prop him
up were not those shitty sticks but his make-believe games and stories
Next real memory: her fingers pushing something into his mouth at
regular intervals, something like Contac capsules, only since there was no water
they only sat in his mouth and when they melted there was an incredibly bitter taste
that was a little like the taste of aspirin. The
anger and humiliation surged again, awakening the first dull answering throb in his
legs. He noted with deepening misgivings that there were red marks
like weals on her cheeks and arms. Overlying even all this was a picture,
which grew clearer and clearer (as if a giant slide had been projected against the
cloud in which he lay) as time passed. He slowly
backed the wheelchair across the bathroom, glancing behind himself occasionally to
make sure he wasn't wandering off-course. And since he was in here on
one side of a locked door and she was out there on the other side of it, you didn't
have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that she'd slapped herself. There
was a picture of a pale gent with a narrow face and a woman with dark eyes and a
pursy mouth. If he had spoken of a village census in Little
Dunthorpe, she might have shown some interest.
"Her face wrinkled, and for a moment she looked as she had when she had imitated the
sound the pig made. The irritating thing about village life, he
thought, was that there weren't enough people for there to be any perfect strangers
instead there were just enough to keep one from knowing immediately who many of the
villagers were. Her hands snapped open,
hooked shut into solid rocklike fists, then snapped open again. Eddie Desmond
had lived in New York City all his life, but he had been to the Bronx Zoo, and
Christ, there were picture-books weren't there? She went to the barn, tossed the
garbage bags inside the doors, then came back to the house.
The panic was yammering more loudly now, asking what was he going to do,
what was he going to do, for Christ's sake, this might be his last chance — What I'm
going to do first is a thorough job of checking this situation out, he told himself
grimly. Sitting already hurt; the pain would be monstrous by
the time she got back, even if she hurried. But for the handwritten
captions on the backs, they could have been photos in one of those WHAT IS THIS
PICTURE? Only had to kill one roommate to do it, too, Paul
thought, and donkeyed his shrill, frightened laugh. ""The next time they
come they'll have the search warrant,»she said, and left before he could reply.
But instead of weeping with exalted grief as she should
have done when Misery expired giving birth to the boy whom Ian and Geoffrey would
presumably raise together, she was mad as hell.