Part 2 out of 3 of a Story That Is Not Way Based on Stephen King's Best-Selling Novel "Misery"

Twenty-six hours had passed since the moment I regained consciousness and met Anabelle Walker, but it seemed like an eternity, especially because I was so drugged up. Turns out that she had more in her medicine cabinet than "Anabelle's Happy Pillz." In the day since I had woken up, she had fed me enough Tylenol, Zoloft, and Vagisil to tranquilize a wild stallion. Which, according to the tattoo I got on my chest last month, is exactly what I am.

Under normal conditions, the unbelievable doses of this medication she was giving me, coupled with my critical condition, would have instantly killed me. Fortunately, I built up an unbreakable tolerance against all three of these drugs during my brief but intense OTC drug addiction back in February. (Did you know that you can smoke Benodryl?) Thanks to that, the drugs just left me in a state of pleasurable numbness.

Anabelle came into my room three times in that twenty-six hours. The first time occured only fifteen minutes after she first left it. She rolled in a tiny, ancient, black-and-white television on a little cart, along with two ice cream sundaes and some more of my pills.

"I thought we could eat some sundaes and watch a movie together, Christopher!" she said hopefully, maybe even a little nervously.

"Well, that sounds great, Anabelle," I said gently. "You're so considerate."

She blushed a little and quickly handed me my sundae. After watching me take a few bites, swallow my pills, and force an appreciate smile, she stood up and put in the VCR, which turned out to be An Affair to Remember.

After she got it started up and sat down beside me, she took a few bites, I took a few bites, and then she started smearing the ice cream all over her face and arms. When I cast a startled, sidelong glance at her, she laughed loudly and said, "Look, Christopher! I'm a snowman."

I gave a terrified little chuckle and turned back to the movie, not knowing else what to do but hope she wasn't going to ask me to lick it off of her. She was probably one of the ugliest women I'd ever met: fat, masculine, and smelly. So it was all the more repulsive for me when she pretended to yawn and then slipped her arm around my shoulder.

It was all I could do to sit and suffer in silence when she ran her fingers through my hair and slid her tongue into my left ear.

The second time that she came to visit me was a few hours later, at what I assumed was dinner time. Her mood was drastically different. Somehow she had shifted from the cheerful, energetic personality she had adopted during the first visit. She was instead distant and removed, with a blank expression on her face. For dinner she brought me a raw egg on a plate.

"Here's your dinner," she said, placing it absently on my lap, causing pain to surge through my legs once again.

"And also, I brought you this," she added without emotion, holding up a enormous, dead rat by its tail. "You can have it now if you like, or I can just keep it for you right here." And she laid it gently on the floor.

"Anabelle, are you okay?" I asked, petrified.

In answer, she grabbed her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger and started twisting in until it bled. I watched her helplessly, paralyzed with fear. She didn't stop there, either. She unbuttoned her blouse in front of me, removed it, and ate it, sucking it up like a noodle of spaghetti. After her blouse, she went on to eat her humongous bra, her plaid skirt, and my underwear she had been wearing, all of which she sucked up with relish, slurpling noisily, with the same expressionless look in her face.

As she stood before my bed, stark naked and hideous, her eyes finally seem to adjust a little and land on mine.

"No. It's the rain. Sometimes it gives me the blues," she finally managed.

I neglected to mention, out of fear, that it wasn't raining outside. She continued talking.

"I have a gun in my upstairs bedroom. Sometimes I think about using it. Loading it with three bullets. One for you, one for me, and one for my pet goldfish who I named after Dennis the Menace, because I think he has a sort of mischevious exprssion on his face."

"No, Anabelle!" I said hurriedly. "It's not time yet. We should at least wait until the end of the month, shouldn't we? Suicide pacts should NEVER be carried out in the month of July. It's just bad luck."

"I suppose so," she sighed. "In that case, I think I'm going to go to my Laughing Place for a while. I don't know when I'll be back, but I think I should handcuff you to the bed and stick a rag in your mouth for good measure." She went on to do both of these things, without saying a word. The rag was disgusting and almost made me vomit, and she really shoved it far into my mouth, so far that I worried about choking.

After a moment she paused and said, "I really do love you, Christopher. Your underwear was delicious. Better than any I've ever had."

With that, she left. All of this occured in the first three hours of the aforementioned twenty six hours. She was gone for, I later figured out, around twenty three more hours. My stomach panged so painfully with hunger and my body hurt so profoundly that I thought about just swallowing the rag so that I could finally die and let it all be over with. But something kept me going.

I started drifting in and out of the darkness again, forgetting who I was, and all I could remember was Anabelle's terrible, ugly face. I did seriously consider letting myself choke on the rag, but in the end, I just didn't do it.

When she finally did come, I heard the car door slam loudly, and I awoke from my deep sleep. My stomach was stinging with hunger, my throat was dry and digusting, and my body hurt all over. I lay there in delirious fear as I listened to her throw open the front door and storm through the hallway toward my room.

She exploded through the bedroom door, marched up to me with a livid expression on her face, and tore the rag from my mouth.

"YOU DIRTIE BIRDIE!!! YOU COCKADOODIE LITTLE BRAT!!! HOW COULD YOU?!" she screamed. "HOW COULD YOU KILL MISERY CHASTAIN?"

I was sincerely puzzled. "Anabelle," I said. "Who is Misery Chastain?"

She paused and looked thoughtful. Evidently she had not considered this.

"I guess I don't know," she said finally. "But I'm still going to cut off your legs and left thumb, Mister Man."

I won't trouble you guys with the details, because I know that's not what you're here for. But I will tell you to imagine the most excruciating pain you've ever felt, multiply that by exactly six and a half bajillion, and then imagine that pain being administered to you by a young Kathy Bates. That, folks, is what I had to go through while Anabelle Walker lopped off my legs and left thumb with an axe.

After it was over and she left, I sat there, weeping and screaming at God. I had to get out of there, I thought desperately. One way or another, I was going to escape the clutches of Anabelle Walker. That, or die trying.

TO BE CONTINUED


By the way, readers of The Nerd Archives, I'd like to remind the new readers of the blog to check out my other blog, Death is like a lemon, which can be found on the top of the page. I think you'll find it quite, how you say, enjoyable. I've recently written a poem series on the lake I stayed at this summer, so if you're into poetry, do check it out.

Also, everybody please look at the top of the right sidebar to notice 1) the homework assignment I've given all of my readers for this week which I expected EVERYONE to complete by next Monday and 2) my newest poll, which you should vote on promptly. If you'll look a little lower, you'll notice I changed my profile picture. I was aiming for sexy and mysterious, but ended up with something in between deeply disturbed and inexplicably furious. Don't make too much fun of me, okay?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy