╱ writer’s note: in this portrayal & account, andi, much alike the novel, is thirty two years old. I don’t feel comfortable writing her as a minor in the horror verse. thank you for reading.

╱ I don’t mean to be annoying or such, since I wanted to like your interaction posts but hesitated, but if you ever want to write sometime, I’d love to write! 🥰 𝒲𝐼𝐿𝒟 𝐼𝑅𝐼𝒮𝐻 𝑅𝒪𝒮𝐸.

‘twas peculiar —— she hardly interacted with strangers﹔ her world & responsibilities were so routine-like that the bump (*𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 ) startled her. “you usually are that friendly to literal strangers?”

I 𝑒𝑎𝑡 boys like you for 𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺𝙵𝙰𝚂𝚃﹗

“but it won’t be 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 girl, wouldn’t it?” inquiries the femme, unmoving from rose’s gentle touch— “she seems 𝒔trong,” stronger than the knot, she wanted to utter, but 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 better. piquing rose wasn’t ideal ╱ wise.

this grief opens my mouth / and speaks your name.

yawn —— she’s seated on the wooden chair, inhaling the sweet scent of nature, surrounded by a field of greens. ╱ everyone seems to be fast asleep, a perfect moment for short-lived tranquility. ( she hopes crow never wakes up ).

What is older than desire? the bare tree asked. Sorrow, said the sky. Sorrow is a river / older than desire.

flicks @ADOCTORSLEEP’s head, maw partly agape, uttering words of disdain. “you're disgusting.”

╱ being in this verse makes me miss my wendy torrance so much. 🫣

her bottom lip bleeds, and she haphazardy rubs her thumb against it, almost tasting the vermilion liquid. don't ask.