#wheelturns

SEND ME A 🍓 AND I WILL COMPLIMENT YOUR WRITING. | always accepting. | @multiplicitous​ / @wheelturns​.

Where to begin? Well, I’m gonna start with Danny.

There are a few characters that are so much a part of me that I very rarely trust other people (other than their original authors) to do them justice. Adult Daniel Torrence is one of them.

But you blow it out of the water. Reading your Danny, it’s like someone’s taken the part of my heart that Doctor Sleep started to heal, and told me it’s alright, it’s safe, the world’s capable (so very capable) of taking all that you love and cherish about Daniel Torrence, and show it to you reflected and amplified.

send me a 🧠 for a telepathic vibe check !! // accepting ♥

     ❛      i’m  fine.      ❜    she reassures with a breathless chortle.    isn’t she supposed to be the one to care for those she’s close to  ?   those alike in her struggles  ?    despite her defiance  ,  her head is far too warm for the average human and the color from her face has drained.    whatever color was left  ,  that is.    she may as well be a ghost now as she is reclined in bed  ,  resisting under blankets.

    the woman is no strange to tricks.    the walls like to close in just until she can no longer bare another breath in  ,  then do they release and become walls again.    there is a constant whispering in every corner of her head that tells her words of falsities.    with this incapability to make it all stop  ,  this fogginess isn’t any worse than what she experience.    there’s no telling if she can ignore it.

he’s late to the meeting. david even feels a touch of embarrassment when he pushes the doors open and they in return screech horribly. the woman currently standing up in front of a small circle of chairs pauses whatever she was saying and stares at him with, frankly, a lot of hostility. david doesn’t need to read her mind to know he just interrupted a very heartful confession. he waves awkwardly and slithers into the room. 

the whispers come to him immediately. who’s the new guy, no respect for the group, wonder why he’s late, yadda yadda. david’s heard all of that before.

first, the essentials. he's done some group therapies, he knows how meetings like these work. there’s always a table with some awful coffee and a pile of foldable chairs made out of the hardest plastic on earth. the woman tries to continue her confession but it’s clear the moment is over and she sits down. david mouths a silent whoops! to himself as he fills a paper cup with some watery coffee. dragging a chair, he invades the circle and takes a seat between some guy and the woman he just interrupted. she’s not looking too friendly right now, so david takes his chance with the man. he leans in conspiratorially and whispers: 

@wheelturns​ said:   𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝚃𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴?

   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝙼𝚄𝚃𝙴𝙻𝚈,  slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket to protect them from the sharp bite of the air. It’s cold here. Cold, and dry. Not like Virginia, where the humidity hangs over the foothills even up unto the end of winter and makes the nights thick and quiet and damp. It’s quiet, but in a thinner way. Everything feels brittle. When Will draws a deep breath through his nose, his nostrils stick to his septum, tacky with frost.

   ‘ No trouble. Your directions were very clear. ’

   Vivid and strangely clear. Like reading someone’s diary, the recounting of a lucid dream. Neurophenomenology at its most succinct.

   Just ahead, the road turns up the mountain—cutting a dim grey line of switchbacks through the steep hillside that’s white and smeared with the black shapes of snow-ladden pines. The snow isn’t too deep, but soft and still falling. Dan had been right to suggest they stop before starting up the road. Will’s rental car wouldn’t make it. The truck Dan is driving might, but something in Will wants to suggest they go on foot. Petitioners on a road returning to perdition. Dan’s face is vacant, but there’s an energy just beneath it that Will can’t help but talk to.

   ‘ I have to go up there. Uncle Jack’s orders---but you don’t have to come with me, Dan. ’

   Actually, Uncle Jack had ordered him specifically to take Dan up with him, to watch his face. Still expecting some halfway kind of magick out of Will, but Will doesn’t give a shit about that. About what Jack wants. Not really. Local police have already been up and down again, removed the bodies, and Will has already been in the room with the bodies, but Jack wants Will in the room where they were found. Wants Will in that room with Dan, even though they’re all aware that Dan had nothing to do with it. Still, he’s a resource, a rare resource—and Uncle Jack doesn’t waste a resource.

   No, Uncle Jack likes to drain them until they’re dry.

   Will’s mouth turns down sharply, unhappily, and he pulls a hand from his pocket to touch the back of Dan’s hand where it’s resting on the bedside of the truck. There are snowflakes caught on the sleeve of Dan’s jacket, and Will brushes them away. It’s an unusual impulse for him, and if he thinks too hard about it, it might start to worry him how often he does it now. Touches Dan, even when Dan hasn’t given any indication that he’d like him to. Even when it doesn’t really serve a pragmatic function. Does it just to do it, under the guise of comfort, maybe, though Will would recognize the selfish root running just beneath it—if he looked. Somehow, they both flinch back from the touch at the same time, and Will buries his hand back into his pocket, fisting the fabric of the lining. It’s smooth, and that smooths him.

   He knows that Dan isn’t going to let him go up alone. Given what he believes the danger to be, that isn’t in his nature. It’s a waste of that nature, to spend it on Will—and that awareness drives a spike of resentment into him.

   ‘ It’s beautiful here. ’

   It’s a cruel thing to say. Could be perceived as tactless, but that would require a lack of intention, and Will rarely lacks that in the moment of articulation. No, he means it. His eyes, limpid and thickly saturated blue, skate sharply to the side after he says it. The expression not unlike another flinch. He wishes he hadn’t mean it—but wishing is usually useless. He wishes he’d worn his glasses. Will circles the truck, mute again, and pulls open the door to slide into the passenger side of the bench seat. A cut of wind pushes the door closed with a slam, faster than he means to close it, and he flinches from that, too.