fuck my stupid chungus bill denbrough life
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@fisthrust
fuck my stupid chungus bill denbrough life

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@boystark BRING HER BAAAACK
well
CLEARVOIR ( 𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘢 ) . . .
if she weren’t shivering so much, abra would’ve said something more. some kind of comfort. but she feels abashed in her fruitlessness, eyes as vast and tragic as their surroundings, his jacket comes to rest on her shoulders and she burrows into it with a sense of urgency. her stare darts the length of bill, from his face, so stricken in its intensity, to his soiled wear : he’s been here for a long while, disoriented and wandering the same path he’s taken in an aimless memory. he is someone else, a child that’s been swept away to a doomed neverland, somehow stuck in the threshold of nostalgia and grief, and she isn’t sure how to broach it just yet. somewhere, beneath it all, it’s still bill. a roiling flutter catches her voice, ensnaring her throat, and still shivering, abra manages to whisper, ❝ th - there were — ❞ the black inside of a coffin, that’s what she feels like, ❝ there were b - bodies bah - back there, bill. ❞ half in worriment, abra lingers in front of his path and eyeline, in case he decides to redirect his beacon to the slaughter behind her [ we have to get out of here, we need to move. are you there, bill ? ]. thin fingers spasm as they extend and clasp his own, dripping with water so murky and sludge - like that it reminds her of blood in the shadows. ❝ which way ? bill ? ❞
which way, bill ? which way ? one voiced turned a thousand, rolling over and back against sewer walls until the entire world is full of it. which way, big bill ? which way ? help us, show us, save us . . . abra’s voice branches off, spinning into ones just as familiar, just as desperate. bev’s and ben’s and stan’s . . . richie’s and eddie’s and mike’s . . . all asking him, all begging him. help us, bill ! show us the way ! dream - world filled with their pleas, polluted by them, so thick they threaten to choke. his eyes shutter closed, jaw grinding shut. and for a moment he tries not to breathe, tries not to think. because they aren’t here. bev and richie and the rest. that image once more, this time turned to comfort, voices fading off along with their faces . . . they aren’t here.
this is just a dream . . . just a horrible dream.
the though hits him like a fist. strong enough to knock the air from him had there been any left to knock. his fingers close ‘round abra’s, eyes snapping open. ❝ th - this is just a dd - dream. ❞ words spoken like a blessing . . . words spoken like a curse. if this is a dream, then where is the exit ? if this is a dream, then is there even any exit at all? one hand flicks upwards, tugging at the jacket’s collar – a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay. ❝ i - it’s jj - just a dream. ❞ he straightens, eyes drifting over the sewer’s dank interior – that horror of sludge and rust. no way in and no way out . . . only onwards. his hand tugs hers, an unspoken follow me. ❝ ff - forwards. we h - have to keep gg - going . . . th - that’s the only ww - way o - out. ❞
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 : 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘴

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BOBGRAY ( 𝘪𝘵 ) . . .
IN THIS ATAVISTIC FEAR , in this grievous home , the husking of another haunt ; a feeding place for animals . one less mouth to feed , one more ghost to congest the intestinal dwells of derry . ka damns a denbrough to the dark , thus the elder child will follow . pages come apart in a splayed carcass of memory , and stall at an image of george denbrough . all darkle , all tinct . 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . thin red rivulets dribble down his cheeks , his chin . that greasepaint - laden face is a gibbous moon ‘gainst the film . it was the face in midnight's foyer , in the closet , in the cellar , in the yonder ━━ all places a child’s mind consigns to wander .
❝ help me , billy . ❞ pled a puling voice from the photograph . bled a long , fluctuant ( help - help - help - me - me - me - me ) echo . painted smile gapes into that of a toothless bore . 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐡 . his fingers drew forth ; his knuckles protrude from the film as they curl over its deftly cut margin , and those fetid nails punch its membrane . graywater broke freely from the album in amniotic flood . with a cold , tremorous little hand , It reaches for prey . ❝ take my hand , billy . ❞
pleading takes its toll, those words spoken as if from beyond the grave –– you couldn’t help me then, but here is your second chance. here is your redemption. there’s a momentary tremor ; hand reaching for hand, fingers almost brushing –– yet there’s bile in the back of his throat, the taste rotten on his tongue, and something within him momentarily stills . . . at last long the wrongness strikes him : the greasepaint smile and the gaping maw, the fingers that claw instead of reach, the greywater flooding his shoes. he starts back with a lurch, fingers curling in on themselves and wrist snapping backwards, other hand moving to shove while his shoes squelch against the carpet, mouth open in a silent scream.
the album hits the floor with a solid thud, pages tangled beneath it like the legs of a dying spider.
and in that moment he understands every horror movie idiot –– the ones who believe the terrors are finally done when you know they are only just beginning, refusing to admit the monster is real until it’s already too late. the ones who sit and hide when the monster is just around the corner, thinking, hoping they are safe. he sits curled in on himself, too - long limbs pressed tight against his chest, too - wide eyes watching over his knees. waiting for something, anything . . .
but the album stays an album –– and the room is filled not with pleading, but with his own heavy breathing.
slowly but surely he begins to unfurl, one limb at a time : an arm pushing him up, one foot on the ground and then another. body pulled mechanically, a puppet on a string. moving without his will, against his will. because he knows what he is going to do, what he must do, even though every muscle screams against him. he has to see – just one last look – he has to be sure . . . his hand scrambles blindly among bedside table junk, searching for something, anything, before finally coming up with the table lamp – still lit – its cord trailing off to some long - forgotten outlet. and then it’s just him and it. that album, dead but not, cast in a horror movie low. there’s a moment of stillness, of calm before the storm . . . and all at once his foot is under it, flipping it, righting it, lamp held high and ready to strike ––
Jonny Bolduc, Ending
& . 𝘚𝘛𝘖𝘕𝘌, ABRA ;
@fisthrust / i dd-don’t r-remember ! i jj-just d-don’t remember.
his fear suppresses all else, each sense deadens and mutes, like yellowed - grass that catches alight with a single match [ YOU DID SOMETHING WRONG! WRONG, WRONG, WRONG! ]. she is affixed to bill, he is the sun with its own pull and orbit that she has no demur to follow — HIS HORROR NUMBS, anger is next, flares in the flush of his cheeks and ears, she finds herself tearing her hand from his. each flicker and relic of bill’s memories seep from her very eyes, seraphic face of george denbrough with withered skin and sunken eyes is seemingly remnants of a nightmare than a true keepsake. IT BURNS ALL THE SAME. ❝ i’m sorry, i’m — i’m sorry, bill. i thought — ❞
his reaction is a sudden spring of fervor inside of her, teeth catch to the raw innards of her cheek, tearing ‘til there’s the taste of blood. she doesn’t know what to say, she never does. ❝ i thought you wanted to remember. i was trying to help. ❞
MEMORIES BURN RED - HOT ; what was once forgotten all at once remembered again, branded against his eyelids and flooded into his brain. ( every second something new : george’s last goodbye, fading off with the last few notes of für elise / dam building in the barrens / the horrible, bloody grin of george’s last school photo - ) there’s bile in the back of his throat, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to be sick, his stomach rolling a few miles above where it should be, doing the tango with his brain.
oh god, this is too much, too much, too much . . .
his hands raise to his face, fingers digging against his eyelids, his temples, as though somehow he can pry the pain away. ( his head feels near to bursting, as though any second now the dams will break and memories will start pouring out his ears and onto dan’s old scuffed - up wood floors. ) his body folds in on itself, too - long legs pulled up against his chest and head buried between his knees.
oh god, oh fuck! i don’t want to remember! this is too much, oh god! oh god, oh god, oh god –
and then the flood stops, leaving behind only an ebbing pressure and the metallic ghost of blood on his tongue. ( her blood, not his, an after - taste of guilt. ) he uncurls himself slowly – head then legs then hands – his nails leaving little crescent moons in his palm. he stares at them for a moment, and for a second he thinks he can see it there, just in - between them – a flash of scar - skin – but then he blinks and it’s gone again, taking memory along with it. he hadn’t even realized how much he’d forgotten – not until now, until her . . . “ it w - was tt - too mm - much. too m - much at oo - once. jesus ch - ch - christ, i’d forgotten about a - all of th - that. it was all jj - just . . j - just . . gg - gone. ”
Joe Mazzello as Joe Wenteworth in Simon Birch (1998)
I have faith. I just need proof to back it up.
WHAT ARE YOUR CHARACTER’S STAR SIGNS ?
NAME: william arthur denrbough. DATE: january 13th, 1947. TIME: 7:13 am. LOCATION: derry, maine, united states. ( i used bangor instead of derry ) RESULT: capricorn sun, libra moon, capricorn rising.
SUN ☼ CAPRICORN:
✩ – capricorn is a feet-on-the-ground, eye-on-the-prize sign. those with sun in capricorn have a realistic, grounded approach to life that can be seen no matter how dreamy the rest of the birth chart suggests. these people know how to do things, and to get things done. some capricorns naturally turn their backs on things they deem too frivolous. they are very much concerned with things that are worthwhile - and that includes their own lives. capricorns want to do and be something worthwhile. like their earth signs relatives, taurus and virgo, they need to feel useful and effective in the real world in order to be satisfied with their lives. but the capricorn spin on the earth signs is that capricorn possesses a stronger need for recognition in a worldly sense. they have a strong sense of society and its framework, and they feel most secure when they feel they are doing their part within that framework.
capricorns like to pare things down, and take pleasure in the simple things in life. however, many are attracted to status symbols and these ones will wear the best clothes ( tasteful ones! ) and drive quietly impressive cars. comparing capricorns to their symbol, the goat, brings up some interesting analogies. solar capricorns can see into the future, and plan for it. they don't mind taking things slowly, but they absolutely aim to get to the top of the mountain in life! they make their way steadily and sure-footedly ; and their strength and singleness of purpose are admirable.
capricorns can sometimes be rather lonely people, although they rarely let it show. they are often a little reserved - even standoffish. this is generally because they value all things practical, and they'll seldom wear their emotions on their sleeves, unless they have a particularly flamboyant moon sign. this is a sign that is surely the most resourceful of the zodiac. to some, capricorns come across as unimaginative, but they can be enormously creative when it comes to the material world. they are generally very capable people with a strong sense of tradition and responsibility.
many capricorns have mastered the art of making people laugh. their sense of humor can be of the deadpan variety - they're generally excellent at keeping a straight face. they can be bitingly sarcastic, too. capricorns are not known for taking too many risks in life. they value the beaten track and things " tried and true. " this is not to say they are stick-in-the-muds - they simply value the hard work laid down by those who've been around before them. turn to your capricorn friends for help when you need to really get things done. they'll have practical advice, and they'll help you organize and manage your life a little better. capricorns are generally good with their " word, " dependable, and rather loyal people.
MOON ☾ LIBRA:
✩ – moon in libra people have a strong need for partnership. without someone to share their lives with, they feel utterly incomplete. this is why many people with this position get involved in marriages or living - together arrangements quite young. because this drive for harmony, peace, and sharing is so powerful, lunar librans are apt to do a lot of conceding. they are sympathetic and concerned for others, enjoy socializing, and revel in a good debate. mental rapport with others is especially important to them.
lunar librans feel safe and secure when they are in a partnership. these are the people who seem to always need to have someone tag along with them wherever they go - even if it is to the corner store. they find strength and reinforcement in and through others. people with this position are often quite charming. they can be very attractive to be around, and are often given to flirtatiousness. rarely directly aggressive, these people win your heart with their gentle and refined ways.
moon in libra natives simply can't help but see flaws in their environment and their relationships. in fact, anything out of whack will bother them until it's fixed. although diplomatic with acquaintances, when moon in libra natives argue with their long - standing partners, they rarely let up until they win. and, winning an argument is a libran specialty - in fact, they may not even believe what they are saying, but will adopt all kinds of ideas just to get the last word. living with lunar librans can sometimes feel like you are on trial, and libra is the expert lawyer. sometimes, though, libra is defending you and supporting your point of view. lunar librans' idealistic outlook and constant striving for the best, most harmonious lifestyle can lead to much discontent. looking for that one ( elusive ) perfect way to lead their lives can detract from enjoyment of the moment.
RISING ↑ CAPRICORN:
✩ – there's a seriousness to capricorn rising people that is unmistakable. even when they're joking around, it's of the deadpan variety. in fact, plenty of very humorous people have capricorn ascendants. it's all in the timing . . . and the fact that they don't giggle before the joke is over. capricorn ascendant people project competence. they simply ooze it. they're generally very image-conscious people - the clothes they wear and their manner are a big deal to them. they want to appear successful, and they generally succeed! often the ascendant persona is the one that was forced upon us by family conditioning. in the case of capricorn ascendants, these were the children who were considered the responsible ones. sometimes, it was they themselves who looked around them and felt the need to be the structured, dependable, and responsible members of the family. so, often, capricorn rising people adopted a strong sense of tradition, family, and responsibility at a very young age. capricorn rising people are generally big on family, and forever worry about security - for themselves and their dependents. they come across to others as hard-working, competent, and dependable people. what others may not see under that cool, even suave, exterior, is an inner struggle : they often ask themselves, " am i doing enough? ", " do i deserve all of this? ", " how can i make things better? " they worry a lot about the future. if success seemed to have come easy to these folks, it hasn't. they just made it look that way with a patient, hard-working, driven personality. some capricorn rising people practice some form of self-denial. they know how to do away with the frivolous. still, they'll spend money on the clothes they really want ( the ones with the right labels, that is ) and other status symbols. although they're rarely showy, their quiet air of success is often a result of conscious effort. more often than not, capricorn rising individuals are success stories. their childhoods may have been difficult, but they slowly but surely turn their lives around. saturn rules this ascendant, and this generally means a kind of backwards way of living - as children, they are serious and bear a lot of responsibility ; and as they grow up, they age beautifully, learning how to loosen up.
TAGGED BY: @snovak TAGGING: nah

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NO, NOT THROWN – FIRED. fired like a living bullet, like the human cannonball at the shrine circus that came to derry each may. he can feel his body gaining momentum, faster and faster, faster than any car, faster than silver. oh god, oh shit! faster than any human was meant to go, faster than was perhaps even possible it’s only in my mind! it’s my body is there, right there! be brave, be true! stand! stand! flying backwards through dimly lit - tunnel, into intersections that glow a sickly yellow - green – flying backwards into it’s domain. a once - in - a - lifetime ride on the world’s worst rollercoaster. and then out of that. shooting out into inky blackness – the cosmos. the void.
he thrusts ... he thrusts his fists ... his fists ... against the posts ( stop that! why do you say that? that won’t help you, stupid boy - ) and still insists he sees the ghosts!
if only he could say that out loud, say it without stuttering. if only treacherous mouth would at long last form those words. maybe then he could break the illusion – thoughts are shattered by the sense of something. something else, something old. something older than old, older than it, something eternal. a shape in the darkness. please, please, whatever you are, remember that i am very small!
what are you? ( i am the turtle, son. i made the universe, but please don’t blame me for it; i had a bellyache. ) help me! please help me! ( i take no stand in these matters ) my brother – ( has his own place in the macroverse. )
and now he’s shooting past it, shooting away. out of the void and into – the deadlights. that was where it meant to send him. where it had sent beverly. the very name causes his arms to break out in gooseflesh, causes hair to stand on end. the deadlights. where it dwelled, all horror and light. a place where he would either exist forever in agony or be burned to less than dust. the thought makes him want to scream, to cry. but he has no choice. no way out – and even if he did no way he could take it. not with georgie dead, not with bev lost ...
please, you are good, i sense and believe that you are good, and i am begging you ... won’t you please help me? ( you already know. there is only chüd. and your friends. ) please, oh please! ( son, you’ve got the thrusts your fists against the posts and still insist you see the ghosts. once you get into cosmological shit like this, you’ve got to throw away the instruction manual. )
and he knows. knows it is true. even as the voice of the turtle grows fainter and that voice of that other magnifies – howling, laughing, taunting, the force of utter evil. the voice of sunday school devil, which until now had seemed in his child’s mind monster of all monsters. the voice of the creature that lurked under his bed at night. the voice of ever creature that had ever wanted him, awake or asleep. and then that voice is fading too, human noises fading away. and he knows he is both leaving it and approaching it, the deadlights drawing near.
( you’re doing good, son, but very shortly it’s going to be too late. ) it’s scared! it’s scared of us! it’s scared of me! and besides, i have to find her. i have to find –
beverly. he can see her, hair a fan around her face, and for a moment he feels afraid. that horrible inhuman chatter seeming to drag at him, to take him over. she’s dead. oh god, she’s dead. it’s too late, it’s all too late – hope dwindles, only a spark where moments before there was a burning flame. it had all been useless, a fool’s errand. he thought he was king arthur with his cardboard armor and tin foil sword, but in the end what was he? a child. a stupid boy ... but then something shifts, he sees eyes flutter, and he can feel his heart give a leap. yes! not dead after all, not dead! i knew it! i knew it! he wants to laugh, wants to cheer, but instead all he does is cup hands around smiling mouth, voice overcoming that of the creature, strong and true, his father’s voice – “ BEVERLY! ” ( @januaryfires )
clearvoir .
there’s a formless tunnel ahead. alcoved maw of the sewers is blanketed by oppressive darkness, abra finds herself following the eroded pathway with little to no direction –- dazed, almost ; the innards of derry that her compeer seems to know as well as his way home. sleep oftentimes eludes abra, and even when it may take her by the hand and whisper in her ear its siren call, she instead dives headfirst into wayward daydreams and harrowing phantasms fabricated by ones she holds dear.
the sewers are deformed from the aberrant and imprecise recollection of the eye of bill’s mind, child - like crevices of memory have formed from vivid nightmares. the corridor feels claustrophobic, grim in its silence, and abra becomes soaked through with the malodorous sewage when she loses her footing. among the ankle - length water, there are remains, some kind of crude graveyard for missing children [ stripped carcasses with chiseled bone - fragments, made from teeth that are marrow - seeking, gouged deep into the dents and crags of a youth’s ribcage ], even with the opaque lighting, abra can make out the ghostly yellow - white glow of weathered bones.
she finds him at the heart of the chasm, as soiled as her, beam of his torch darts the length of abra’s lissome shadow, appearing even scrawnier than usual ‘neath loose - fitting sweats that are more suited for bed rather than extempore feats. ❝ b - bill, ❞ the seer says, trembling [ what’re you doing what’re you doing ], ❝ i’m cold — ❞
there’s a moment of non - recognition . . . past and present not connecting. the form before him too tall for a loser and too lithe for a beast ( but who ? ) it’s the voice that stills him, connecting the years between now and then. fear begins to ebb – abra, just abra. ( magic restored, big bill resurrected. ) a breath is released, one he had barely registered holding, and fingers ache as flashlight is released from their death grip.
sneakers squelch in the sewer muck, threatening to be pulled away at any second, but he gives them no thought as he tugs his jacket from his shoulders ( already big on him and consuming abra completely. )
❝ hh - how . . . ? ❞ how are you down here? point accompanied by a picture. seven children in a sewer, seven children scared out of their minds. seven children there to slay the monster that has been haunting the town, that had murdered their leader’s brother. ( seven children, abra not among them ) seven children that fade one by one until he is the only left. big bill deserted. not reality of life, but reality of dream. ❝ wh - why ? ❞
entragedy .
HE NEARLY FLINCHES FROM BILL’S PSYCHE. the image is gone, but still there — compared perhaps to a dream, fragmented and blurred from another’s perspective, but enough to provoke a reaction, one where dan is impulsively nauseated ( JESUS, KID, WHAT’S GOING ON IN THAT HEAD OF YOURS? ). the flies nestle into every nook and cranny, feasting ‘til there’s nothing left, there is no face ‘neath the swarm ; bill’s father is a walking and talking dead man. a sense of deja - vu sweeps ‘side the repulsion, one hand brandishes ‘cross his face, a futile attempt to stop the words before they croak forcibly from his mouth : ❝ YOU - YOU CAN’T STOP IT. ❞ sandpaper tongue is clenched by his teeth, it’s glaringly obvious but something that should be left unsaid, even now, he’s nothing but skin and bones and large, youthful eyes in front of dan. hasn’t lived a life, barely living one now. ( HE’S YOU, YOU’RE STARING YOURSELF IN THE FACE! ).
❝ i mean, it’s fate. you can’t change fate, bill. sometimes, the flies come and go, nothing is ever certain but — no, i mean … ❞ gooseflesh dews onto him, all over, bill will catch him in his lie before it’s even out his mouth, scrutiny tightens the lines of his eyes and mouth, and the question clouds the space in ‘tween them with a loathly and weighted silence. ❝ did abra tell you how many were there? were they hanging off him or sticking? can you see them? ❞
❝ nn - no . . . ❞ a slight shake of the head, eyes falling from dan’s face and moving instead to rest upon shuffling feet. his powers are not like abra’s, all flash in fire. they are barely powers at all, his shine is barely more than a sparkle, lit only when in contact with something brighter. ( glorified intuition. he is no prophet, no oracle. his realm that of gut feelings. ) and no flies, either. only a pit that has worked itself into his stomach, growing heavier by the day. the feeling of something wrong, something wrong, something wrong.
❝ she ss-said f-four or ff-five . and th - they , they – ❞ his father’s face once more, free from last image’s swarm. only four of five flies and seem to hang. not a death sentence but an infection, crawling over his cheeks and eyes, lingering in his hair. falling off into the space around him, littering his book, his chair . . . gooseflesh forms on the boy’s arms, hands balling and un-balling into fists at his sides. eyes flick back up to dan’s, suddenly too sharp. ❝ h - he’s dd - dying, isn’t he ? ❞
@entragedy said : i’m not trying to scare you . . . / from dan
❝ i’m nn - not sc - scared . ❞ big bill : strong and true, a hero from an old movie. fearless knight, no fear in his heart. facing down the dragon and saving the princess, a happy ending . . . a lie. eyes raise to meet dan’s, a crack in the center of heroic facade. eyes not of king arthur, but of a helpless child. eyes that seem to beg. ( oh god uncle dan, please help me ! oh god, oh shit ! ) mouth falls open and shut, words lost somewhere in the miles long expanse that seems to link brain and throat.
what finally forms is not words at all, but an image. man coated head to toe in flies , all swarming and crawling. one thousand, two thousand, so many that the room seems to shift with their every moment, every square inch alive. more and more and more – until all light is blotted out . . . leaving behind nothing but their terrible buzzing. leaving nothing but the boy in their wake, all over - wide eyes and tensed muscles, a thousand fears packed into his very stance .
❝ h - hh - h . . . h - how ll - long ? ❞