You’d think Misery would be female, for all its imagined grace and dwelling with Beauty and all the silky metaphors the old poets used to capture the essence of the sensation. He’s not, though. Misery is a young, handsome man, with his wispy dark gray hair and slim, pale face on which his black-as-night eyes twinkle when he’s happy.

Which is extremely often.

Because Misery, you see, loves his job. He relishes creeping into your heart as and when you allow him in; it’s his playground, where he swings around with your wishes, your beliefs, and toys with your choices, and relationships. The troublesome thing is, you don’t exactly know when he’s intruded into your soul. He just does, when you let him, because he’s always waiting for your heart to open its door to him.

Charming, joyous Misery – he loves it when some humans kill themselves in his name; he loves their stark disability - and utter reluctance - to let go of him throughout their lives; he loves the sheer madness of these people writhing in the clutches of the enormous web that is his psyche. He’d like you to love him like that, so he can damage you all the more.

It is, of course, a pity how he keeps up appearances so often these days.  Misery walks the world trampling on the remnants of broken hearts, of lost faiths, of spare bits of hope and happiness nobody seems to claim, crushing them to fine red dust under the soles his massive feet, so even if you try you can never, ever find all the pieces and fix yourself again.