Page 131 of Misery
She's crying by the time I finish, silent tears she doesn't wipe away.
"The panic attacks. You saw those."
"Yes."
"And did nothing."
"I wanted to. Every time. It killed me to watch you suffer alone."
"But orders were more important."
"At first. Then it became about not revealing myself. Knowing you'd run if you knew."
"I would have." She takes a shaky breath. "The worst part is I needed you. Those nights when I was falling apart, I needed someone, and you were right there. Watching. Letting me suffer."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you know what it's like to feel alone while someone's watching you break? It's worse than being actually alone. Because someone could help but chooses not to."
"No. I don't."
She finishes her coffee in silence before speaking up again. "Can you take me back to your room?"
My room is sparse.
Bed, dresser, weapons safe, small desk. No personal items except?—
She finds them immediately.
The sketches.
Three of them, tucked in the desk drawer.
Her, painted from memory.
One laughing at the bar. One concentrating while painting. One sleeping peacefully.
"You drew these?"
"I'm not an artist. Not like you. But I needed... something. To remember the good moments."
She traces the lines with her finger. "These are from before. Before we were together."
"Yes."
"So you were, what? Drawing me like some creepy stalker?"
"Yes."
She laughs, but it's bitter. "At least you're honest now."
"I've got more," I admit, opening another drawer. "Dozens. I couldn't stop."
She flips through them. Her in every mood, every moment I could capture. "This is intense."
"Yes."
"Unhealthy."
