Misery's Return
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A survivor. That is all they care about; that I survived. Never mind Paul Sheldon: Author of Misery's Child, best-selling author at that. Every time I walk in to an interview they only want to ask about the horrific point in my life that was Annie Wilkes. It was like even beyond the grave, Annie was still ruining my life.
"Take the ride, Paul. It will be good for your image. It will show that you aren't a coward." My publisher said. As if living it once wasn't bad enough, there are now tours to the scene where I veered off the road. Constance, my publisher, has been pushing for weeks for me to take the trip. "I have nothing to prove to these people," I protest. But I know Constance, and maybe it's because I am willing to try anything to go one day without a flashback to the months spent 'recovering' under the care of former nurse, former child murderer Annie Wilkes, that I go to the ticket stand and buy a ticket to my past.
'Good for my image' my ass. None of these people even know who I am. Of course, I haven't gone out of my way to announce myself, but surely if you are taking an hour long trip to where someone had an accident, you would at least have some sort of understanding of who they are. "Legend has it Annie Wilkes was an old one night stand of Paul's who never moved on." The tour guide bullshitted. With all this speculation, no one has ever asked me the truth. "That's not true," A woman beside me muttered. I glanced at her; early 20's, holding a leather binder. Very official looking. My guess she was a law student studying the case. "How can you just sit there and let them say this shit about you?" At first I didn't process what she was saying, and it took me by surprise. "The audience is really eating it up," I offered. Poor excuse. She was right, I should be standing up to this guy, telling the people what really happened. The bus pulled up on the side of the road that I had driven off of just 4 years ago. The bus began unloading, and the lady went over to a parked truck. I followed. "What are you doing?" I asked. "This is my stop. The tour stops here, but the real exhibit is Annie Wilkes' own house." I began to pace back to the bus, but suddenly an urge took over me. "Got room for one more?" I asked. I couldn't believe I was asking this. Never in a thousand years could I have seen myself wanting to go back to the place I tried so hard to escape from. She smiled and nodded, and I jumped in to the passenger seat. "The police only ever taped off the house as a crime scene. After about a week, they never returned, but they never really took much from the house; just some boxes of medications and evidence." The woman informed me. "I'm sorry, I never caught your name," I said, changing the subject. "It's Daphne, Daphne Dugan."