IN HER LATEST ENTRY IN THE NOTEBOOK SHE KEEPS, NOT AS A DIARY, BUT AS MEMORY IN AND OF ITSELF, SHE’D WRITTEN ON THE STRANGE PREDICAMENT SHE HAD FOUND HERSELF IN; IN HER POSSESSION WERE THE THINNEST OF INSTRUCTIONS, LIKELY HAVING BEEN STRIPPED BARE BY SOMETHING OR SOMEONE, BEREFT OF ITS FLESHIER PARTS, WINNOWED DOWN TO THE BONE ON WHICH THE VESSEL NOW GNAWED,
I’m coming down with something, worse than a cold, better than the flu. Fatigue is the main problem. In the past few days, I’ve been awake for no more than 18? hours total. It’s a good thing we’ve been put up in this fancy hotel. The Conroy Inn. The bed is huge and the blankets are so soft, it takes me forever to dig my way out. Still, this morning, (1056), I woke up on the floor. Guess it got too hot being in bed. Misery is still here, seems to be fine. She draws the curtains shut and keeps them shut. No one has been allowed in the room since we got here. Don’t want them to see what we’ve put into the fridge. Food, but not for me. 1129. I’d better eat too.
CONTINUED FROM HERE / @mireasa
Slowly, sleepily, albeit well - measured, was the way Charlotte worked at consuming her dinner; it was a steak, sent up from the restaurant downstairs, tender enough that it didn’t matter that her knife was rather dull. She eased the blade over the bloody meat, cutting slice after slice as she took her time hearing what Misery had to tell her. Rather disappointingly, it wasn’t very much. In keeping the room dark all day and only finding once they had drawn back the curtains that tonight was the first of a new moon, there was little save for the agent’s growling stomach that could convince her that she hadn’t somehow entered a reality of eternal night; she certainly felt tenaciously sleepy enough for it to be so. But she needed to eat and as blurry as Misery’s outline appeared to her in the haze of the hotel room’s rich amber glow, she knew she wasn’t alone in this. Charlotte had begun shaking her head and waving her knife in a listless gesture of disapproval before Misery had even finished speaking. The bit about the Pop - Tarts was cute, but it wasn’t enough to do with. . . or earn anything more than a good - humoured chuckle from the agent. Charlotte knew what a non - answer sounded like when she heard one, and this was it. “ No, you’ve got to know something that can help. If you’re not favoured, then who the fuck is? Your loving father s’gotta have someone he trusts, yeah? ”
