Pain - A TommyInnit Angst

Chapter 18

Wilbur had been sitting in the waiting room for three hours, completely overcome by emotions. He knew he looked a wreck; covered in splatters of blood, uncontrollably weeping and shaking. He couldn't stop thinking about Tommy lying in the bath, and how horrific he must have felt to be prepared to end it all there, cold and alone.

Wilbur mind was racing, running through lists of things that he could have done to prevent this. Where had Tommy found the razor? He thought he had ridded the house of sharps, but evidently not. He silently cursed at himself for not having taken the boy to the hospital sooner; he was clearly severely depressed yet Wilbur had just sat there and done nothing.

A doctor approached Wilbur slowly and looked at him sympathetically. Wilbur looked up, his eyes silently pleading with the doctor to give him the news he was craving.

'He's had lots of blood transfusions, but they seem to have gone well. He's in a medically induced coma at the moment, and we don't plan to bring him out of it for at least three days. But he's alive, and he's going to make it.'

Wilbur brought his hands to his face and began sobbing in relief, thanking the doctor profusely. 'C-can I see him?' The doctor nodded and lead him to Tommy's hospital room.

Wilbur sat in the chair next to the hospital bed, staring at him. He looked terrible; his face was an ashy grey colour and his cheekbones protruded far more than they should. He was connected to what seemed like endless tubes and he had an oxygen mask over his face.

'We, uh, need to consider the next steps in order for Thomas to make a full recovery.' The doctor said and Wilbur nodded anxiously. 'We think that the best option would be residential care for at least a few weeks, just to get him back on track.'

Wilbur thought over this for a moment. Tommy would hate it, but perhaps it was best.

'Ok. But I'm going to need to be able to contact him at any time. I don't want him to go anywhere where they'll force him to talk about things he's not ready to talk about. He's been through some serious shit.'

The doctor nodded. 'Yes, we have him on record from a month ago.' He paused. 'So, you'll agree to put him into residential care? The ward he'd be in is just a few floors above here and, considering the circumstances and the publicity that this particular case has had, I'm sure I could pull some strings to make sure he has the easiest possible time there.'

'Thank you.' Wilbur said.

'We feel it would be best for you to go home until Thomas wakes up.'

Wilbur swallowed and felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes but nodded.

Walking out of the hospital, Wilbur remembered that he had arrived in the ambulance so he didn't have his car. He ran over his options, but decided that it would be best to just walk home. He didn't want to have to sit on a bus looking like such a train wreck. He stared apprehensively up at the grey sky and the puddles that dotted the ground. It was raining heavily, but he decided that it was his only option. Keeping his head down, he began the trek. He stared at the grey pavement as he walked, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Although it may seem simple, in the moment it seemed like an impossible task.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he arrived in front of his house. He was sodden, soaked through from the rain. He opened the front door and stepped into the house, closing the door behind him. The sound of the door slamming echoed through the empty house, and he sunk down onto the doormat, his back against the door, his face buried in his palms, and began to cry. His raw, almost animalistic wails bounced off the walls, echoing back to him, creating a symphony of pain that seemed to engulf him.

Looking around through tear-blurred eyes, Wilbur saw the bright blue of Tommy's coat; the sunglasses that he had worn to the beach a couple of weeks prior; and, most painfully, a trail of bright red blood splatters from where he had carried Tommy's dying body down the stairs. He looked down at his shirt and saw the splotches of blood. It was then that he realised he couldn't sit by the door for the rest of the day; he forced himself to stand up and go to the bathroom. The metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, and he immediately collapsed over the loo, retching up the contents of his stomach. The room seemed to be spinning. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself before standing up and looking into the bathtub. The faint remains of pink water remained in the bottom of the tub, and higher up were bloody streaks where the water hadn't reached and hadn't managed to wash away Tommy's pain. There were two red handprints on either side of the bath; it seemed as if Tommy had been clutching the sides for a moment before slipping into unconsciousness. Worst of all, on the floor next to the bath, a razor blade lay, its shiny silver hue masked by coppery red blood.

Wilbur grabbed a towel from the side and began to mop up the mess, allowing his tears to flow freely. They fell and mixed with Tommy's blood, a strange concoction of pain.

After he had finished mopping, he threw the towel in the bin in disgust. Wilbur closed the loo lid and sat down; an unfamiliar feeling of numbness mixed with exhaustion washed over him. It was all he could do to make it to his bedroom before he succumbed to sleep on top of the covers, encased in the eery silence of the empty house.