Read Online Misery by Stephen King - Free Book Online Page A

the apartment from room to room, big with book, more than big, gravid, and here were the labor pains. He remembered finding one of Joan's bras under a sofa cushion earlier in the day, and she had been gone a full three months, showed you what kind of a job the cleaning service did; he remembered hearing New York traffic, and, faintly, the monotonous tolling of a church bell calling the faithful to mass.
      He remembered sitting down.
      As always, the blessed relief of starting, a feeling that was like falling into a hole filled with bright light.
      As always, the glum knowledge that he would not write as well as he wanted to write.
      As always, the terror of not being able to finish, of accelerating into a blank wall. As always, the marvellous joyful nervy feeling of journey begun.
    He looked at Annie Wilkes and said, clearly but not loud: 'Annie, please don't make me do this.' She held the matches immovably before him and said: 'You can do as you choose.' So he burned his book.

    19

    She made him bum the first page, the last page, and nine pairs of pages from various points in the manuscript because nine, she said, was a number of power, and nine doubled was lucky. He saw that she had used a magic marker to black out the profanities, at least as far as she had read.
       'Now,' she said, when the ninth pair was burned. 'You've been a good boy and a real sport and I know this hurts you almost as badly as your legs do and I won't draw it out any longer.'
        She removed the grill and set the rest of the manuscript into the pot, crunching down the crispy black curls of the pages he had already burned. The room stank of matches and burned paper. Smells like the devil's cloakroom, he though deliriously, and if there had been anything in the wrinkle. walnut-shell that had once been his stomach, he supposed he would have vomited it up.
       She lit another match and put it in his hand. Somehow he was able to lean over and drop the match into the pot. I didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter.
      She was nudging him.
      Wearily, he opened his eyes.
      'It went out.' She scratched another match and put it in his hand.
       So he somehow managed to lean over again, awakening rusty handsaws in his legs as he did so, and touched the match to the corner of the pile of manuscript. This time the flame spread instead of shrinking and dying around the stick.
      He leaned back, eyes shut, listening to the crackling sound, feeling the dull, baking heat.
      'Goodness!' she cried, alarmed.
       He opened his eyes and saw that charred bits of paper were wafting up from the barbecue on the heated air.
      Annie lumbered from the room. He heard water from the tub taps thud into the floorpail. He idly watched a dark piece of manuscript float across the room and land on or of the gauzy curtains. There was a brief spark — he had time to wonder if perhaps the room was going to catch on fire — that winked once and then went out, leaving a tiny hole like a cigarette burn. Ash sifted down on the bed. Some landed on his arms. He didn't really care, one way or the other.
      Annie came back, eyes trying to dart everywhere at once trying to trace the course of each carbonized page as it rose and seesawed. Flames flipped and flickered over the edge the pot.
      'Goodness!' she said again, holding the bucket of water and looking around, trying to decide where to throw it or it needed to be thrown at all. Her lips were trembling and wet with spit. As Paul watched, her tongue darted out and slicked them afresh. 'Goodness! Goodness!' It seemed to be all she could say.
        Even caught in the squeezing vise of his pain, Paul felt an instant of intense pleasure — this was what Annie Wilkes looked like when she was frightened. It was a look he could come to love.
      Another page wafted up, this one still running with little tendrils of low blue fire, and that decided her. With another 'Goodness!' she carefully poured