Killjoy // WILBUR SOOT ANGST

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Wilbur bit his bottom lip, pulling it firmly between his teeth. 

The familiar taste of anger lingered in the back of his throat, threatening to bleed out onto his tongue and spill through his words; he was so tired of waking up with misery in his heart.



"You're wasting the paint, you know it's not free." Joes voice separated Wil from his thoughts, he looked over his shoulder with a scowl and placed the red spray-paint can down on the floor. He eyed the red wavy lines he had decorated the stone wall of the garage with before letting out a heavy sigh.

"It's not like you brought it. Spray-paint is illegal to buy before you're 21." Wilbur took a long drag of his cigarette as he spoke, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of the older man.

"Yeah, well." Joe paused. The pause was long enough that Wilbur raised his head to see if the man had given up and walked away, leaving the boy to silently congratulate his victory, only to see him still stood there.

 "..So is smoking at your age." He finished with a smug smirk that Wilbur found himself wanting to wipe off.

The two sat in silence for a minute or two, the only sounds to be heard were the distant laughter of the final 2 members of their band. The sound echoed off the stone wall and somehow, Wilbur still felt like he was all alone.

He grimaced and stared down at the concrete floor before his eyes flickered up to the walls.

The garage was a pretty standard garage, with rolls of orange extension cords hanging from nails to power their instruments and speakers, shelves packed with Marks dads old power tools and a single poster of 'The Neighbourhood' hung up. 

Joe had strung some Christmas lights around it to try and make it feel more lively and drown out the depressing, monotone colour scheme that came with garages, and Wilbur had to admit that it did look kind of cool.

A few of Marks old acrylic paintings were hidden away under some old boxes too. Some poked out, revealing different styles and experiments with different colour palettes.

Wilbur really didn't know how bands started, but a garage might be their best shot. (As long as Marks neighbours don't fill in complaints, he reminded himself). 

Well, they weren't a band yet, and he made a silent note to try and remember that too.

A band needed original songs, and covering Interpol or Crywank didn't scream original. Still, Wilbur thought, it was better than wasting away in a house that would never be a home. His home was only a few bus rides away from where he currently was, but it had never felt so far away. 

A few times the temptation gnawed at him to 'accidentally' get on his old bus out of habit, and go back home. Even if he knew that nobody was there anymore... Even if he knew that it had probably been put up for sale by now too. But no matter how much time passed, it never truly seemed to get any easier to leave everything he had ever known behind.

Sometimes, when he tried to style his curls in-front of the mirror, his father stared back at him. And other times, he looked at Tommy and saw himself - who he could've been. Who he should've been. 

He took a shaky breath, and a deep, desperate breath pulled the nicotine into his lungs. 

"How do you even get cigarettes?"

Wilbur shrugged plainly, "how'd you get spray-paints?"

As he asked, he picked up a yellow spray-paint can and shook it before messily writing his name on the wall. Over the spraying, he could just about make out the sound of footsteps approaching where he had been sitting atop a crate box.

"Touche." Joe breathed, picking up a dark green can and painting his initials on the wall. 'J.G' with a smiley face next to it. Before wiping his hands on his jeans, leaving a vibrant green stain on his otherwise black jeans.