rhiannon wu.

all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put me back together again.

[rhiannonwu]

mckinley, rhys.

rhys smiles. it’s small, and he turns his head to watch a squirrel dart across the path so she can’t see. it feels like a win; in this town, not much does. “ i like that. rhiannon. ” he feels stupid immediately. rhys had always thought it was weird to compliment someone on something they had no control over - something that just was. making friends in black springs felt like disarming bombs, though, and it had rhys acting more cautiously as to not send people skittering away. rhiannon especially seemed fragile, like one slip of his words would send her off. “ hospitals… ” he wants to finish the sentence with ‘suck’ but it’s not strong enough, not for someone who’s spent their whole life in and out of them. “ hospitals need some major upgrades. would it really kill someone to paint the walls? just - anything but fucking white all the time. ” sitting back, blue eyes flit over the scenery. “ don’t - don’t take this the wrong way, but - is there anything to do in this town? ”

Rhiannon’d spent a lot of time in hospitals. Visiting ailing relatives, after she’d smashed into the big pine tree at the end of the hill by her house trying to sled on the thin, icy layer of what desperately wanted to be snow on Christmas morning, a brief stint as a candy striper when she was more desperate for community service hours. THEN: more and more for her own purposes, paranoid fits of sobbing and screaming where her father didn’t know what else to do, and after cases of targeted violence towards herself. White walls, the type he described so disdainfully, were less known for their chemical smell and ugly hue, and more for how restrictive they felt. She could feel her cheek pressed against scratchy fabric of donation pillow cases and the click of the door opening, lock sliding away from it, asking if she wanted breakfast. She ignores his remarks on paint color, still focusing on the intricacies of her drawing, but she ponders them — and Rhiannon figures thats enough, as he continues in spite of her silence. There really was nothing to do, all of sprawling suburbia offering very little in the way of entertainment. Finally, she looks at him, away from the pencil smudge and tiny bits of eraser that rest on her notebook, and she stares blankly before deadpanning: “ You could always go to the hospital. ” There’s a tiny quirk upward of the left side of her mouth, undetectable, but there nonetheless —— and she turns back to her drawing.  

[rhiannonwu]

@cloudedwrath / She enjoyed time spent in the record shop, because usually it offered her a good enough excuse to have headphones in and not talk to anyone. It was rude, was what her father told her, and a bad coping mechanism according to Dr. Thompson ( when she’d pointed out he said that to her while gnawing on a pen, which WAS, in fact, a nervous tic, he had promptly shut it down, saying that projecting was also a poor coping mechanism ) — but in there, it was normal, to keep your head ducked down and your mind absorbed by music. HOWEVER, there had been a caveat to Dr. Thompson’s evaluation of her proclivity for tuning out the world. I want you to talk to a stranger, he said. This week, strike a conversation with someone. She hadn’t —— and she saw him again tonight. And she knew he would know that she hadn’t done it and it filled her with so much DREAD, that as she walked past Nirvana vinyls and discounted Britney Spears CDs ( the local store was eclectic, to say the least ) and pointed to the choices of the first person she saw. “ That’s a good one, ” She blurted out, half stammered. “ OK Computer, right? Radiohead?  Subterranean Homesick Alien is my favorite song, I uh, I listen to it all the time. ” She did. The feeling of wanted to be taken away, swept away to a land of people where the lonliness she felt was virtually obsolete, and the sameness she though everyone else felt was finally something she could relate to was soothing, to say the least, to someone so lost and disconnected from everyone else. SHE DOESN’T LOOK AT HIM. 

[gyllenhaaldaily]

[neocarleen]

[melynskeys]

“That was something I took very seriously, and I knew about this plot line from last year. It was actually going to be a Season 1 plot line. It was established in our pilot, and then they realized it would be much more effective once we went on the run, so I was in the know about this a year before we started shooting it. I remember talking to [series creators] Josh [Schwartz] and Stephanie [Savage] when I first found out about it and asking them if she could be off her medication for a while, and if there could be some resolution and growth within not having her medication. The reality of the situation is that a lot of people don’t have access to mental health care, especially homeless youths. A lot of people don’t take it as seriously as physical health care. So I wanted that to be dealt with head on.” - Ariela Barer

[buffysummers]

Maniac (2018) dir. Cary Fukunaga

[sleepin]

[thecrygifs]

[sophieskarsgard]

[theguardgifs]

[horroredits]

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) dir. Wes Craven

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

[rhiannonwu]

maxwell, jim.

teachers aren’t supposed to pick favorites, and jimmy, for the most part, didn’t. sure, he enjoyed the students who actually did their work and participated more than the ones who chose to snore during his lessons ( they were few and far between, luckily, as jimmy had always been decent at engaging kids ), but no favorites. rhiannon, though - yeah, she’d been his favorite. there’d been a period of time in jimmy’s life full of storm clouds and heavy shoulders, and rhiannon had been there: a tiny, hopeful light when jimmy couldn’t see anything but darkness. losing his wife had been hard, but he’d found solace in the eager kindness of rhiannon wu keeping him company on his miserable lunch breaks. it’d been years, though, since she’d graduated, and he hadn’t heard from her since. it’d been a little disappointing, as there were other students who kept in touch and filled him in on all their accomplishments, but rhiannon had simply dropped off the face of the map. and yet, here she stood, looking just as awkward as he felt. “ who - oh ! they’re great. elodie’s finishing up her first year in middle school and remi’s just now hitting third grade. they’re growing like weeds. ” he hesitates, the hand on his cart fidgeting with the loose plastic on the handle. rhiannon’s clearly avoiding questions about herself, and there’s a sadness that weighs on her expression, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to ask about it anymore. there’s a part of him that wants to smile wide and pull her in for a hug, ask about the adventures she must have had since starting college, to speak only in french like they’d used to on his lunch breaks. instead, he just offers a small, warm, tentative smile. “ i’m sure they’d love to see you sometime. you were always their favorite sitter. ” and mine.

There’s quiet guilt that gnaws at her through the rejection of attempts to bring conversation to her own well-being. The guilt cements itself even further as he continues, elaborations on how much Remi and Elodie are growing, and she can still see them smiling as she doled out cards for Go Fish or put another Disney movie, popcorn on in the microwave so they could snack as she helped with math homework or braided hair. They’re younger, in her mind, than how he describes them, and it’s that discrepancy that creates the pang in her stomach, the sickness that makes her feel like she might hurl all over the linoleum tile. But she doesn’t do any of the things she wants to do: she doesn’t make a mess on the floor, she doesn’t burst into tears, she doesn’t run away and never look back. Instead she nods sagely, scratching angry red marks into her hands as she wrings them nervously. “ I’d like to see them too, ” She says, quietly, and she means it. There’s a lull in which she briefly considers telling him about her life. But the disappointment, the kind she feels and wonders if he does too, is a mountain she can’t quite justify climbing. There’s no secrets, not in Black Spring, and the way the story of who was once a bright young girl twists into tragedy is not unknown to the mailman or the woman who eyes her in the park or even Jim Maxwell. My mother died, she would tell him, though he already knew. She killed herself, and I found her. We fought the last time we spoke. She could add, not for sympathy but because it was true, and last words are always clawing themselves forward in her mouth, leaving her throat bleeding. I dropped out of college, she could say. Or flunked out, if semantics are important. I’ve tried to kill myself six times, and I go to therapy twice a week. I’m on four different psych meds that I flush down the toilet so I don’t have to take them, and I can barely hold down the job I got because of nepotism. She imagines herself saying all this, spilling it all out in front of her so he could pick up the pieces and hand them back to her, and then at least she’d know where they all were. BUT INSTEAD, again, it’s always instead: she breathes in a shaky breath, and asks. “ And ... you’ve been okay? ”

[rhiannonwu]

mckinley, rhys.

rhys snorts at the girl’s words anyway, the idea of a bunch of shaky-handed elders attempting to draw nude models too funny to ignore. he opened his mouth to comment again, but it snapped shut when she kept talking. the problem with not knowing about your grandmother even existing for 20 years of your life is that you don’t know anything about her. he knew now, of course, or at least knew more about her than when she’d visited the heroin nest he’d called home for most of his life. he knew she preferred green tea, and that she always sliced her apples – less now, with the shakiness of her hands, and that she wore an awful lot of purple for someone who hated being the center of attention. and now, he knew she was a gossip. it’s all kind of overwhelming, and then the girl hands him her sketch, an oddly kind gesture compared to the ‘ don’t talk to me ’ vibes she was giving off. the drawings kind of creepy, but that won’t stop him from tacking it up to his bare wall at home. “ well, ” he sighs. “ that’s embarrassing. ” new pencil strokes appear and rhys squints, thinks he must be hallucinating because the outline she’s starting looks exactly like that of katherine - again. “ i’m not like - i’m no doctor or anything. she just doesn’t want to die in a hospital, i think. ” he shrugs, eyes scanning over the horizon. rhys still didnt know how living in a house with a dying soul that gave you another chance at life made him feel. “ then are you going to tell me your name? ”

She doesn’t want to. Avoidance: that’s easier than introductions, even that of the simplest variety. Hi, my name is Rhiannon. Sometimes there was an anecdote attached to it: yes, my parents named me after the Fleetwood Mac song. But in recent days, when smiles and handshakes were replaced with silence and solitude, she didn’t like to say hello. It gave an opening to continue conversation, to pry and to find out information. And as long as there was paranoia settled deeply into her — that’s how it would be. There’s always been a preference to learn instead of reveal, but she’s gone from good listener to brooding, and it almost feels as if she can’t help it. “ I don’t think anyone wants to die in a hospital, ” she tells him, purposefully avoiding the latter half of the question. For this moment, at least. “ They’re cold and too bright and they smell bad. ” She doesn’t look at him, not again, fully fixated on her drawing once more as the figure of Katherine forms on paper, grey and muted. There’s a few beats of silence, where she ponders revealing information to him. “ Rhiannon. ” 

[obisanyas]

How is this new medication working for you? Any … issues? None. 

[rhiannonwu]

mckinley, rhys.

he almost leaves. after the girl’s pencil snaps and she barely gives him a glance, he’s halfway to just finding another bench, another shady tree, another friend. the drawing catches his eye, though. katherine. when his grandmother had warned him of the ‘ haunts of town ’ he’d thought she was referring to a creaky floorboard or some touristy ‘ haunted mansion ’. then katherine had shown up in his bathroom, nearly scaring his heart out of his body when he’d caught her reflection in the mirror. while he hadn’t become obsessed with her tale - more terrified of the occult than anything, really - he was curious. and a little angry, honestly, that his grandmother had lured him into a place he could never leave again. rhys sits, tentative, on the edge of the bench. “ you’re good. talented. is art class before or after group? ” there’s a soft smile on his face instead of a sneer - it’s a joke, yeah, but it’s not targeted. she is good, genuinely; he just wants to break the ice. “ if i tell you my name, are you still gonna’ call me new guy? ”

There’s a protective instinct, to pull her drawing pad up tightly to her chest, hide it from view. But doesn’t — managing to resist as fingers drum nervously against the spiral of the notebook. “ I don’t think art class with therapy group would be fun. They probably all have arthritis. ” It isn’t meant to be funny, she’s SERIOUS, but the ridiculousness of her statement isn’t entirely lost on her. She’s always had a hard time distinguishing what people wanted to hear: it made her bubbly and garrulous before everything, if not a bit ill-fitted in more precarious social situations — but now that she was quieter and more paranoid, the lack of knowledge just made her seem ODD. “ I know your name. ” She says, simply, but she doesn’t know that, fingers going to the corrugations on the edge of the paper and ripping it downwards into a clean sheet. She hands it to him, wordlessly, image of Katherine fluttering slightly against the breeze. She had too many sketches, from numerous positions and angles. The last thing she needed was another pinned to her wall. “ Rhys. Your grandma came to the doctor’s office all the time. Used to. ” A clean page is turned to, and pencil tip is pressed against it as another drawing is started, like a pattern she can’t break out of. “ She had a picture of you in her purse. She said her grandson was coming to take care of her instead. ” Finally, she turns and looks at him. He didn’t LOOK like he had a medical degree. Too young. “ It was a while ago. I didn’t think you’d show up. ”

[rhiannonwu]

RHYS MCKINLEY.

there’s dirt under his fingernails and in the creases of his palms but rhys isn’t in his garden. not since about ten minutes ago when he’d nearly ripped everything up out of the ground in frustration —— wouldn’t have mattered, it was all nearly dead anyways. instead, rhys was taking a walk to cool down and pretend his hands weren’t still shaking from the way his heart had jumped in his chest with anger. it felt fine now, but, you know, he was taking it easy. there was a bench up ahead, occupied by a girl with dark hair and the inability to smile. she’d been in his group therapy the other day, all quiet and darting eyes. rhys wants to know why. as he approaches, he slows, tries to make his presence known so he doesn’t scare her. “ you uh — you mind if i sit? ” // starter for @fadinghearth

Day is set out lazily with a delicate hand, Rhiannon plans on letting the haze of summer take her over. A day free from work, she’s for once not in the library, and is instead cross-legged on a bench beneath a huge tree, offering her solace from June sun. The breeze already augments a beautiful day, and it flutters her hair, but not the carefully held down pages of the sketchbook carefully on her lap. On it, an incredibly detailed sketch: KATHERINE, with intricate shadings and tiny lines with descriptions pointing out from different parts of the figure. They hyperrealism of charcoal against paper was a comfort in ways one wouldn’t expect: knowing she had the power to erase it all away, or tear the page out made what she was MOST scared of a little easier to digest and study. It’s why she preferred to copy down what was written in library books, again and again and again. Opening chapters could be recited like mantras, and spiral notebooks stacked in her closet at home were full of repetition. All things she could get rid of, if she so needed. It was soothing. Attempts made by approaching figure to not startle her fail, and the tip of her pencil cracks against the paper with sudden force as shoulders seize up and she looks up at him, like a deer caught in the headlights. I do mind, actually, she wants to say, but she’s already trying to craft a response that’s polite, but not an invitation. “ It’s a free country, new kid. ” She says, softly, as a tiny pink pencil sharpener is retrieved from her backpack. The nickname of the interim is tacked on the end even though she knows his name from the mandatory introductions of new members. Or at least, HEAVILY encouraged. She’d stayed silent.