Disclaimer: I don't own Misery the book or movie.

I wrote this for a class in college about 2 years ago after we read the book. I found it while searching for some old chapters of other fics. I can't even remember the initial assignment but I thought I'd share :P

Trauma

Paul Sheldon picked up the elephant statue with trembling hands. It was heavier than he expected and he almost dropped the thing. The ferocious rearing brass elephant fit neatly in the palm of his hand but felt like it weighed three times what it should have. He gingerly set it back down on the dust-free book shelf between a book called The Thirteenth Tale and Alice in Wonderland and simply stared at it a few minutes more. He couldn't tell if the beast was in pain or preparing for battle but seeing it gave him a swelling sense of unease.

Chiding himself for being jumpy - again –, he sank back down in one of the green club chairs across from the sparsely decorated mahogany desk. He was nervous when he had no reason to be, he knew. He was simply studying for his next book by interviewing a doctor who was the leading mind on post-traumatic stress disorder... A young incredibly attractive doctor. That has to be the reason, he thought with a sigh. This was his third interview so far with this particular doctor and he, to his fascination, was developing something of a crush.

Calm down, he told himself sternly, clasping his fingers firmly in his lap.

Paul heard the heavy door being pushed open behind him, -speak of the devil- and reached for the cane again.

"Oh, no, Paul," Dr. Emma Simmons said gently as she came into his field of vision behind that bare desk. "Don't get up on my account."

She smiled at him with that twinkle in her chocolate eyes that were only slightly obscured by a few tendrils of curly hair that always seemed to come undone. Tucking the black strands expertly back into place she sat in her work chair with a graceful slide.

Paul for his part was once again nearly struck dumb, but he smoothly – he hoped – recovered and said in an affected southern accent, "My mother taught me to be a gentleman, ma'am." Total lie. He tipped an invisible hat in her direction.

She laughed delicately, hand over her heart. "We're going to talk about your mother, now? I hadn't realized I'd become such a cliché."

He laughed stiffly. "No, thank you. I get enough of that from my overpaid quack."

As her pink smile faltered, Paul nearly smacked himself in the head. "I didn't mean-"

"I know, Paul," the young woman said gently, but before they could lapse into an uncomfortable silence she asked, "Where did we leave off last time?"

"Early treatments for soldiers with PTSD," Paul replied readily, gratefully while he picked up the pen and notebook he had left on the desk before.

"Oh, of course," she said immediately reverting to lecture mode. Her back straightened and her voice took on an isn't-this-fascinating sort of tone. "But, of course, they didn't call it…"

They went on like this for a while, Paul only interjecting when he didn't understand a term or phrase – she was very thorough –, until his hand started cramping. He politely asked for a break and dropped the notebook back on her desk with a soft "plop."

Usually these moments passed in silence or she would offer refreshments but this time she surprised him with a hesitant, soft spoken offer. Almost a plea.

"Paul, you've been coming here for a while, now, and I know… Well it might not be my place but… If you ever need someone to talk to, someone you feel comfortable with, I hope you know you can come to me. You know you can trust me."

He went on massaging his hands, staring at them for a moment. He couldn't meet those eyes. They could see too much. "No offence, Doc, but I don't need another shrink poking around my head."

He almost jumped when a slim manicured hand entered his field of vision to cover his own. He looked to his right to find her surprising close. Squatting slightly until she was just a little below eye level, she smiled at him ingratiatingly "I wasn't implying you did. But sometimes simply talking to a friend helps, and I'd like to think we're friends by now."

He nodded, desperately concealing his blush. She just made him feel so… vulnerable. "We are, Doc, but…"

"You can trust me."

His eyes drifted back to his concealed hands. With the covering they seemed almost whole. "I don't- I don't know where to start."

"What do you remember?" She removes her hand but stays where she is. He missed the warmth.

He stared at a whorl in the mahogany desk for a moment and made himself think about her question seriously. His mouth formed to say the word "fear" but he knew that wasn't right. His jaws clamped shut with an almost audible snap. He had feared her as a person, yes, but it was more than that. She was more than that. She was

"The Goddess."

"Yes," Doctor Simmons whispered. She backed up until she reached the other chair and faced it towards Paul. His face had clouded over and she knew with chilling certainty that he wasn't in that office anymore. He was drifting away again. "What about the goddess, Paul?"

"She's not dead."

"No," she said quickly and firmly. "She's dead, Paul. The police found her body in the barn. Remember?"

He was still staring at that whorl on the desk, falling into it, and Emma's heart spasmed. God, you poor thing.

"She escaped."

"To die."

"No," he said so softly she could barely hear him. "You can't kill Her."

She reached forward and gripped his arm gently. "Paul, she's dead. You killed her. You won. You survived.."

Suddenly she was standing. He had grabbed her by her thin arms and pulled her to her feet. His hands had a tight, almost bruising grip on her forearms. Paul's face was inches from hers and was almost completely unrecognizable from moments before, angry, savage and filled with pain.

"Why do you keep saying my name like that?" He shook her once. Twice. "And how the Hell do you know all this? Huh?" He shook her with so much force this time she felt her head snap back.

Before she realized it, Emma had called for help. The two orderlies outside her thick door burst in. Her head was still spinning when Paul was forced away from her and turned face down on his stomach on top of the desk. Although she was seeing stars, she managed to reach in her bag near the bookcase for her syringe as she answered his question. "Because you told me, Paul," she shouted over his protests waiting for the orderlies to hold him still enough for the injection. When she slipped the needle into his neck and pushed, Paul went slack almost instantly. "You always do. But it's time to go back to your room now. You're going to be ok."