sk.misery-第31部分

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hrew　the　pills　at　him。　Her　hands　were　also　covered　with　mixed　streaks　of　goo。　Red　stuff；　brown　stuff；　sticky　white　stuff。　Paul　had　no　idea　what　it　was。　He　wasn't　sure　he　wanted　to　know。　The　pills　hit　his　chest　and　bounced　into　his　lap。　She　turned　to　go。　Thud…slush；　thud…slush；　thud…slush。
　〃Annie？〃　She　stopped；　not　turning　around。　She　looked　bigger　that　way；　with　her　shoulders　rounding　the　pink　housecoat；　her　hair　like　some　battered　helmet。　She　looked　like　a　Piltdown　woman　staring　out　of　her　cave。
　〃Annie；　are　you　all　right？〃
　〃No；〃　she　said　indifferently；　and　turned　around。　She　looked　at　him　with　that　same　dullard's　expression　as　she　pinched　her　lower　lip　between　the　thumb　and　first　finger　of　her　right　hand。　She　pulled　it　out　and　then　twisted　it；　pinching　inward　at　the　same　time。　Blood　first　welled　between　lip　and　then　gushed　down　her　chin。　She　turned　and　left　without　speaking　a　word；　before　his　stunned　mind　could　persuade　itself　that　he　had　really　seen　her　do　that。　She　closed　the　door　。　。　。　and　locked　it。　He　heard　her　thud…slushing　her　way　down　the　hall　to　the　parlor。　He　heard　the　creak　of　her　favorite　chair　as　she　sat　down。　Nothing　else。　No　TV。　No　singing。　No　click…clink　of　silver　on　crockery。　No；　she　was　just　sitting　there。　Just　sitting　there　being　not　all　right。
　Then　there　was　a　sound。　It　was　not　repeated；　but　it　was　utterly　distinctive。　It　was　a　slap。　A　damned　hard　one。　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。　Good　and　hard；　from　the　sound。　He　saw　her　pulling　her　lip　out；　digging　her　short　nails　into　its　sensitive　pink　meat。
　He　suddenly　remembered　a　note　on　mental　illness　he　had　taken　for　the　first　Misery　book；　where　much　of　the　action　had　been　set　in　London's　Bedlam　Hospital　（Misery　had　been　railroaded　there　by　the　madly　jealous　villainess）。　When　a　manic…depressive　personality　begins　to　slide　deeply　into　a　depressive　period；　he　had　written；　one　symptom　he　or　she　may　exhibit　is　acts　of　self…punishment：　slapping；　punching；　pinching；　burning　one's　self　w/　cigarette　butts；　etc　He　was　suddenly　very　scared。
　
　
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　Paul　remembered　an　essay　by　Edmund　Wilson　where　Wilson　had　said；　in　typically　grudging　Wilson　manner；　that　Wordsworth's　criterion　for　the　writing　of　good　poetry　…　strong　emotion　recalled　in　a　time　of　tranquility　…　would　do　well　enough　for　most　dramatic　fiction　as　well。　It　was　probably　true。　Paul　had　known　writers　who　found　it　impossible　to　write　after　so　much　as　a　minor　marital　spat；　and　he　himself　usually　found　it　impossible　to　write　when　upset。　But　there　were　times　when　a　kind　of　reverse　effect　obtained　…　these　were　times　when　he　had　gone　to　the　work　not　just　because　the　work　ought　to　be　done　but　because　it　was　a　way　to　escape　whatever　was　upsetting　him。　These　were　usually　occasions　when　rectifying　the　source　of　the　upset　was　beyond　him。
　This　was　one　of　those　occasions。　When　she　still　hadn't　returned　to　put　him　in　his　chair　by　eleven　that　morning；　he　determined　to　get　into　it　himself。　Getting　the　typewriter　off　the　mantel　would　be　beyond　him；　but　he　could　write　longhand。　He　was　sure　he　could　hoist　himself　into　the　chair；　knew　it　was　probably　a　bad　idea　to　let　Annie　know　he　could；　but　he　needed　his　other　fix；　goddammit；　and　he　could　not　write　lying　here　in　bed。
　He　worked　himself　over　to　the　edge　of　the　bed；　made　sure　the　wheelchair　brake　was　on；　then　grasped　its　arms　and　pulled　himself　slowly　into　the　seat。　Pulling　his　legs　up　onto　the　supports　one　at　a　time　was　the　only　part　that　hurt。　He　rolled　himself　over　to　the　window　and　picked　up　his　manuscript。
　The　key　rattled　in　the　lock。　Annie　was　looking　in　at　him；　her　eyes　burned　black　holes　in　her　face。　Her　right　cheek　was　swelling　up；　and　it　looked　like　she　was　going　to　have　a　hell　of　a　shiner　in　the　morning。　There　was　red　stuff　around　her　mouth　and　on　her　chin。　For　a　moment　Paul　thought　it　was　more　blood　from　her　torn　lip　and　then　he　saw　the　seeds　in　it。　It　was　raspberry　jam　or　raspberry　filling；　not　blood。　She　looked　at　him。　Paul　looked　back。　Neither　said　anything　for　a　time。　Outside；　the　first　drops　of　rain　splatted　against　the　window。
　〃If　you　can　get　into　that　chair　all　by　yourself；　Paul；〃　she　said　at　last；　〃then　I　think　you　can　fill　in　your　own　fucking　n's。〃　She　then　closed　the　door　and　locked　it　again。　Paul　sat　looking　at　it　for　a　long　time；　almost　as　if　there　were　something　to　see。　He　was　too　flabbergasted　to　do　anything　else。
　
　
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　He　didn't　see　her　again　until　late　afternoon。　After　her　visit；　work　was　impossible。　He　made　a　couple　of　futile　tries；　wadded　up　the　paper；　and　gave　up。　It　was　a　bust。　He　rolled　himself　back　across　the　room。　In　the　process　of　getting　out　of　the　chair　and　into　bed；　one　of　his　hands　slipped　and　he　came　within　an　ace　of　falling。　He　brought　his　left　leg　down；　and　although　it　took　his　weight　and　saved　him　the　fall；　the　pain　was　excruciating　…　it　felt　as　if　a　dozen　bolts　had　suddenly　been　driven　into　the　bone。　He　screamed；　scrabbled　for　the　headboard；　and　pulled　himself　safely　over　onto　the　bed；　his　throbbing　left　leg　trailing　behind　the　rest　of　him。
　That　will　bring　her；　he　thought　incoherently。　She'll　want　to　see　if　Sheldon　really　turned　into　Luciano　Pavarotti；　or　if　it　just　sounds　that　way。
　But　she　didn't　e　and　there　was　no　way　he　could　bear　the　rotted　ache　in　his　left　leg。　He　rolled　clumsily　onto　his　stomach　burrowed　one　arm　deep　under　the　mattress；　and　brought　out　one　of　the　Novril　sample　cards。　He　dry…swallowed　two；　then　drifted　for　awhile。
　When　he　came　back　he　thought　at　first　he　must　still　be　dreaming。　It　was　just　too　surreal；　like　the　night　when　she　had　rolled　the　barbecue　pot　in　here。　Annie　was　sitting　on　the　side　of　his　bed。　She　had　set　a　water　glass　filled　with　Novril　capsules　on　his　bed…table。　In　her　other　hand　she　had　a　Victor　rat…trap。　There　was　a　rat　in　it；　too　…　a　large　one　with　mottled　gray…brown　fur。　The　trap　had　broken　the　rat's　back。　Its　rear　feet　hung　over　the　sides　of　the　trap's　board；　twitching　randomly。　There　were　beads　of　blood　in　its　whiskers。
　This　was　no　dream。　Just　another　day　lost　in　the　funhouse　with　Annie。
　Her　breath　smelled　like　a　corpse　deposing　in　rotted　food。
　〃Annie？〃　He　straightened　up；　eyes　moving　between　her　and　the　rat。　Outside　it　was　dusk　…　a　strange　blue　dusk　filled　with　rain。　It　sheeted　against　the　window。　Strong　gusts　of　wind　shook　the　house；　making　it　creak。
　Whatever　had　been　wrong　with　her　this　morning　was　worse　tonight。　Much　worse。　He　realized　he　was　seeing　her　with　all　her　masks　put　aside　…　this　was　the　real　Annie；　the　inside　Annie。　The　flesh　of　her　face；　which　had　previously　seemed　so　fearsomely　solid；　now　hung　like　lifeless　dough。　Her　eyes　were　blanks。　She　had　dressed；　but　her　skirt　was　on　inside　out。　There　were　more　weals　on　her　flesh；　more　food　splattered　on　her　clothes。　When　she　moved；　they　exhaled　too　many　different　aromas　for　Paul　to　count。　Nearly　one　whole　arm　of　her　cardigan　sweater　was　soaked　with　a　half…dried　substance　that　smelled　like　gravy。
　She　held　up　the　trap。　〃They　e　into　the　cellar　when　it　rains。〃　The　pinned　rat　squeaked　feebly；　and　snapped　at　the　air。　Its　black　eyes；　infinitely　more　lively　than　those　of　its　captor；　rolled。　〃I　put　down　traps。　I　have　to。　I　smear　the　trip…plates　with　bacon　grease。　I　always　catch　eight　or　nine。　Sometimes　I　find　others　…　〃　She　blanked　then。　Blanked　for　nearly　three　minutes；　holding　the　rat　in　the　air；　a　perfect　case　of　waxy　catatonia。　Paul　stared　at　her；　stared　at　the　rat　as　it　squeaked　and　struggled；　and　realized　that　he　had　actually　believed　that　things　could　get　no　worse。　Untrue。　Un…fucking　true。
　At　last；　as　he　had　begun　to　think　she　had　just　sailed　off　into　oblivion　forever　with　no　fuss　or　fanfare；　she　lowered　the　trap　and　went　on　as　if　she　had　never　stopped　speaking。
　〃　…　drowned　in　the　corners。　Poor　things。〃　She　looked　down　at　the　rat　and　a　tear　fell　onto　its　matted　fur。
　〃Poor　poor　things。〃　She　closed　one　of　her　strong　hands　around　the　rat　and　pulled　back　the　spring　with　the　other。　It　lashed　in　her　hand；　head　twisting　as　it　tried　to　bite　her。　Its　squeals　were　thin　and　terrible。　Paul　pressed　the　heel　of　a　palm　against　his　wincing　mouth。
　〃How　its　heart　beats！　How　it　struggles　to　get　away！　As　we　do；　Paul。　As　we　do。　We　think　we　know　so　much；　but　we　really　don't　know　any　more　than　a　rat　in　a　trap　…　a　rat　with　a　broken　back　that　thinks　it　still　wants　to　live。〃　The　hand　holding　the　rat　became　a　fist。　Her　eyes　never　lost　that　blank；　distant　cast。　Paul　wanted　to　look　away　and　could　not。　Tendons　began　to　stand　out　on　her　inner　arm。　Blood　ran　from　the　rat's　mouth　in　an　abrupt　thin　stream。　Paul　heard　its　bones　break；　and　then　the　thick　pads　of　her　fingers　punched　into　its　body；　disappearing　up　to　the　first　knuckle。　Blood　pattered　on　the　floor。　The　creature's　dulling　eyes　bulged。
　She　tossed　the　body　into　the　corner　and　wiped　her　hand　indifferently　on　the　sheet；　leaving　long　red　smears。
　〃Now　it's　at　peace。〃　She　shrugged；　then　laughed。　〃I'll　get　my　gun；　Paul；　shall　I？　Maybe　the　next　world　is　better。　For　rats　and　people　both　…　not　that　there's　much　difference　between　the　two。〃
　〃Not　until　I　finish；〃　he　said；　trying　to　enunciate　each　word　carefully。　This　was　difficult；　because　he　felt　as　if　someone　had　shot　his　mouth　full　of　Novocain。　He　had　seen　her　low　before；　but　he'd　seen　nothing　like　this；　he　wondered　if　she'd　ever　had　a　low　as　low　as　this　before。　This　was　how　depressives　got　just　before　shooting　all　the　members　of　their　families；　themselves　last；　it　was　the　psychotic　despair　of　the　woman　who　dresses　her　children　in　their　best；　takes　them　out　for　ice…cream；　walks　them　down　to　the　nearest　bridge；　lifts　one　into　the　crook　of　each　arm；　and　jumps　over　the　side。　Depressives　kill　themselves。　Psychotics；　rocked　in　the　poison　cradles　of　their　own　egos；　want　to　do　everyone　handy　a　favor　and　take　them　along。
　I'm　closer　to　death　than　I've　ever　been　in　my　life；　he　thought；　because　she　means　it。　The　bitch　means　it。
　〃Misery？〃　she　asked；　almost　as　if　she　had　never　heard　the　word　before　…　but　there　had　been　a　momentary　fugitive　sparkle　in　her　eyes；　hadn't　there？　He　thought　so。
　〃Misery；　yes。〃　He　thought　desperately　about　how　he　should　go　on。　Ev