𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒, ㅤsbi&co

I'm Packing Up My Crayons and Leaving

He's not going to cry. That's where he's drawing the line right now.

He always has to set up a limit for himself in situations like these. A situation where it's useless to be freaking out.

Sometimes, he decides he won't get upset. Sometimes he takes crying off the table. Depends on what he's facing— and eventually, he breaks, in bits and pieces. Being unorganized makes him upset. Not knowing what to do makes him frustrated. Losing things makes him panicky. Somethings he handles better than others, like any other fourteen-year-old boy who's like Tommy.

Losing your comfort item and wondering if it's broken, if it has feelings and is upset with you, is not that easy because you never know what's coming. Maybe it'll break in his hands when he finds it, maybe it'll forgive him for finding it and know to never get lost again. But when it comes to this, he knows he might get upset— he might scream, cry, hurt himself— over something useless. No one cares about the dumb thing— why is he so worked up about it?

But he thinks he can focus enough not to cry, so that's what he decides to do.

The tightness in his throat begins slowly, building up like an old ache until he becomes more and more frantic. He buried his head in his hands in his criss-cross applesauce position on the floor.

His fingers grip his golden blonde locks. His low, strained sound of a whine don't register in his mind when he pulls and flails his arms around, shaking his head side to side. He never realizes the tears falling from his eyes, trickling down his cheeks, his chin, and onto his pale thighs.

If he had a second to breathe, just a moment, he could be able to collect himself. But his lungs won't let him breathe— raggedy breaths come from Tommy's lungs— coughing up the air he couldn't get rid of.

He forcefully pulls his hands from his hair and pulls himself into a sorrowful, pathetic ball. A heap of an embarrassment of a man— a young boy— a pathetic excuse of the boy he was supposed to be.

The knot in his stomach burns, and it's like a mess of rope has been yanked at both ends to tighten a range of agony deep within him. He let's the knot loosen, and let's the pained, scratchy noise emit from his throat, and out into the room around him.

A knock on Tommy's door makes the loud buzzing in his ears dissappear. "Tommy?"

Tommy barely recognized the voice as Wilbur. He panics, he's afraid, scared of what Wilbur would say to him. Would he be upset? Would he scold Tommy for having a tantrum over something a preschooler would? Maybe if he's quiet enough Wilbur will go away.

"Tommy? Is everything okay?" Wilbur's voice is raspy and warm, dripping with concern and worry, yet Tommy doesn't seem to notice. He stops his ragged breathing, burying his head in a fistful of his shirt to shut himself up.

"I'm coming in, Tommy."

Shit. He hopes and pleads God to let him dissappear, to turn into a breeze of air and leave through his window.

It never happens. Next thing he knows, Wilbur is kneeling in front of him and smoothing his messy, blonde hair from his tear stained face.

"Can you look at me?" Wilbur asks, his voice almost as soft as his touch. Tommy wants to lean into his touch, melt into it like a puddle.