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𝐹𝒶𝓉𝑒 • If you'd asked Will what he would be doing when he was 16, he'd probably tell you it'd be the same thing as when he was 15, or, 14, or even, 10. He would tell you that he'd be shoplifting, from nearby shops, for food, and or clothing to keep him warm in the night, and fight off the fate that the world threw upon him at a young age. The fate that would have left him dead in an alleyway, probably mugged, or beaten by some petty drunk who wouldn't even care to know his name. And to tell the truth, he was okay with that. He had grown used to knowing that he might not live to be saved by the cruel fate he found himself-engulfed in at the moment of his birth. He was okay with this, because the way he saw it, that just meant that eventually, the suffering would end and he could finally be at peace. Without the fear of one day not being as lucky as you could say he was when stealing, or putting his trust in this world that he would be safe when he woke up from a sleep in an alley where god knows what had gone down. He was content. This was how he lived. And it would be how he would die. At least that's what he thought. :
𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓉𝒽 • Will didn't like to think about his mom. It made him sad. Not because he didn't know her, but because he did. He was given a sample, of what it felt like to have one. The warmth, touch, soothing voice, and face. He had experienced it all. That's what made him sad, the fact that he knew what he could have, yet he didn't. She left. Left him, left her son. Which is why when he was young, he decided that he simply just wouldn't, remember. And surprisingly enough he did. But forgetting also left a bitter, void inside his heart, a scab, that if provoked to pick at, would bleed out the same memories that the boy wished to forget. And he couldn't hate her. How could he? When he doesn't really even know her.
