Ella's Oneshots

[Ella]

Fandom: The Shining
Summary: Jack Torrance discovers what love means. Character study.
Words: 1274

Love, n1

My friend, Al Shockley, has this room full of books. He keeps it locked, even though he admitted to me that if people wanted to steal from him, his books were probably the last thing they’d go for. He has a radio, a modern television, jewellery, and unlike most teachers I know, a multiple filled bank accounts. I didn’t even know about the Hotel back then. I didn’t know about the stocks, I didn’t know about all the precious secrets he didn’t tell me about. Back then, I only knew about the shitload of money we drank away, and I frankly didn’t care. I didn’t ask.
            “Most of them are old, anyway,” he said. “Falling apart. No one would ever have anything to gain from them, but I thought you might appreciate them.”
            I wanted to tell them that of course there was something to gain from them. I wanted to tell him how words were the most powerful weapons in the world. How a sharp pen – but I didn’t even believe it myself anymore. I didn’t want to. I hadn’t published a story in years and began to suspect that any power I had might have dried up.
            Al stood with his arms wide open, a tsar from the old days ruling over his lands, over me. “How do you like it?”
            “It’s a lot of junk.” I didn’t mean that. I probably didn’t show it either. I ran my fingers over an old edition of the Iliad and no, I wasn’t envious, not really. I had never been envious of Al or of his money. I clenched my fist.
            Al laughed and agreed with me. “I might get rid of it all. I was thinking about moving. I’m alone now, so there’s no use in prancing around in this empty castle.”
            He wouldn’t move. He didn’t. He liked prancing, and he liked showing off. Wife or no wife, I don’t think it mattered to him much.
            I could describe the shelves, running from the one side of the room to the other, almost meeting the glass of the window, as if they were staring outside, as if they possessed the freedom to leave the room an moment and live a life of their own. I could describe the soft carpet under my socks, or the tabs sticking out between some of the books, mentioning authors I had read and authors I avoided, subjects I didn’t care for and ones I had devoured. But I won’t. I’ll describe to you what I found in that room. A realisation. Probably one of the most important discoveries of my life.
            The big book with the black cover attracted me, its leather felt old under my fingers. I took it from the shelf and ran my fingers over it, one by one, as if by feeling it, I would somehow get to know its contents and understand where it came from.
            “It’s a part of the Oxford English Dictionary,” Al said, uninterested. “Never bothered with the whole collection.”
            His casualness annoyed me, and I opened the dictionary on a random page.
            “Give me a word,” Al said, his laughing face filling the room.
            “A feeling or disposition of deep affection or fondness for someone, typically arising from a recognition of attractive qualities, from natural affinity, or from sympathy and manifesting itself in concern for the other’s welfare and pleasure in his or her presence. With of, for, to, towards.”
            Al just laughed. It was then that I found out it was not a word he understood either.
            The man standing in front of me just stares. He’s not a talker, but his drinks are good. “Don’t you like my story, Lloyd?” I ask. “Isn’t it good?”
            “It was most certainly amusing, Mr. Torrance.” He doesn’t offer a smile. He polishes the glass.
            “He understands. I understand,” a man next to me says.
            I’ve seen him before, and his name has buried itself in the tip of my tongue. “Grady, my good friend,” I greet him, after a second-too-long pause.
            “And so do you. It’s not that hard to wrap your head around, is it?”
            I purse my lips together. “I’ve said it many times of course. To my wife. My son. And I think I meant it. I was just never sure – I never knew if it was enough. There has always been something missing, if you know what I mean?”
            (“I love you, Daddy. I been waiting.”
            “I love you too, Dan.”)
            Grady looks at me, expectantly.
            “As if every time I said it, there was something unreal about it. As if my words meant less than theirs.” I drown my tequila. “I’m probably not making a lot of sense.”
            “You are. I felt the same about my wife and children.”
            I look up at him, curiously. “But you just said you understand it.”
            “The Overlook Hotel made me see it for the first time, clearly. My family didn’t understand, in much the same way that yours doesn’t. You’re the caretaker, Mr. Torrance. And that is what it means.”
            (concern for other’s welfare)
            I see clearly.
            “You love the Hotel – don’t you, Mr. Torrance?”
            “Yes.” I smile into my drink – where did it come from? Lloyd understood me before I understood myself, as usual. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time. “Yes, I love the Hotel.”
            (Something nagging in the back of my mind. Take your medicine.)
            I frown. “But I’m supposed to love my wife, my child. Am I not supposed to love them more? Fatherly love, isn’t that a thing?”
            Grady doesn’t smile. “Mothers love. Fathers have the responsibility to make sure their families stay in line. Which, if I may be so bold to remind you, is not the current state of your family. You have to do your fatherly duty by them, Mr. Torrance. Just like I did. My wife and twins didn’t care much for the Hotel either, but in the end I made them see. Just like you will make them see.”
            (Blood on the carpet, a room with four bodies.)
            “Your dictionary will help you, sir.” Grady hands me a large book, similar to the one I held at Al’s.
            “Mother-love, noun,” I read. “A. Love for one’s mother. B. Maternal love. Father-love…” I flip through the pages. No entry.
            “You see now, Mr. Torrance. Love is not what you have to offer, nor what you should offer. You should hold the power, like your own father did. And you turned out fine, didn’t you?”
            “Yes,” I answer before my brain catches up.
            (Take your medicine.)
            The lights go out, and I don’t remember. I recognise quickly that I’m on the third floor. My head hurts, and blood is coating my hands. My body is trembling and I suddenly realise what I happening, too quickly, too fast. My head hurts.
            “Go on and hit me. But you’ll never get what you want from me,” a thin voice says.
            (Come here and take your medicine like a man.)
            I startle at the sound of my own voice where my father’s used to be. I am aware of how my hands open, as if I had forgotten how to feel. I drop something and it falls on the rug. Thump.
            (concern for other’s welfare)
            My eyes widen slightly, and recognise the tiny boy standing in front of my. I feel. Grady was wrong. I didn’t understand, but I understand now.
            He doesn’t run. Why the hell doesn’t he run?
            (This inhuman place makes inhuman monsters.)
            “Doc,” I said. “Run away. Quick. And remember how much I love you.”