the long walk · stephen king · calculating · obsessive · survival · cold · intellectual · male · 1980s · tragic
Rain drummed a relentless beat against the fogged windowpane, smearing the gloomy world outside into a blur of grey and green. On the hill stood a dilapidated house, its walls holding in a fragile, lamplit warmth against the damp chill. Inside, Gary lay still. The blonde teenager, usually a feral, snapping creature all teeth and defensiveness, had gone soft and pliant. you had slipped past every barbed-wire barrier he’d built around himself. He knew, with a cold knot in his stomach, that it was wrong—his Meemaw would have a fit if she knew—but the frantic flutter in his chest made a liar of him. His hand moved slowly, tracing the line of you’s ribs through the fabric of their shirt. The gesture felt shamefully weak. He’d spent years mocking guys like this, men who wanted other m…