- 𝐃𝐢𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 // 𝐃𝐧𝐟 -

fifteen

𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫/𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬
- 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎
- 𝙳𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚢
- 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜/𝚑

(Shameless plug [sort of] : I'm still in shock by the image I dug out of pinterest and put for this chapter because the placement of the furniture is so accurate to how I've been picturing it since when I was first writing this book :,] )

𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Glass, broken; A loud thud following. My eyes are still shut for a split second, despite already being awoken.

Something is wrong.

I spring up, scanning the room. Clay being the first thing I turn to.

He's not here.

(He was right next to me.)

Where is he?

Sick of how dark it still is, I switch the light on and to my relief, and, absolute horror, he is there.

There, on the floor, bleeding.

The adrenaline begins. My heart pumps just a little too fast. I reach out for bandages, packed snugly in the bags from earlier and lay them out on the counter. He's just lying there, limp and so frail. I try to pull him up.

A heavy weight lifts from my shoulders when I come to realize that he is OK.

Part of him is awake. Alive, and breathing.

I soothe his wounds with water, and carefully try to bandage up most of the bleeding. The low buzz of the dim kitchen light overhead attracted my gaze to the clock, pointing at midnight. We went to bed not so long ago.

"You feel any better?" I ask Clay, holding him up against the table, not necessarily a verbal response, but a sign. Just a sign that he's going to be fine, and that he's not going anywhere that I will not be able to follow.

(Stop overthinking it, George.)

(You worry too much.)

He subtly nods, the weak lighting enhancing the sun-like slivers of his dirty-blonde hair falling down his face. I suppress the feeling of wanting to kiss him so badly. As if kissing him better would have revoked any damage to a wound or two from broken glassware.

(He is going to be fine.)

Because some of the supplies had already been used, I had to find a replacement. Before doing so I make sure that Clay is back to the so-called 'bed' on the floor, where it was safe.

I rush upstairs in a cold sweat, trying to wrap my head about searching every room for the right thing to pack, again.

(But this time, alone.)

I cant help but become nostalgic and content, recalling the time when we had gone through everything and packed together.

Everywhere I look, a memory unfolds.

That one fucked-up spot on the carpet that Patches loved to lie on almost every day.

The little crack on the window from when I blew into my recorder a little too loudly.

That one corner of the bedroom where Clay had been having a good cry for a week or two because the poor cat had succumbed to the heat.

Piece by piece, I am homesick.

I check every drawer, every square inch of the rugs; I search every nook and cranny.

This can't be all there is.

The closest thing to what I needed were a few smaller bandages that I kept around from the time where I used to cut myself.

It's not much, but at least it is something.

The temperature messes around with my body.

It is getting hotter.

It was not even an ordinary flush of warmth, but-

My heart drops as I hear Clay shouting from the living room.

"GEORGE! GEORGE LETS GO!" He finally yells as I appear into view, visibly dazed by the lightshow coming from the kitchen. The bags are no longer atop the table, now dangling from his shoulder.

"Shit, shit, shit..." I curse to myself, dodging a ceiling beam smothered in flames.

And there I catch a glimpse of him for a quarter of a millisecond, with the worst look on his face as if he had lost me already. My heart skips a beat.

Latching my arm onto his, we barge out the front door, oblivious to the noise in such a late hour of night.

We need to go. Clay instinctively tightens his grip around my wrist and though it was so sudden and slightly hurt, I follow. We run as far from the fire as we can get, dripping with sweat. It's all we can do. It's all we'll ever get to do. All we've ever been doing when a problem like this arises; We run away.

It's gone, it's all gone.

Everything.

All in a few blinks of an eye.

I'm so caught up in the heat that I don't even begin to realize that I had been crying until now.

But it was normal, right?

Being through such things that breakdowns consist of what is considered just second nature?

I don't know what to think; I don't know what to do. But what I do know is that my mind is one hell of a prison.

The key has been thrown away. There is no escape.

Clay looks at me; Green, glassy (no pun intended) eyes. I release a sigh and feel the slightest bit more comforted because I am not crying alone. The firelight glistens in all the little teardrops that fall down our tearstained cheeks.

We stand there, and watch it burn to smithereens, very fortunate to have escaped unscathed. Once it was over, there was not much left to do but to aimlessly wander wherever our feet could take us. A few minutes of that and we climb over the park gates and sit on our favorite bench; A good old spot with the now broken lamppost, fully stagnant.

Both of us know that we cannot stay here for too long. Finding a sheltered area was crucial to surviving, and it had to be before the sun had risen or else it'd be too hot for us.

After an hour or two of shining flashlights everywhere and finding absolutely nothing, A small glare of yellow led both of us to a certain area in a surprisingly thriving woodland.

"Hello?" Clay shouts, hoping to attract anyone's attention, hopefully maybe a survivor.

I pick up a fallen branch and hold it close to my chest, ready to defend.

The mysterious light is undeniably closer now. A tall silhouette, revealed to be holding a lantern, which is now illuminating his face.

I freeze still, squeezing Clay's hand.

...

"...Wilbur?"

——————————
𝙰/𝙽: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 :), 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝! 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 <3
- 𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛