❝You can tell a whole story with just one word❞
-- (James McAvoy imagines) --
"It's impossible to spend one hour in James McAvoy's company without being humbled by his brain."
-- Giles Foden,
...
Lasting a very short time; short-lived; transitory.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bill dumps two extra t-shirts into his backpack, and an extra pair of pants. He had neatly placed the rest of the items contained inside but as of now, he couldn't care less. They were going to fight an evil, killer clown and packing his luggage in an orderly fashion isn't something that is bothering him.
He steps back and sighs. His hotel room was in an absolute mess. Bill isn't a careless person; he takes decluttering into one of his priorities but again... he's not in the mood. He continued to wonder why.
He zips up the backpack then slips on his shoes, over the socks that keep his feet snuggly warm. He grabs his phone then walks to the room door and steps out.
Bill made his way downstairs, to the main hall where breakfast was being served. He was about to enter but the man at the reception waved at him.
"Mr Denbrough?" He called out and Bill walked over to him, "I have your mail."
Bill furrowed his eyebrows with confusion. He never receives mail, except for bills and fanmail. The man slipped a neat, white envelope towards him on the counter. Bill smiled at him then lifted it up and looked at the front. The envelope had no address or stamp, nothing but a beautiful, cursive text written in a black ball-point pen: Bill Denbrough.
Bill glanced around then looked to the main hall. He saw the rest of the Losers Club members grabbing plates and spoonfuls of breakfast. He frowned then shook his head quickly. Bill climbed up the stairs and entered his room.
He shut the door behind him then took a deep breath, before carefully tearing the envelope open and removing the single, folded sheet of paper. His hands were trembling slightly; he knew exactly who this letter was from. He had a sense of it... plus, he recognised the writing.
And he dreaded reading it.
He breathed out sharply and cleared his throat. Immediately, upon reading the opening, he felt his eyes glisten with pain and tears.
William,
You never used his real name unless if you were feeling sad, emotional or annoyed with him. He hadn't the faintest clue of why he suddenly felt hesitant towards reading the rest of the letter.
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I know you don't get that many letters but the thrill of sending a letter to you was something I couldn't ignore. But jokes aside, writing these words hurt... a lot... much more than being terrorized by Pennywise for years could.
