sk.misery-第58部分

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of　the　wheelchair。
　〃Paul；　are　you　really　done？　she　called　down　the　length　of　hallway。
　Paul　looked　at　the　pile　of　paper　sitting　on　the　board　beside　the　hateful　Royal　typewriter。　Lighter　fluid　soaked　the　stack。　〃Well；〃　he　called　back；　〃I　did　the　best　I　could；　Annie。〃
　〃Wow！　Oh；　great！　Gee；　I　can　hardly　believe　it！　After　all　this　time！　Just　a　minute！　I'll　get　the　champagne！〃
　〃Fine！〃　He　heard　her　cross　the　kitchen　linoleum；　knowing　where　each　squeak　was　going　to　e　the　instant　before　it　did　e。　I　am　hearing　all　these　sounds　for　the　last　time；　he　thought；　and　that　brought　a　sense　of　wonder；　and　wonder　broke　the　calm　open　like　an　egg。　The　fear　was　inside　。　。　。　but　there　was　something　else　in　there　as　well。　He　supposed　it　was　the　receding　coast　of　Africa。
　The　refrigerator　door　was　opened；　then　banged　shut。　Here　she　came　across　the　kitchen　again；　here　she　came。
　He　had　not　smoked　the　cigarette；　of　course；　it　still　lay　on　the　windowsill。　It　had　been　the　match　he　wanted。　That　one　single　match。
　What　if　it　doesn't　light　when　you　strike　it？
　But　it　was　far　too　late　for　such　considerations。
　He　reached　over　to　the　ashtray　and　picked　up　the　matchbook。　He　tore　out　the　single　match。　She　was　ing　down　the　hallway　now。　Paul　struck　the　match　and；　sure　enough；　it　didn't　light。
　Easy！　Easy　does　it！
　He　struck　it　again。　Nothing。
　Easy　。　。　。　easy　。　。　。
　He　scratched　it　along　the　rough　dark…brown　strip　on　the　back　of　the　book　a　third　time　and　a　pale…yellow　flame　bloomed　at　the　end　of　the　paper　stick。
　
　
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　〃I　just　hope　this　…　〃　She　stopped；　the　next　word　pulled　back　inside　her　she　sucked　in　breath。　Paul　sat　in　his　wheelchair　behind　a　barricade　of　heaped　paper　and　ancient　Royal　stenomongery。　He　had　purposely　turned　the　top　sheet　around　so　she　could　read　this：
　
　MISERY'S　RETURN
　
　By　Paul　Sheldon
　
　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。
　She　stood　in　the　doorway；　holding　a　bottle　of　champagne　wrapped　in　a　strip　of　towelling。　Her　mouth　dropped　open。　She　closed　it　with　a　snap。
　〃Paul？〃　Cautiously。　〃What　are　you　doing？〃
　〃It's　done；〃　he　said。　〃And　it's　good；　Annie。　You　were　right。　The　best　of　the　Misery　books；　and　maybe　the　best　thing　I　ever　wrote；　mongrel　dog　or　not。　Now　I'm　going　to　do　a　little　trick　with　it。It's　a　good　trick。　I　learned　it　from　you。〃
　〃Paul；　no！〃　she　screamed。　Her　voice　was　full　of　agony　and　understanding。　Her　hands　flew　out；　the　bottle　of　champagne　dropping　from　them　unheeded。　It　hit　the　floor　and　exploded　like　a　torpedo。　Curds　of　foam　flew　everywhere。　〃No！　No！　PLEASE　DON'T　…　〃
　〃Too　bad　you'll　never　read　it；〃　Paul　said；　and　smiled　at　her。　It　was　his　first　real　smile　in　months；　radiant　and　genuine。　〃False　modesty　aside；　I've　got　to　say　it　was　better　than　good。　It　was　great；　Annie。〃　The　match　was　guttering；　printing　its　small　heat　on　the　tips　of　his　fingers。　He　dropped　it。　For　one　terrible　moment　he　thought　it　had　gone　out；　and　then　pale…blue　fire　uncoiled　across　the　title　page　with　an　audible　sound　…　foomp！　It　ran　down　the　sides；　tasted　the　fluid　that　had　pooled　along　the　outer　edge　of　the　paper…pile；　and　shot　up　yellow。
　〃OH　GOD　NO！〃　Annie　shrieked。　〃NOT　MISERY！　NOT　MISERY！　NOT　HER！　NO！　NO！〃　Now　her　face　had　begun　to　shimmer　on　the　far　side　of　the　flames。　〃Want　to　make　a　wish；　Annie？〃　he　shouted　at　her。　〃Want　to　make　a　wish；　you　fucking　goblin？〃
　〃OH　MY　GOD　OH　PAUL　WHAT　ARE　YOU　DOOOOOING？〃　She　stumbled　forward；　arms　outstretched。　Now　the　pile　of　paper　was　not　just　burning；　it　was　blazing。　The　gray　side　of　the　Royal　had　begun　to　turn　black。　Lighter　fluid　had　pooled　under　it　and　now　pale…blue　tongues　of　flame　shot　up　between　the　keys。　Paul　could　feel　his　face　baking；　the　skin　tightening。
　〃NOT　MISERY！〃　she　wailed。　〃YOU　CAN'T　BURN　MISERY；　YOU　COCKADOODIE　BRAT；　YOU　CAN'T　BURN　MISERY！〃　And　then　she　did　exactly　what　he　had　almost　known　she　would　do。　She　seized　the　burning　pile　of　paper　and　wheeled　about；　meaning　to　run　to　the　bathroom　with　it；　perhaps；　and　douse　it　in　the　tub。
　When　she　turned　Paul　seized　the　Royal；　unmindful　of　the　blisters　its　hot　right　side　was　printing　on　his　already　swollen　right　hand。　He　lifted　it　over　his　head。　Little　blue　firedrops　still　fell　from　its　undercarriage。　He　paid　them　no　more　mind　than　he　paid　the　flare　of　pain　in　his　back　as　he　strained　something　there。　His　face　was　an　insane　grimace　of　effort　and　concentration。　He　brought　his　arms　forward　and　down；　letting　the　typewriter　fly　out　of　his　hands。　It　struck　her　squarely　in　the　center　of　her　wide　solid　back。
　〃HOO…OWWG！〃　It　was　not　a　scream　but　a　vast；　startled　grunt。　Annie　was　driven　forward　onto　the　floor　with　the　burning　stack　of　paper　under　her。
　Small　bluish　fires　like　spirit…lanterns　dotted　the　surface　of　the　board　which　had　served　as　his　desk。　Gasping；　each　breath　smooth　hot　iron　in　his　throat；　Paul　knocked　it　aside。　He　pushed　himself　up　and　tottered　erect　on　his　right　foot。
　Annie　was　writhing　and　moaning。　A　lick　of　flame　shot　up　through　the　gap　between　her　left　arm　and　the　side　of　her　body。　She　screamed。　Paul　could　smell　frying　skin；　burning　fat。
　She　rolled　over；　struggling　to　her　knees。　Most　of　the　paper　was　on　the　floor　now；　either　still　burning　or　hissing　to　ruin　in　puddles　of　champagne；　but　Annie　still　held　some；　and　it　was　still　burning。　Her　cardigan　sweater　was　burning；　too。　He　saw　green　hooks　of　glass　in　her　forearms。　A　larger　shard　poked　out　of　her　right　cheek　like　the　blade　of　a　tomahawk。
　〃I'm　going　to　kill　you；　you　lying　cocksucker；〃　she　said；　and　staggered　toward　him。　She　knee…walked　three　〃steps〃　toward　him　and　then　fell　over　the　typewriter。　She　writhed　and　managed　to　turn　over　halfway。　Then　Paul　fell　on　her。　He　felt　the　sharp　angles　of　the　typewriter　beneath　her　even　through　her　body。　She　screamed　like　a　cat；　writhed　like　a　cat；　and　tried　to　claw　out　from　under　him　like　a　cat。
　The　flames　were　going　out　around　them　but　he　could　still　feel　savage　heat　ing　off　the　twisting；　heaving　mound　beneath　him　and　knew　that　at　least　some　of　her　sweater　and　brassiere　must　be　cooked　onto　her　body。　He　felt　no　sympathy　at　all。
　She　tried　to　buck　him　off。　He　held　on；　and　now　he　was　lying　squarely　on　top　of　her　like　a　man　who　means　to　mit　rape；　his　face　almost　on　hers；　his　right　hand　groped；　knowing　exactly　what　it　was　looking　for。
　〃Get　off　me！〃　He　found　a　handful　of　hot；　charry　paper。
　〃Get　off　me！〃　He　crumpled　the　paper；　squeezing　flames　out　between　his　fingers。　He　could　smell　her　…　cooked　flesh；　sweat；　hate；　madness。
　GET　OFF　ME！〃　she　screamed；　her　mouth　yawning　wide；　and　he　was　suddenly　looking　into　the　dank　red…lined　pit　of　the　goddess。　〃GET　OFF　ME　YOU　COCKADOODIE　BR　…　〃　He　stuffed　paper；　white　bond　and　black　charred　onionskin；　into　that　gaping；　screaming　mouth。　Saw　the　blazing　eyes　suddenly　widen　even　more；　now　with　surprise　and　horror　and　fresh　pain。
　〃Here's　your　book；　Annie；〃　he　panted；　and　his　hand　closed　on　more　paper。　This　bunch　was　out；　dripping　wet；　smelling　sourly　of　spilt　wine。　She　bucked　and　writhed　under　him。　The　salt…dome　of　his　left　knee　whammed　the　floor　and　there　was　excruciating　pain；　but　he　stayed　on　top　of　her。　I'm　gonna　rape　you；　all　right；　Annie。　I'm　gonna　rape　you　because　all　I　can　do　is　the　worst　I　can　do。　So　suck　my　book。　Suck　my　book。　Suck　on　it　until　you　fucking　CHOKE。　He　crumpled　the　wet　paper　with　a　convulsive　closing　jerk　of　his　fist　and　slammed　it　into　her　mouth；　driving　the　half…charred　first　bunch　farther　down。
　〃Here　it　is；　Annie；　how　do　you　like　it？　It's　a　genuine　first；　it's　the　Annie　Wilkes　Edition；　how　do　you　like　it？　Eat　it；　Annie；　suck　on　it；　go　on　and　eat　it；　be　a　Do…Bee　and　eat　your　book　all　up。〃　He　slammed　in　a　third　wad；　a　fourth。　The　fifth　was　still　burning；　he　put　it　out　with　the　already　blistered　heel　of　his　right　hand　as　he　stuffed　it　in。
　Some　weird　muffled　noise　was　ing　out　of　her。　She　gave　a　tremendous　jerk　and　this　time　Paul　was　thrown　off。　She　struggled　and　flailed　to　her　knees。　Her　hands　clawed　at　her　blackened　throat；　which　had　a　hideously　swelled　look。　Little　was　left　of　her　sweater　but　the　charred　ring　of　the　neck。　The　flesh　of　her　belly　and　diaphragm　bubbled　with　blisters。　Champagne　was　dripping　from　the　wad　of　paper　；which　protruded　from　her　mouth。
　〃Mumpf！　Mark！　Mark！〃　Annie　croaked。　She　got　to　her　feet　somehow；　still　clawing　at　her　throat。　Paul　pushed　himself　backward；　legs　sticking　untidily　out　in　front　of　him；　watching　her　warily。　〃Harkoo？　Dorg？　Mumpf！〃　She　took　one　step　toward　him。　Two。　Then　she　tripped　over　the　typewriter　again。　As　she　fell　this　time　her　head　twisted　at　an　angle　and　he　saw　her　eyes　looking　at　him　with　an　expression　that　was　questioning　and　somehow　terrible：　What　happened；　Paul？　I　was　bringing　you　champagne；　wasn't　I？
　The　left　side　of　her　head　connected　with　the　edge　of　the　mantelpiece　and　she　went　down　like　a　loose　sack　of　bricks；　striking　the　floor　in　a　vast　tumble　that　shook　the　house。
　
　
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　Annie　had　fallen　on　the　bulk　of　the　burning　paper；　her　body　had　put　it　out。　It　was　a　smoking　black　lump　in　the　middle　of　the　floor。　The　puddles　of　champagne　had　put　out　most　of　the　individual　pages。　But　two　or　three　had　wafted　against　the　wall　to　the　left　of　the　door　while　still　burning　brightly；　and　the　wallpaper　was　alight　in　spots　。　。　。　but　burning　with　no　real　enthusiasm。
　Paul　crawled　over　to　his　bed；　pulling　himself　on　his　elbows；　and　got　hold　of　the　coverlet。　Then　he　worked　his　way　over　to　the　wall；　pushing　the　shards　of　broken　bottle　out　of　his　way　with　the　sides　of　his　hands　as　he　went。　He　had　strained　his　back。　He　had　burned　his　right　hand　badly。　His　head　ached。　His　stomach　roiled　with　the　sick…sweet　smell　of　burned　meat。　But　he　was　free。　The　goddess　was　dead　and　he　was　free。
　He　got　his　right　knee　under　him；　reached　up　clumsily　with　the　coverlet　（which　was　damp　with　champagne　and　striped　with　smeary　black　swaths　of　ash）；　and　began　to　beat　at　the　flames。　When　he　let　the　coverlet　fall　into　a　smoking　heap　at　the　baseboard；　there　was　a　big　smoking　bald　spot　in　the　middle　of　the　wall；　but　the　paper　was　out。　The　bottom　page　of　the　calendar　had　curled　up；　but　that　was　all。
　He　began　to　crawl　back　toward　the　wheelchair。　He　was　halfway　there　when　Annie　opened　her　eyes。