sk.misery-第47部分

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ck　for　a　word　and　she　told　him　If　you　Promise　to　be　good　Paul　you　can　have　a　piece　of　birthday　cake　but　you　won't　have　to　eat　any　of　the　special　candle　so　he　promised　to　be　good　because　he　didn't　want　to　be　forced　to　eat　any　of　the　special　candle　but　also　because　mostly　because　surely　because　Annie　was　great　Annie　was　good　let　us　thank　her　for　our　food　including　that　we　don't　have　to　eat　girls　just　wanna　have　fun　but　something　wicked　this　way　es　please　don't　make　me　eat　my　thumb　Annie　the　mom　Annie　the　goddess　when　Annie's　around　you　better　stay　honest　she　knows　when　you've　been　sleeping　she　knows　when　you're　awake　she　knows　if　you've　been　bad　or　good　so　be　good　for　goddess〃　sake　you　better　not　cry　you　better　not　pout　but　most　of　all　you　better　not　scream　don't　scream　don　t　scream　don't　scream　don't　He　hadn't。
　And　now；　as　he　awoke；　he　did　so　with　a　jerk　that　hurt　him　all　over；　hardly　aware　that　his　lips　were　pressed　tightly　together　to　keep　the　scream　inside；　although　the　thumbectomy　had　happened　over　a　month　ago。
　He　was　so　preoccupied　with　not　screaming　that　for　a　moment　he　didn't　even　see　what　was　ing　into　the　driveway；　and　when　he　did　see　it；　he　believed　at　first　that　it　must　be　a　mirage。
　It　was　a　Colorado　State　Police　car。
　
　
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　Following　the　amputation　of　his　thumb　there　had　been　a　dim　period　when　Paul's　greatest　single　acplishment；　other　than　working　on　the　novel；　had　been　to　keep　track　of　the　days。　He　had　bee　pathological　about　it；　sometimes　spending　as　long　as　five　minutes　lost　in　a　daze；　counting　back；　making　sure　he　hadn't　somehow　forgotten　one。
　I'm　getting　as　bad　as　she　is；　he　thought　once。
　His　mind　had　returned　wearily：　So　what？
　He　had　done　pretty　well　with　the　book　following　the　loss　of　his　foot　…　during　what　Annie　so　mincingly　called　his　convalescent　period。　No　…　pretty　well　was　false　modesty　if　ever　there　was　such　a　thing。　He　had　done　amazingly　well　for　a　man　who　had　once　found　it　impossible　to　write　if　he　was　out　of　cigarettes　or　if　he　had　a　backache　or　a　headache　a　degree　or　two　above　a　low　drone。　It　would　be　nice　to　believe　he　had　performed　heroically；　but　he　supposed　it　was　only　that　escape　thing　again；　because　the　pain　had　been　really　dreadful。　When　the　healing　process　finally　did　begin；　he　thought　the　〃phantom　itch〃　of　the　foot　which　was　no　longer　there　was　even　worse　than　the　pain。　It　was　the　arch　of　the　missing　foot　which　bothered　him　the　most。　He　awoke　time　after　time　in　the　middle　of　the　night　using　the　big　toe　of　his　right　foot　to　scratch　thin　air　four　inches　below　the　place　where；　on　that　side；　his　body　now　ended。
　But　he　had　gone　on　working　just　the　same。
　It　wasn't　until　after　the　thumbectomy；　and　that　bizarre　birthday　cake　like　a　left…over　prop　from　Whatever　Happened　to　Baby　Jane；　that　the　balls　of　crumpled…up　paper　had　begun　to　proliferate　in　the　wastebasket　again。　Lose　a　foot；　almost　die；　go　on　working。　Lose　a　thumb　and　run　into　some　kind　of　weird　trouble。　Wasn't　it　supposed　to　be　the　other　way　around？
　Well；　there　was　the　fever　…　he　had…spent　a　week　in　bed　with　that。　But　it　was　pretty　minor…league　stuff；　the　highest　his　temperature　had　ever　gone　was　100。7；　and　that　wasn't　exactly　the　stuff　of　which　high　melodrama　was　made。　The　fever　had　probably　been　caused　more　by　his　general　run…　down　condition　than　any　specific　infection；　and　an　oogy　old　fever　was　no　problem　for　Annie；　among　her　other　souvenirs；　Annie　had　Keflex　and　Ampicillin　up　the　old　kazoo。　She　dosed　him　and　he　got　better　。　。　。　as　better　as　it　was　possible　to　get　under　such　bizarre　circumstances；　at　any　rate。　But　something　was　wrong。　He　seemed　to　have　lost　some　vital　ingredient；　and　the　mix　had　bee　a　lot　less　potent　as　a　result。　He　tried　to　blame　it　on　the　missing　n；　but　he'd　had　that　to　contend　with　before；　and；　really；　what　was　a　missing　n　pared　to　a　missing　foot　and　now；　as　an　extra　added　attraction；　a　missing　thumb？
　Whatever　the　reason；　something　had　disturbed　the　dream；　something　was　whittling　away　the　circumference　of　that　hole　in　the　paper　through　which　he　saw。　Once　…　he　would　have　sworn　it　was　so　…　that　hole　had　been　as　big　as　the　bore　of　the　Lincoln　Tunnel。　Now　it　was　no　more　than　the　size　of　a　knothole　which　a　sidewalk　superintendent　might　stoop　to　snoop　through　on　an　interesting　piece　of　building　construction。　You　had　to　peer　and　crane　to　see　anything　at　all；　and　more　often　than　not　the　really　important　things　happened　outside　your　field　of　vision　。　。　。　not　surprising；　considering　the　field　of　vision　was　so　small。
　In　practical　terms；　what　had　happened　following　the　thumbectomy　and　ensuing　bout　of　fever　was　obvious。　The　language　of　the　book　had　grown　florid　and　overblown　again　…　it　was　not　self…parody　yet；　not　quite；　but　it　was　floating　steadily　in　that　direction　and　he　seemed　helpless　to　stop　it。　Continuity　lapses　had　begun　to　proliferate　with　the　stealth　of　rats　breeding　in　cellar　corners：　for　a　space　of　thirty　pages；　the　Baron　had　bee　the　Viscount　from　Misery's　Quest。　He'd　had　to　go　back　and　tear　that　all　out。
　It　doesn't　matter；　Paul；　he　told　himself　again　and　again　in　those　last　few　days　before　the　Royal　coughed　up　first　its　t　and　then　its　e；　the　damned　thing　is　almost　done。　So　it　was。　Working　on　it　was　torture；　and　finishing　it　was　going　to　mean　the　end　of　his　life。　That　the　latter　had　begun　to　look　slightly　more　attractive　than　the　former　said　all　that　probably　needed　to　be　said　about　the　worsening　state　of　his　body；　mind；　and　spirit。　And　the　book　moved　on　in　spite　of　everything；　seemingly　independent　of　them。　The　continuity　drops　were　annoying　but　minor。　He　was　having　more　problems　with　the　actual　make…believe　than　he　ever　had　before　…　the　game　of　Can　You？　had　bee　a　labored　exercise　rather　than　simple　good　fun。　Yet　the　book　had　continued　to　roll　in　spite　of　all　the　terrible　things　Annie　had　subjected　him　to；　and　he　could　bitch　about　how　something　…　his　guts；　maybe　…　had　run　out　of　him　along　with　the　half…pint　or　so　of　blood　he'd　lost　when　she　took　his　thumb；　but　it　was　still　a　goddam　good　yarn；　the　best　Misery　novel　by　far。　The　plot　was　melodramatic　but　well　constructed；　in　its　own　modest　way　quite　amusing。　If　it　were　ever　to　be　published　in　something　other　than　the　severely　limited　（first　printing：　one　copy）　Annie　Wilkes　Edition；　he　guessed　it　might　sell　like　a　mad　bastard。　Yeah；　he　supposed　he　would　get　through　it；　if　the　goddam　typewriter　held　together。
　You　were　supposed　to　be　so　tough；　he　had　thought　once；　after　one　of　his　pulsive　lifting　exercises。　His　thin　arms　were　trembling；　the　stump　of　his　thumb　aching　feverishly；　his　forehead　covered　with　a　thin　oil　of　sweat。　You　were　the　tough　young　gunsel　looking　to　make　a　rep　off　the　tired　old　turd　of　a　sheriff；　right？　Only　you've　already　thrown　one　key　and　I　see　the　way　some　of　the　others　…　the　t；　the　e；　and　the　g；　for　instance；　are　starting　to　look　funny　。　。　。　sometimes　leaning　one　way；　sometimes　leaning　the　other；　sometimes　riding　a　little　high　on　the　line；　sometimes　dipping　a　little　low。　I　think　maybe　the　tired　old　turd　is　going　to　win　this　one；　my　friend。　I　think　maybe　the　tired　old　turd　is　going　to　beat　you　to　death　。　。　。　and　it　could　be　that　the　bitch　knew　it。　Could　be　that's　why　she　took　my　left　thumb。　Like　the　saying　goes；　she　may　be　crazy；　but　she　sure　ain't　dumb。
　He　looked　at　the　typewriter　with　tired　intensity。
　Go　on。　Go　on　and　break。　I'll　finish　anyway。　If　she　wants　to　get　me　a　replacement；　I'll　thank　her　kindly；　but　if　she　doesn't　I'll　finish　on　the　goddam　legal　pads　The　one　thing　I　won't　do　is　scream。
　I　won't　scream。
　I。
　I　won't
　
　
　12
　
　I　won't　scream！
　He　sat　at　the　window；　totally　awake　now；　totally　aware　that　the　police　car　he　was　seeing　in　Annie's　driveway　was　as　real　as　his　left　foot　had　once　been。
　Scream！　Goddammit；　scream！
　He　wanted　to；　but　the　dictum　was　too　strong　…　just　too　strong。　He　couldn't　even　open　his　mouth。　He　tried　and　saw　the　brownish　droplets　of　Betadine　flying　from　the　blade　of　the　electric　knife。　He　tried　and　heard　the　squeal　of　axe　against　bone；　the　soft　flump　as　the　match　in　her　hand　lit　the　Bernz…O…matiC。
　He　tried　to　open　his　mouth　and　couldn't。
　Tried　to　raise　his　hands。　Couldn't。
　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。　Nothing　which　had　gone　before　…　except　perhaps　for　the　moment　when　he　had　realized　that；　although　his　left　leg　was　moving；　his　left　foot　was　staying　put　…　was　as　terrible　as　the　hell　of　this　immobility。　In　real　time　it　did　not　last　long；　perhaps　five　seconds　and　surely　no　longer　than　ten。　But　inside　Paul　Sheldon's　head　it　seemed　to　go　on　for　years。
　There；　within　plain　sight；　was　salvation：　all　he　had　to　do　was　break　the　window　and　the　dog…lock　the　bitch　had　put　on　his　tongue　and　scream　Help　me；　help　me；　save　me　from　Annie！　Save　me　from　the　goddess！
　At　the　same　time　another　voice　was　screaming：　I'll　be　good；　Annie！　I　won't　scream！　I'll　be　good；　I'll　be　good　for　goddess〃　sake！　I　promise　not　to　scream；　just　don't　chop　off　any　more　of　me！　Had　he　known；　before　this　had　he　really　known　how　badly　she　had　cowed　him；　or　how　much　of　his　essential　self　…　the　liver　and　lights　of　his　spirit　…　she　had　scraped　away？　He　knew　how　constantly　he　had　been　terrorized；　but　did　he　know　how　much　of　his　own　subjective　reality；　once　so　strong　he　had　taken　it　for　granted；　had　been　erased？
　He　knew　one　thing　with　some　certainty　…　a　lot　more　was　wrong　with　him　than　paralysis　of　the　tongue；　just　as　a　lot　more　was　wrong　with　what　he　had　been　writing　than　the　missing　key　or　the　fever　or　continuity　lapses　or　even　a　loss　of　guts。　The　truth　of　everything　was　so　simple　in　its　horridness；　so　dreadfully　simple。　He　was　dying　by　inches；　but　dying　that　way　wasn't　as　bad　as　he'd　already　feared。　But　he　was　also　fading；　and　that　was　an　awful　thing　because　it　was　moronic。
　Don't　scream！　the　panicky　voice　screamed　just　the　as　the　cop　opened　the　door　of　his　cruiser　and　stepped　out；　adjusting　his　Smokey　Bear　hat　as　he　did　so。　He　was　young；　no　more　than　twenty…two　or　…three；　wearing　sunglasses　as　black　and　liquid…looking　as　dollops　of　crude　oil。　He　paused　to　adjust　the　creases　of　his　khaki　uniform　pant