Finishing the new book, a contemporary novel about a car-thief, he had remembered typing the final sentence of Misery's Child: 'So Ian and Geoffrey left the. Misery PDF Summary is a horror novel by Stephen King detailing the disturbing relationship between writer Paul Sheldon and his number one. Misery - Stephen lesforgesdessalles.info - Download as PDF File .pdf) or read online.
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You tan also read Stephen King's The breathing Method and. The Body in . often than not she had one of his books - his Misery books - open on her lap. King, Stephen Misery. I. Title. '[F] PS ISBN 0 5. The characters and situations n this book are entirely imaginary and bear no. Misery. Home · Misery Author: Stephen King. 68 downloads Views Misery · Read more · Misery. Read more · Misery · Read more · Misery. Read more.
He remembered thinking: He thought she was going to blank out again, but instead she fetched a sigh and lifted her bulk from the bed. We've found an overturned car halfway down Humbuggy Mountain which belongs to a Page 61 famous writer named Paul Sheldon. Don't yank it off, for God's sake. When it didn't, he gave another giant whooping gasp, and then he was breathing again on his own, and doing it as fast as he could to flush the smell and taste of her out of him.
After awhile the parlor clock chimed noon and the tide began to go out. He knew just how long because of the pen, the Flair Fine-Liner he had been carrying in his pocket at the time of the crash. He had been able to reach down and snag it. Every time the clock chimed he made a mark on his arm - four vertical marks and then a diagonal slash to seal the quintet. When she came back there were ten groups of five and one extra. The little groups, neat at first, grew increasingly Page 44 jagged as his hands began to tremble.
He didn't believe he had missed a single hour.
He had dozed, but never really slept. The chiming of the clock woke him each time the hour came around. After awhile he began to feel hunger and thirst - even through the pain. It became something like a horse race. Pretty Thirsty was nearly lost in the dust. Then, around sun-up on the day after she had left, I Got the Hungries actually gave King of Pain a brief run for his money. He had spent much of the night alternately dozing and waking in a cold sweat, sure he was dying.
After awhile he began to hope he was dying. Anything to be out of it. He'd never had any idea how bad hurting could get. The pilings grew and grew. He could see the barnacles which encrusted them, could see pale drowned things lying limply in the clefts of the wood. They were the lucky things. For them the hurting was over. Around three he had lapsed into a bout of useless screaming. By noon of the second day - Hour Twenty-Four - he realize that, as bad as the pain in his legs and pelvis was, something else was also making him hurt.
It was withdrawal. Call this horse Junkie's Revenge, if you wanted. He needed the capsules in more ways than one. He thought of trying to get out of bed, but the thought of the thump and the drop and the accompanying escalation of pain constantly deterred him.
He could imagine all too well 'So vivid! He might have tried anyway, but she had locked the door. What could he do besides crawl across to it, snail-like, and lie there? In desperation he pushed back the blankets with his hands for the first time, Page 45 hoping against hope that it wasn't as bad as the shapes the blankets made seemed to suggest it was. It wasn't as bad; it was worse. He stared with horror at what he had become below the knees.
She had splinted them - of course he had known that, felt the rigid ungiving shapes, but until now he had not known what she had done it with. The lower parts of both legs were circled with slim steel rods that looked like the hacksawed remains of aluminum crutches. The rods had been strenuously taped, so that from the knees down he looked a bit like Im-Ho-Tep when he had been discovered in his tomb.
The legs themselves meandered strangely up to his knees, turning outward here, jagging inward there. His left knee a throbbing focus of pain - no longer seemed to exist at all.
There was a calf, and a thigh, and then a sickening bunch in the middle that looked like a salt-dome. His upper legs were badly swollen and seemed to have bowed slightly outward. His thighs, crotch, even his penis, were all still mottled with Page 19 Misery.
He had thought his lower legs might be shattered. That was not so, as it turned out. They had been pulverized. Moaning, crying, he pulled the blankets back up. No rolling out of bed. Better to lie here, die here, better to accept this level of pain, terrific as it was, Page 46 until all pain was gone. Around four o'clock of the second day, Pretty Thirsty made its move. He had been aware of dryness in his mouth and throat for a long time, but now it began to seem more urgent.
His tongue felt thick, too large. Swallowing hurt. He began to think of the pitcher of water she had dashed away.
He dozed, woke, dozed. Day passed away' Night fell. He had to urinate. He laid the top sheet over his penis, hoping to create a crude filter, and urinated through it into his cupped and shaking hands. He tried to think of it as recycling and drank what he had managed to hold and then ticked his wet palms.
Here was something else he reckoned he would not tell people about, if he lived long enough to tell them anything. He began to believe she was dead. She was deeply unstable, and unstable people frequently took their own lives. He saw her 'So vivid' pulling over to the side of the road in Old Bessie, taking a.
Goodbye, cruel world! He cackled, then moaned, then screamed. The wind screamed with him. Or an accident? Was that possible?
Oh, yes, sir! He saw her driving grimly, going too fast, and then 'He doesn't get it from MY side of the family! Down and down and down. Page 47 Hitting once and bursting into a fireball, dying without even knowing it. If she was dead he would die in here, a rat in a dry trap. He kept thinking unconsciousness would come and relieve him, but unconsciousness declined; instead Hour Thirty came, and Hour Forty; now King of Pain and Pretty Thirsty merged into one single horse I Got the Hungries had been left in the dust long since and he began to feel like nothing more than a slice of living tissue on a microscope slide or a worm on a hook - something, anyway, twisting endlessly and waiting only to die.
The one thing he saw clearly was that she was wearing a dark-blue dress and a sprigged hat - it was exactly the sort of outfit he had imagined her wearing on the stand in Denver. Her color was high and her eyes sparkled with life and vivacity.
She was as close to pretty as Annie Wilkes ever could be, and when he tried to remember that scene later the only clear images he could fix upon were her flushed cheeks and the sprigged hat. From some final stronghold of sanity and evaluative clarity the rational Paul Sheldon had thought: She looks like a widow who just got fucked after a ten-year dry spell. In her hand she held a glass of water - a tall glass of water.
He took three fast mouthfuls, the pores on the and plain of his tongue widening and clamoring at the shock of the water, some of it spilling down his chin and onto the tee-shirt he wore, and then she drew it away from him. Page 48 He mewled for it, holding his shaking hands out. A little at a time, or you'll vomit. He sucked at his lips and ran his tongue over them and then sucked his tongue.
He could vaguely remember drinking his own piss, Page 20 Misery. I have thought deeply, and I hope I've thought well. I was not entirely sure; my thoughts are often muddy, I know that. I accept that.
It's why I couldn't remember where I was all those times they kept asking me about. So I prayed. There is a God, you know, and He answers prayers. He always does.
I have spared him, so you may shew him the way he must go. She gave him another three swallows. He slurped like a horse, burped, then cried out as shudder-cramps coursed through him. During all of this she looked at him benignly. I'll be right back. She took no notice at all. He lay in bed, cocooned in pain, trying not to moan Page 49 and moaning anyway. What he was seeing was too bizarre to be sane. When Annie returned, she was pushing a charcoal grill in front of her.
And sacrifice was what she had in mind, of course - when she came back she was carrying the manuscript of Fast Cars, the only existing result of his two years' work, in one hand. In the other she had a box of Diamond Blue Tip wooden matches.
One thought worked at him, burned in him like acid: People - Bryce, both of his ex-wives, hell, even his mother - had always told him he was crazy not to make at least one copy of his work and put it aside; after all, the Boulderado could catch on fire, or the New York townhouse; there might be a tornado or a flood or some other natural disaster.
He had constantly refused, for no rational reason: Well, here was the jinx and the natural disaster all rolled up m one; here was Hurricane Annie. In her innocence it had apparently never even crossed her mind that there might be another copy of Fast Cars someplace, and if he had just listened, if he had just invested the lousy hundred dollars - Page 50 'Yes,' she replied, holding out the matches to him.
The manuscript, clean white Hammermill Bond with the title page topmost, lay on her lap. Her face was still clear and calm. It's filthy. That aside, it's also no good. She laughed gently. Her temper had apparently gone on vacation. But, Paul thought, knowing Annie Wilkes, it could arrive back unexpectedly at any moment, bags in hand: Couldn't stand to stay away! How ya doin?
Evil might, but not good. Second of all, I do know good when I see it - you are good, Paul. All you need is a little help. Now, take the matches. I've heard it all before. When he opened them she was holding out a cardboards square with the word NOVRIL printed across the top in bright blue letters. Below the Page 51 warning were four capsules in blister-packs. He grabbed.
She pulled the cardboard out of his reach. You will begin to feel serene again, and when you've got hold of yourself, I will change your bedding - I see you've wet it, and it must be uncomfortable - and I'll also change you. By then you will be hungry and I can give you some soup.
Perhaps some unbuttered toast. But until you burn it, Paul, I can do nothing. I'm sorry. Yes, okay! He rolled away from her again - away from the enticing, maddening cardboard square, the white capsules in their lozenge-shaped transparent blisters.
Again he expected rage and got the indulgent laugh, with its undertones of knowing sadness. That's what a child thinks when mommy comes into the kitchen and sees him playing with the cleaning fluid from under the sink. He doesn't say it that way, of course, because he doesn't have your education. He just says, "Mommy, you're mean! The fingers trailed down his cheek, across the side of his neck, and then squeezed his shoulder briefly, with compassion, before drawing away.
But she knows she's right, and so she does her duty. As I am doing mine. The pills. He had to have the goddam pills. The lives were shadows. The pills were not. They were real. The faint rattle of the capsules in their blisters - silence then the woody shuffle of the matches in their box.
Do you think this is a movie or a TV show and you are getting graded by some audience on your bravery? You can do what she wants or you can hold out. If you hold out you'll die and then she'll burn the manuscript anyway. So what are you going to do, lie here and suffer for a book that would sell half as many copies as the least successful Misery book you ever wrote, and which Peter Prescott would shit upon in his finest genteel disparaging manner when he reviewed it for that great literary oracle, Newsweek?
Come on, come on, wise up! Even Galileo recanted when he saw they really meant to go through with it! I'm waiting.
I can wait all day. Although I rather suspect that you may go into a coma before too long; I believe you are in a near-comatose state now, and I have had a lot of.
Give me the matches! Give me a blowtorch! Give me a Baby Huey and a load of napalm! I'll drop a tactical nuke on it if that's what you want, you fucking Page 53 beldame! So spoke the opportunist, the survivor. Yet another part, failing now, near-comatose itself, went wailing off into the darkness: A hundred and ninety thousand words!
Five lives! Two years' work! And what was the real bottom line: The Page 22 Misery. There was the creak of bedsprings as she stood up.
You are a very stubborn little boy, I must say, and I can't sit by your bed all night, as much as I might like to! After all, I've been driving for nearly an hour, hurrying to get back here.
I'll drop by in a bit and see if you've changed y-' 'You burn it, then! She turned and looked at him. She laid the title page on the grill. He tried to light one of the Blue Tips and couldn't because it kept missing the rough strip or falling out of his hand.
So Annie took the box and lit the match and put the lit match in his hand and he touched it to the comer of the paper and then let the match fall into the pot and Page 54 watched, fascinated, as the flame tasted, then gulped. She had a barbecue fork with her this time, and when the page began to curl up, she poked it through the gaps in the grill.
He remembered walking around 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: He saw that she had used a magic marker to black out the profanities, at least as far as she had read.
The room stank of Page 23 Misery. Smells like the devil's cloakroom, he though deliriously, and if there had been anything in the wrinkle.
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. She was nudging him.
Wearily, he opened his eyes. 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 Page 56 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. 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. Her lips were trembling and wet with spit.
As Paul watched, her tongue darted out and slicked them afresh. 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! There was a monstrous hissing and a plume of steam. The smell was wet and awful, charred and yet somehow creamy. Page 57 When she left he managed to get up on his elbow one final time. He looked into the barbecue pot and saw something that looked like a charred lump of log floating in a brackish pond.
After awhile, Annie Wilkes came back. Incredibly, she was humming. She sat him up and pushed capsules into his mouth. He swallowed them and lay back, thinking: I'm going to kill her. He opened his eyes and saw her sitting beside him - for the first time he was actually on a level with her, facing her. He realized with bleary, distant surprise that for the first time in untold eons he was sitting, too. Who gives a shit?
The tide was in. The pilings were covered. The tide had finally come in and the next time it went out it might go out forever and so he was going to ride the waves while there were waves left to ride, he could think about sitting up later. It buzzed against the left side of his head, making him whine and try to pull away.
You've got to come out of it enough to eat or. His earlobe. She was pinching it. Don't yank it off, for God's sake. Immediately the spoon was in his mouth, dumping hot soup down his throat.
He swallowed to keep from drowning. Suddenly, out of nowhere - the most amazing comeback this announcer has ever Page 58 Page 24 Misery. It was as if that first spoonful of soup had awakened his gut from a hypnotic trance.
He took the rest as fast as she could spoon it into his mouth, seeming to grow more rather than less hungry as he slurped and swallowed. He had a vague memory of her wheeling out the sinister, smoking barbecue and then wheeling in something which, in his drugged and fading state, he had thought might be a shopping cart.
The idea had caused him to feel neither surprise nor wonder; he was visiting with Annie Wilkes, after all. Barbecues, shopping carts; maybe tomorrow a parking meter or a nuclear warhead.
When you lived in the funhouse, the laff riot just never stopped. He had drifted off, but now he realized that the shopping cart had been a folded-up wheelchair. He was sitting in it, his sprinted legs stuck stiffly out in front of him, his pelvic area feeling uncomfortably swollen and not very happy with the new position.
She put me in it while I was conked out, he thought. Lifted me. Dead weight. Christ she must be strong. I believe you are going to mend. We will not say "Good as new" - alas, no - but if we don't have any more of these. I believe you'll mend just fine.
Now I'm going to change your nasty old bed, and when that's done I'm going to change nasty old you, and then, if you're not having too much pain and still feel hungry, I am going to let you have some toast. Your throat. If I can, I'll give you a chance to lick your lips and say 'Goodness! Page 59 Only once. Sitting hadn't bothered him a bit while he was doing it - not with enough shit in his bloodstream to have put half the Prussian Army to steep - but now it felt as if a swarm of bees had been loosed in the lower half of his body.
He screamed very loudly - the food must have done something for him, because he could not remember being able to scream so loudly since he had emerged from the dark cloud. He sensed her standing just outside the bedroom door in the hallway for a long time before she actually came in, immobile, turned off, unplugged, gazing blankly at no more than the doorknob or perhaps the pattern of lines on her own hands.
He swallowed them, holding her wrist to steady the glass. She pointed at the wheelchair which brooded in the corner with its steel leg-rests stuck stiffly out. Now get some sleep, Paul. He floated on the dope and thought about the situation he was in. It seemed a little easier now.
It was easier to think about than the book which he had created and then uncreated. Page 60 They were miles from the neighbors who, Annie said, didn't like her. What was the name?
No, Roydman. That was it. And how far from town? Not too far, surely. He was in a circle whose diameter might be as small as fifteen miles, or as large as forty-five. Annie Wilkes's house was in that circle, and the Roydmans', and downtown Sidewinder, however pitifully small that might be. And my car.
My Camaro's somewhere in that circle, too. Did the police find it? He thought not. He was a well-known person; if a car had been found with tags registered in his name, a little elementary checking would have shown he had been in Boulder and had then dropped out of sight. The discovery of his wrecked and empty Page 25 Misery.
She never watches the news on IV, never listens to the radio at all - unless she's got one with an earplug, or phones. It was all a little like the dog in the Sherlock Holmes story - the one that didn't bark.
His car hadn't been found because the cops hadn't come. If it had been found, they would have checked everyone in his hypothetical circle, wouldn't they? And just how many people could there be in such a circle, here close to the top of the Western Slope?
The Roydmans, Annie Wilkes, maybe ten or twelve others? And just because it hadn't been found so far didn't mean it wouldn't be found. His vivid imagination which he had not gotten from anyone on his mother's side of the family now took over. The cop was tall, handsome in a cold way, his sideburns perhaps a bit longer than regulation. He was wearing dark sunglasses in which the person being questioned would see his own face in duplicate. His voice had a flat Midwestern twang.
We've found an overturned car halfway down Humbuggy Mountain which belongs to a Page 61 famous writer named Paul Sheldon. There's some blood on the seats and the dashboard, but no sign of him.
Must have crawled out, may even have wandered away in a daze That was a laugh, considering the state of his legs, but of course they would not know what injuries he might have sustained. They would only assume that, if he was not here, he must have been strong enough to get at least a little way.
The course of their deductions was not apt to lead to such an unlikely possibility as kidnapping, at least not at first, and probably never. Do you remember seeing anyone on the road the day of the storm? Tall man, forty-two years old, sandy hair? Probably wearing blue jeans and a checked flannel shirt and a parka? Might have looked sort of bunged up? Hell, might not even have known who he was? Annie would give the cop coffee in the kitchen; Annie would be mindful that all the doors between there and the spare bedroom should be closed.
In case he should groan. Why, no, officer - I didn't see a soul. In fact, I came back from town just as quick as I could chase when Tony Roberts told me that bad old storm wasn't turning south after all. The cop, setting down the coffee cup and getting up: Well, if you should see anyone fitting the description, ma'am, I hope you'll get in touch with us just as fast as you can. He's quite a famous Person. Been in People magazine. Some other ones, too. I certainly will, officer! And away he would go.
Maybe something like that had already happened and he just didn't know about it. Maybe his imaginary cop's actual counterpart or counterparts had visited Annie while Page 62 he was doped out. God knew he spent enough time doped out.
More thought convinced him it was unlikely. He wasn't Joe Blow from Kokomo, just some transient blowing through. He had been in People first best-seller and Us first divorce ; there had been a question about him one Sunday in Walter Scott's Personality Parade. There would have been rechecks, maybe by phone, probably by the cops themselves.
When a celebrity - even a quasi-celebrity like a writer disappeared, the heat came on. You're only guessing, man. Maybe guessing, maybe deducing. Either way it was better than just lying here and doing nothing. What about guardrails? He tried to remember and couldn't. He could only remember reaching for his cigarettes, then the amazing way the ground and the sky had switched places, then darkness. But again, deduction or educated guesswork, if you wanted to be snotty made it easier to believe there had been none.
Smashed guardrails and snapped guywires would have alerted roadcrews. So what exactly had happened? He had lost control at a place where there wasn't much of a drop, that was what - just enough grade to allow the car to flip over in space. If the drop had been steeper, there would have been guardrails.
If the drop had been steeper, Annie Wilkes would have found it difficult or impossible to get to him, let alone drag him back to the road by herself. So where was his car? Buried in the snow, of course. Paul put his arm over his eyes and saw a town plow coming up the road where he Page 26 Misery.
The plow is a dim orange blob in the driving Page 63 snow near the end of this day. The man driving is bundled to the eyes; on his head he wears an old-fashioned trainman's cap of blue-and-white pillowtick. The guy driving the plow doesn't see the car; bumper sticker is too faded to catch his eye.
The wing-plows block most of his side-vision, and besides, it's almost dark and he's beat. He just wants to finish this last run so he can turn the plow over to his relief and get a hot cup of joe.
However, she is not dead yet and manages to all but strangle Paul before temporarily collapsing from her injuries, giving Paul just enough time to crawl out of his room and lock the bolt installed by Annie. By the time he awakes, the police have arrived, and Paul soon finds out that Annie somehow lived long enough to escape from his room by crawling through the window. She died while trying to get a chainsaw from the barn to kill him.
However, Paul is unable to write that — or any other book. He suffers from painkiller withdrawal and is often awakened by nightmares featuring Annie. Until one day he happens upon a child pushing a shopping cart; inside it: For some reason, this stirs something inside Paul Sheldon, and he starts typing a new novel: What he saw crouched back against the wall in a dusty shaft of sunlight was not a rat but a great big black cat with the bushiest tail he had ever seen.
Like this summary? A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar.
Art consists of the persistence of memory. Click To Tweet. I am your number one fan. There may be fairies, there may be elves, but God helps those who help themselves.
Be the first to like this. No Downloads. Views Total views. Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. One of "Stephen King's best Paul Sheldon is a bestselling novelist who has finally met his number one fan.
Her name is Annie Wilkes, and she is more than a rabid reader-she is Paul's nurse, tending his shattered body after an automobile accident. But she is also furious that the author has killed off her favorite character in his latest book.
Annie becomes his captor, keeping him prisoner in her isolated house. Annie wants Paul to write a book that brings Misery back to life-just for her. She has a lot of ways to spur him on. One is a needle. Another is an axe.