Chapter Text
It’s raining today.
His eyes flutter open, blinking up towards the ceiling.
Wilbur rolls over onto his back, listening to the soft sounds of rain droplets on his window.
It's a soft padding sound, but quickly turns into a louder clatter of downpour. He stares up his ceiling, his mind void of any thought for the first few seconds of his awakening.
The house is mostly silent, except for the rain and obvious creak of a door to the left that he can tell is Tommy getting ready for school.
He remembers briefly that he’s supposed to go to school today as well. However, high school and College are very different. And there’s not much to say other than the fact that the teacher’s don’t really give a shit about whether you show up or not. It’s your money, after all.
Or if you’re lucky, your parent’s.
Speaking of parents, Phil is already long gone to work, and when he comes home, it's already too late to know if Wilbur went to school that day at all. There’s no way of knowing since his teachers usually don’t notice him enough to call his father about his absence anyway.
So if Wilbur wants to find an excuse to stay home today, maybe he will.
There’s fatigue in his bones, aching and groaning, instinctually telling him not to stand.
From his bed, he can see tracks of water rolling down his window as well as the rain flowing down the street and into the gutters.
He groans and sits up, begrudgingly moving to check his phone.
It’s too late to go back to sleep and too early to stay awake, if that makes any sense at all.
Wilbur’s used to sleeping in most days, arriving late to his lectures to the dismay of his professors, but today, there’s no urge in his body to go back to bed.
There’s not really an urge to do anything, really.
He hears the front door open and close, hearing the lock twist as Tommy leaves.
Wil releases a long breath, and taps his phone awake, staring at the lack of messages or alerts on his screen.
He opens Instagram, scrolling through the first few pictures and then quickly closing his phone again. Nothing is satisfying about seeing other people’s perfect lives anymore.
Wil stares at the blacked out phone held in front of his face. Faintly, he can see his reflection through it, reminding him that he should probably wash his face, rinse the crust out of his eyes.
Eat something, for god's sake.
Once again though, it's like the spirit has left his body.
Just go get some Coffee. Just something , his mind scolds him.
His body doesn’t seem to respond.
Until it does, apparently.
He forces himself up, wincing when he realises how much his back hurts. He must have slept wrong.
Wilbur’s feet drag on his carpeted floors, every step another curse played in his head, because why does everything hurt , today?
His neck all the way down to his toes are sore, but he can’t find a single viable reason why. He opens his door, hearing the loud squeak of the door, instinctively sucking in a low hiss, then realising that no one is home to hear him. He’s used to being quiet, shutting his door on the outside world. But now, the house is truly deserted, and he can do anything he wants.
Wilbur ambles down the stairs, his footsteps heavy and worn out from the simple action of standing.
His hands clutch the railings, the sudden feeling of lightheadedness hitting him. It’s probably because of the fact that he has eaten nothing today, and most likely won’t until dinner.
Unless…
Once he enters the kitchen (frowning when he remembers that he should’ve worn socks so his feet won’t freeze), he opens the freezer, scouting for the Cookies ‘n Cream ice-cream he left there two days ago.
It’s the only thing he ever feels like eating (No offence intended towards the vegetables he tells his father he eats, of course), and he’s sure it's probably the unhealthiest thing too.
Nevermind that, though. Something is better than nothing, he supposes.
Do you really believe that?
He checks under the green beans, under the blueberries, even in the fridge.
Wilbur scowls to himself, and as a last resort, creeps over to the automated trash bin.
It opens, and he stares down at his ice-cream. In the trash.
That little shit-
It’s a stupid thing to be upset about, since he had never really specified that his little brother couldn’t have any in the first place, but it seems that even little inconveniences like this feel like the end of the world these days.
In pure petty fashion, he rips open the freezer once again, eyeing Tommy’s ice-cream. Because of course, the kid had his own but had to choose Wilbur’s .
And finish it, at that.
It’s kinda funny actually, how the thing that sets him off and away from his numbness is a stupid ice-cream flavour, but he simply can’t ignore it.
He scoops a glob into a bowl. Tommy's ice-cream. ‘Caramel Chocolate’ the label reads.
Tommy had said it was specifically for him, that no one in the house was to eat it. Payback time then.
Wilbur takes it back to his room, his agitation fueling him to walk faster up the stairs this time around.
He sits on the edge of his bed, bowl in hand, and looks outside, watching the slow but ever-flowing stream roll down the street like a horizontal waterfall.
It’s pretty, he will admit.
He hums and absentmindedly takes a spoonful of ice-cream into his mouth and- dear god .
Who would willingly eat this?
It’s just so… sweet. Sickly sweet.
He cringes, spitting out the artificially flavoured goop back into the bowl.
Wil sets it on his side-table, the aftertaste lingering on his tongue, making him want to spit it out all over again.
Well, that venture was a waste.
He leans back, shuffling to his original position back onto his bed. There’s nothing to do in this empty house that doesn’t require a sufficient amount of motivation or energy to do.
His guitar sits in the corner of his bedroom, staring at him hopelessly, collecting dust that he doesn’t dare touch.
Wilbur can’t remember the last time he’s played it, probably been months since he even thought about touching it.
It used to be the only thing he ever felt like doing, the only passion worth pursuing, and Tommy could speak to that. He used to sit for hours, strumming his guitar, humming softly to the tune of his heart.
The thought of actually going back to it crosses his mind for a brief second before dismissing it.
For some odd reason, it reminds him of his old self, back before he was like this. He can’t pretend he doesn’t notice. He’s not the same person he was back in elementary. And of course, he doesn’t expect himself to stay completely the same, but he thought at least something would stick.
He can’t pinpoint the exact time things in himself started shifting, but it was long enough ago to leave him cemented in his current mindset.
He might as well be a literal pile of goo on the floor now with this lack of identity.
He chuckles at the thought of a pile of slime with a curly brown wig resembling himself. Surprisingly accurate to how he feels at the moment, honestly.
Wilbur looks directly in front of him, studying his desk, type-writer and polaroid camera staring back at him.
The blank paper wedged in between the paper-finger seems to glare at him, silently reminding him what he agreed to do today.
He’s supposed to work on his book today.
Or at least fucking start it.
“Even if you don’t feel like writing, and I get it- I’m a writer myself, you have to at least write something . It’s better than nothing, and from what you're telling me Wilbur, it doesn’t sound like you have much of a plan for your story,” She had said, using that passive tone only teachers and parents ever use.
“I mean, I do,” He lied. “Kinda.”
“Why don’t you work on your book tomorrow and then we’ll talk on Wednesday, alright?”
Even though he had agreed to do so, the thought of actually working on it today is dreadful. Is this writer's block that people talk so much about?
Can you have writer's block when you haven’t written anything yet?
That last thought makes him guilty. He knows what he wants to make, even if he can’t express it in so many words.
Truthfully, he’s not sure how to even approach this idea. Right now, it's only a vision in his head, a brief few frames that he can’t turn into words.
He boils in his trepidation for a few minutes until finally deciding to stand up from his position in his bed.
Wilbur sighs loudly, taking a seat in front of his desk and scooting in, binding him to write.
He looks over his typewriter with hesitant eyes, almost like he’s scared to type a key.
A lightbulb flashes in his head, and he gets up to grab his headphones. He always works better with music, even if most of the time, he can’t hear it over his own thinking. Still, it's there.
He adjusts his chunky headphones over his ears, popping a cd entitled ‘Wilbur’s Colorado Mix’ (From that one time they had decided to drive to Colorado when he was little) into the CD walkman. Somehow, he hasn’t scratched the cd yet, at least not beyond repair, and he’s incredibly thankful.
It’s his favourite CD, his first. He’s made many since that time (how old was he, 9 or 10?) but this one is just different. Nostalgic.
He always skips the first song; ‘Like a Virgin’ doesn’t really seem right for this occasion.
For some reason, he liked it before, which reminds him how weird he was as a kid. Oh goodness, the 2000’s. Life before life.
He pushes the thought away, prodding at his brain to write. It’s annoying, how he can’t seem to write a single fucking sentence.
How does he start?
The usual starting sentence is always like ‘The night was hot’ or some shit like that, wasn’t it?
Fucking hell.
The night was hot.
No, that doesn’t seem right.
Does it even start at night? What would fit better for a romance novel? Or at least he thinks it will be a romance novel. Could be anything really.
Once upon a time…
Oh, that can go to hell. What is he writing, Hansel and Gretel?
Goddamn it.
He takes another piece of paper and stuffs it in. Third time’s a charm, right?
He cracks his knuckles in agitation, then after forcing himself to take a deep breath.
Okay. Just write one sentence. That’s it. It’s easy. Just a few clicks and a period. Not that hard.
He had taken the locket with him when he moved back.
He takes a surprised breath, joyful at the first sentence he’s written in at least a week.
And of course, a week doesn’t seem long to a reader, but to a writer who used to write everyday, this is quite the accomplishment.
The sentence is leading, which is practically the best thing you can get in the first chapter. The thing that makes people want to read more.
He’s not even exactly sure what he wants the story to be yet, yet it's better than nothing. 80’s music flows through his brain as he attempts to drown out his ever growing dread.
He only has one measly sentence and his teacher (a 40 year old woman with the most intense stare he’s ever had the misfortune of experiencing) expects him to show her literal paragraphs tomorrow. At this pace he’ll only get maybe a paragraph before Tommy gets home and turns on the TV, thus obstructing any creative energy he had in the first place.
He cards his fingers through his hair, a nervous tendency, and groans.
Wilbur looks down at his type-writer.
Now to write another sentence.
Oh, god.