oneshots

wilbur - a smell

IRL
ANGST ( ? )
2ND PERSON POV
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authors note
hope u like this i'm
trying smthn new :)
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YOU OPEN THE DOOR. he's standing there, of course he is. soaked from the rainstorm, droplets of water fall onto the floor as he shakes his hair back into place.

you're making a mess. you think. how dare you.

then the smell hits you, and all other thoughts disappear.

how was the stream, you ask. he smiles and begins a lengthy summary of his day. starting from the first click on his mouse til the last.

you think your nostrils are inflamed.

you try to blow your nose with a tissue. unsuccessful, the scent still lingers.

perhaps you'll light a candle.

what's the occasion, he asks you.

nothing, you reply. just felt like it.

he shrugs off his coat, hangs it up. as words dance from his lips, you retrieve a match. the candle is salty beach breeze. your favorite.

a pizza is ordered. you aren't sure which one of you did it, but it happened. it's impossible to focus on anything other than the smell. you can't identify it, which frustrates you. you clench your fists.

so, how was your day. he questions.

you answer dutifully. unclench your fists.

it's just a smell. relax. breathe in.

NO.

do not breathe in. when you breathe in, you inhale the scent. instead, suffocate. let the oxygen slowly fade away. you won't be able to smell it anymore.

good. better. much, much better.

the candle isn't helping. he leans down to plant a kiss on your lips and you wince. you wince because it has become clearer than ever that the stench is coming from him. from wilbur. from your boyfriend. it's a smell you can't stand, and it's source is the man standing in front of you.

he asks if everything is alright. you nod. a question bubbles on the tip of your tongue, you bit down to stifle it.

someone texts him, he murmurs something akin to an apology and begins typing on his device. you don't mind it. suddenly, you don't think you can survive being close to him.

anger builds once again. the smell, HIS smell, is overpowering and attacking every object and surface in your apartment. you scrub the counters, clutching the rag so hard your knuckles turn white. the world blurs in front of your eyes. tears, maybe, slipping out. it's an invisible, parasitic stain, one that cannot be washed away.

the doorbell rings. you rush to open the door, and there's the pizza delivery worker. a lungful of fresh, non-polluted air, and you're back inside, a scalding hot cardboard box resting in your hands.

you sniff the food. it smells like normal pizza. you grab a slice and take a bite. cling onto the scent of parmesan and herbs. it's safe; nothing like what wilbur has brought into your life.

and when he reaches over you to get a piece of pizza, you can almost ignore his scent. let your brain wander to different places. to salty beach breeze, to cleaning chemicals, to parmesan and herbs.

calm, for just a moment.

but. but but but but but but but.

a red mark on his shirt collar. smeared, thick substance.

your heart stops.

the smell is fruity perfume, the mark is lipstick.

oh.

OH.

good pizza, he says.

you want to rip that grin right off his face.

authors note

this might be the shortest thing i've ever wrote on here, with a whopping 553 words.