[9107] in SIPB IPv6
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daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Lincoln Laird)
Mon Nov 5 04:54:29 2007
From: "Lincoln Laird" <garnettredbeard@barnstablerowing.org>
To: "Sipb" <sipb@mit.edu>
Date: Mon, 5 Nov 2007 04:54:00 -0500 (EST)
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<p><b><font size="3" color="#FF0009">R</font></b><br>
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<p><font color="#FFFFF2">"Watch out for her! That bird came from Africa. His so-fucking-vivid imagination rarely gave him the horrors, but when it did, God help him. She took no notice of that; simply stood impatiently staring at him until he could talk. She had plugged the knife into the outlet by his wheelchair and there had been more pleading and more screaming and more promises that he would be good. The flesh of her face, which had previously seemed so fearsomely solid, now hung like lifeless dough. He had taken none of them — knowing he had them put aside, a form of Annie-insurance, was enough."Yes. to make it. "Wicks bent toward him, frowning. But something was wrong. He could see in her skit
tery eyes how frightened she had been and still was.</font></p>
<p><font color="#FFFFF8">"She was sitting on the edge of his bed — Paul was sitting across the room in the wheelchair. One day not long before the thumbectomy — perhaps even less than a week — Annie had come in with two giant dishes of vanilla ice-cream, a can of Hershey's chocolate syrup, a pressure can of Reddi-Whip, and a jar in which maraschino cherries red as heart's blood floated like biology specimens. He had picked the wrong day to start complaining about the Royal and its missing n. He could hear her bag slapping solidly against her side, and it occurred to him that he had never seen her carrying a bag like that before. A few of these roads, she said, were still gated off — she and Ralph had obtained keys to them when they bought the property. "Ignoring the typewriter — he never used the typewriter to make notes — he seized one of the ballpoints and quickly covered a single sheet
of paper with a scrawl that probably no one but himself could have read. The miles of tiled corridor and the smells and the squeak of crepe-soled shoes and the sounds of people in pain. "The right cheek, even harder, hard enough to make droplets of blood fly from the fingernail gouges. He shoved the last under the mattress, then leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, where the W's danced drunkenly across the plaster. The image of Annie Wilkes as an African idol out of She or King Solomon's Mines was both ludicrous and queerly apt. Followed by an elderly man who had died of that perennial bridesmaid, Short Illness. And if what he wrote was good enough, if she could not bear to kill him until she discovered how it all came out no matter how much or how loudly her animal instincts yelled for her to do it, that she must do it. It was
this thought more than any other which had seat him out on this cold and windy night, under a moon which stuttered uncertainly between the clouds. Had her eyes filled with tears when she realized that Misery and Geoffrey, far from having a clandestine affair behind the back of the man they both loved, were giving him the greatest gift they could — a child he would believe to be his own? The perfect vehicle for a woman who lived alone and had no neighbor she could call upon for help (except for those dirty-birdie Roydmans, of course, and Annie probably wouldn't take a plate of pork chops from them if she was dying of starvation). Her glance was short, seemingly casual, but to Paul it seemed to go on for a very long time, and he was sure she would realize the can of lighter fluid was no longer there. Only her eyes, those tarnished dimes, were fully alive under the shelf of her brow.
When the pain wasn't harrying him through the deep stone grayness of his cloud, he was dumbly grateful, but he was no longer fooled — it was still there, waiting to return. Paul got the lighter fluid and rolled across to the spot by the window where his informal little writer's camp was pitched: here was the typewriter with the three missing teeth in its unpleasant grin, here the wastebasket, here the pencils and pads and typing paper and piles of scrap-rewrite, some of which he would use and some of which would go into the wastebasket. If he, Paul, couldn't see them, then there was no chance that Mr Rancho Grande might look in through the guest-room window and see him. The door at the far end of the huge ward opened and in came Annie Wilkes — only she was dressed in a long aproned dress and there was a mobcap on her head; she was dressed as Misery Chastain in M
isery's Love. "This was a lie he had made up on the spur of the moment, but it had the desired effect — she looked more confused than ever, lost in a specialists»world of which she had not the slightest knowledge.</font></p>
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