It Was Enchanting To Meet You. || DNF

38. Nightmare.

Wilbur was fast asleep in the comfort of his fluffy, bed sheets, just like every other twelve year old should be at one in the morning. However, though asleep, the brunette could smell the faint scent of smoke and metal mixed together.

'What is that?' The brunette repetitively questioned himself menatlly as the overwhelming smell managed to pull him out of consciousness. The more he awakened and came to his senses, the stronger the bitter aroma got.

In an annoyed manner, Wilbur pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, gently rubbing the rest of his drowsiness away as his gaze was soon locked on his bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. Through the crack, Wilbur could barely manage to make out the slight glare of light that illuminated off the walls, reluctantly making the young boy furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

With caution, Wilbur quietly slipped out from under his covers, his socks coming in contact with the cold, wooden floor as he slowly made his way to his door. With warm, dainty hands, the brunette pushed the door open just enough to the point where he could poke his head out, managing to get a glimpse of the source of light which was coming from the kitchen.

A yawn escaped the brit's lips as he pushed the door open as far as it could go, stepping out into the hallway as he neared the staircase that led downstairs. As the boy inched closer to said destination, his fingers tangled nervously around the fabric of his shirt, not sure what he was bound to find. The brunette listened to the faint, but audible voices that could be heard in the kitchen which caused nothing but conflict to lace his features furthermore.

As far as the young boy could tell, there were three voices that he could hear; one was familiar, belonging to his mother. But the other two, Wilbur couldn't quite place. The unfamiliar voices sounded of men over the age of thirty and forty, which only bewildered the brit even more.

Ever since Wilbur was a baby, it was just him and his mother. His father died a few hours after he was born and he had little to no knowledge about the people his mother knew and was friends with. Even so, the question on why his mom's 'friends' were at their house at midnight seemed to be the only thing running through the fluffy headed boy's mind.

After standing still for a few moments, the brunette made the decision to go downstairs, so, hesitantly, he watched as his own feet crossed over each stair case until he was at the bottom.

Wilbur dragged in a long breath before quickly moving over to the entrance of the kitchen, taking notice of the way that the voices grew louder the closer he got, and maybe if he wasn't as dense at the time, he could've heard the slight irritation and anger dripping from the men's voices.

Peaking through the crack of the kitchen door, he could barely make out the silouhette of his mother's shadow; her hands were crossed over her chest and her shoulders rose and fell as she spoke, though Wilbur was too young to understand what she was talking about. As for the unusual voices, they did infact belong to men that the British man did not know of. Both of them were leaned against the kitchen counter, their hands copying the movement of his mom.

One of them was baldheaded, a white, scruffy beard peaking out from under the skin of his chin. He had dull, faint baby blue eyes and he was quite short. Along with that he had thin lips that were pressed together into a firm line as the other did most of the talking, wearing a white and black scarf while the rest of his garments were brown.