Chapter Text
Wilbur broke his ankle when he was ten. It was only a small fracture; no long-term damage, only a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, but to Wilbur, it was as if he was heading straight for Lady Death - served on a silver platter.
Tommy was only four.
When Tommy turned two, he began to walk; he began to talk and to their parents he was now a fly to be swatted away. He could now bother them and he lost the wide-eyed innocent look that all newborns had, before their first taste of the world.
However, it wasn’t as if their parents cared for him before that anyway, as soon as Tommy had a basic need he would be thrown into Wilbur’s arms; the two adults would slump into the sofa; a bong shared between them.
Wilbur changed his nappy; Wilbur fed him; Wilbur rocked him to sleep; Wilbur shushed his crying; Wilbur woke up at 2 am; Wilbur took him on walks; Wilbur clothed him; Wilbur provided for him. His parents gave him £10 a week, if he was lucky. He would spend it on a small pot of baby food and a pack of nappies. Wilbur didn’t need food but Tommy was growing, he was developing rapidly and Wilbur’s conscience could not let him starve.
This was when Wilbur began to pickpocket.
He slowly mastered his craft, learning new ways to deceive aristocratic snobs that would occasionally visit the outskirts. Wilbur preferred the small, ragged orphan act. A common act among the starving children that had gained pickpocketing as their new hobby. Wilbur didn’t particularly like how he had to act weak and vulnerable, asking for help from someone who had had everything handed to them and nothing earned.
But, he did like the payout. A small donation from the target and either a golden watch or a stacked wallet from their pocket. It would last for months and allowed Wilbur to feed himself and Tommy.
By the time he was ten Wilbur had gained a reputation, for his pickpocketing and the amount of cash he had saved up. So, naturally, someone had to steal it.
At first, the boy was only a small hazard, he hung around eyeing Tommy and Wilbur; disappearing at Wilbur’s first glance. The boy put him on edge but presented no real danger.
Wilbur had misjudged him.
By the end of that day, he couldn’t walk. His ankle had swelled and started to bruise a bright purple. It was miserable - holding Tommy in his arms slowly trying to shift himself to his parent’s house, the only refuge he could get from the biting weather. He didn’t make it before night fell. Truth be told, Wilbur thought he was going to die.
They were in the midst of November. Many people already wore heavy coats and scarves, matching their woolly hats. Wilbur had a flimsy t-shirt and a jacket he had to wrap around Tommy.
The wind was merciless.
His ankle was agony.
The memory of his lost earnings was painful.
Wilbur could picture his future; it would not be kind.
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The last time Wilbur had broken a bone was when he was ten and that did not end well, so when he heard a snap from the same god-forsaken ankle, alarm bells started to ring.
Fuck. This complicates things. And it fucking hurts.
Hot pain burned up his ankle, agony licking at the bone. Wilbur lowered his head onto the ground, grunting into his arm. If Phil or Techno found him like this, he would never forgive himself. He restrained the urge to shout out and attempted to lift himself up on the ground.
He put an ounce of pressure on his ankle.
He was back on the floor suppressing another shout.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
This was really not good.
There was only one thing he could do: crawl.
He really didn't want to fucking crawl. He didn't want to lower himself into the pitiful image of a helpless, wounded animal. But Wilbur never got what he wanted. The world had an eternal personal vendetta against him. It seeked to rob him of every person, emotion and experience he felt any positivity towards.
He urged himself to drag his limp body an inch forwards, away from the area of his fall. His arms scratched along the mixture of gravel and soil beneath him. Sandpaper marked his forearms. Hell-fire kissed his ankle. What was left of his consciousness faded and pulsed until the black edges around his vision consumed him.