#winifrd

he   draws   the   handkerchief   from   his   pocket  ,    scrubs   it   across   his   mouth  ,    replaces   it  ,    repeats   the   whole   process   a   few   minutes   later.      he’s   on   edge  ,    restless  ,    danny   asleep   in   the   cot   in   the   corner      --      again   and   again   he   turns   the   idea   of   telling   her   about   his   own   experience   with   the   hedge   animals   over   in   his   mind  ,    puts   it   right   back   to   bed.      seeing   things.      that’s   all   it   had   been  ,    and   that’s   what   had   happened   with   danny   today  ,    too. 

so   where   had   the   injuries   on   the   boy   come   from? 

                   to say he fucked up would be an incredible understatement. jack was convinced their lives were going to change after the hotel. he was going to get paid well, he was going to change his ways — he was going to be a better father and a better husband. none of it perspired. though their lives had changed, they had changed for the worst; and it was all his fault.

jack wants to blame the overlook for everything that happened, and perhaps he can, for most of it. but the building, it fed off of what was already there, that misplaced anger that always led to him hurting wendy and danny. he’s a wreck, standing in front of her. jack swears his hair is falling out, patches missing between graying locks. bags sag under milky eyes, not quite looking into wendy’s own, but just past them. yes, he’s a shell of a man, but he deserves it, after everything he’s put her through. ‘no... no, i...’ he’s said it, already — sorry. he’d say it again and again if it would help, but would it? was wendy already tired of him trying to make things right with an apology?

when he finally does look at her — really looks at her — he knows she doesn’t need him. maybe she never has. ‘i... want to make things right,’ a sob gets stuck in his throat. ‘if i can... can i...?’