Fractured Articles

Ｓｅｘ Ｓｅｌｌｓ：

[UNEDITED - PART 1]

user

/ˈjuːzə/

noun

noun: user; plural noun: users 

a person who takes illegal drugs; an addict.

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WILBUR HAD A problem. To be more specific, a problem with alcohol. He used to only drink every now and then, sort of as a simple stress-relief, but as the stress started getting to him, he increased his intake. Every now and then turned to once a fortnight, once a fortnight turned into twice a week, and twice a week turned to every night. In spite of the fact he'd always wake up with a pounding headache, he continued with his drinking. It was nice. It made him forget his problems, it made him forget about whatever bad things happened to him at those shitty high school parties he rarely attended, and it also reminded him of the bad things that happened to him at those shitty high school parties he rarely attended, those things being the main cause of his now so-called addiction. He didn't consider it an addiction, probably because he didn't pay any mind to it. Wil considered himself a guy that just enjoyed a few too many glasses of vodka and tonic in the afternoon. 
Alongside all of this, the man had completely dropped off the radar. Hundreds of messages from friends, even family, remained unanswered, more than a dozen calls had been left unreturned, and this was in the span of two weeks. He' stopped streaming, his last tweet was concerning, and he deleted Instagram a while ago. He didn't want to talk to anybody, he didn't need to talk to anybody. Wilbur Soot was fine. Wilbur Soot was perfectly okay, and was in no need of AA or an intervention, and thus was confused when the two people he cared for most turned up at his door at ten in the morning, knocking patiently, and quite obviously not expecting to hear the rattling of glass bottles and thudding of footsteps as the man they came to see waltzed to the door. He opened it a quarter of the way, looking out into the blinding morning light.

"Phil, Tommy...? What're you two doing here...?" The brunette questioned, hazed and drowsy from his, so far, hour-long hangover. The two on the other side of the door took a quick glance at each other, worry lacing their facial expressions. 
"Mate, it's been two weeks since we've heard from you, you reek of alcohol, and you look like absolute shit. Are you alright?" The eldest responded, rather concerned about the person he considered his adopted son. The tall brunette did, in fact, smell of alcohol, and extremely strongly too. You could tell he was struggling.
Ignoring the question, Wilbur went to close the door, still not all that aware of what was going on in the current moment. It was a poor attempt, having been stopped by a rather large, elongated foot blocking the door from latching. Of course, the child just had to block him from forgetting everything for yet another day. 

"We need to talk."

[SORRY ABOUT THE LENGTH - DRAFTED LAST NIGHT, NO MOTIVATION TO COMPLETE AS OF YET]