Your real family

5

It was safe to say, Tommy missed his friends. Everyday, he'd ask if he could meet up with them, or even have them come over, but he is always replied with: "No, we're too busy today," "One of your brothers are sick" or "Maybe another day." When is another day supposed to be? When he's shivering in a hospital bed aged 80, waiting for death to open its arms and welcome him into their domain? Doesn't really fit right.

"And that's how you convert fractions..." Phil trailed off whilst he flipped his notebook over to the next page. He slanted his glasses down, "I guess that's enough homeschooling for today Tommy, we'll do some history tomorrow."

This was Tommy's chance after three weeks of not even speaking to his friends, he had to ask now. "Wait," Tommy chose his next words carefully, "tomorrow can I please see my friends, I haven't seen them for weeks!"

Tommy tried to know Phil's answer before he answered by looking at his face, but to his dismay it lay fixated on a neutral, deadly expression. His eyes posed, blue and shiny with the reflection of the light despite the effort of his mundane, frightening posture. Tommy swallowed a lump in his throat, wiping diligently at the sweat that threatened to form on his cheek.

As Tommy waited for the dreadful answer, he couldn't have prepared for what Phil would say next.

Just a simple,

"Why?"

Tommy stood stunned, facing the man with a blank expression. He quickly blinked to snap himself back again, then waited a heartbeat before answering the unexpected word that seemed to fly out of Phil's mouth.

"W-what? What do you mean why?" Tommy forced out, almost choking on his words.

"Why?" Phil repeated. "Why would you rather see your friends instead of your own family?"

"What, no that's not what I meant!"

"Then forget about it." Phil stated, then shook his head, releasing himself to a more peaceful expression. "Also, I'd appreciate if you called me dad from now on."

Tommy sighed and planted his head in his hands, smooshing his cheeks upwards. He didn't understand why Phil didn't let him see them, he hadn't seen his friends for over three weeks, it felt almost isolating.

"Fine." Tommy decided on his answer. He skidded the chair to make space for him to leave, avoiding eye contact with Phil. He knew Phil just wanted to keep him safe, but it still really pissed him off. He hated having fights with Phil, he swore to himself this would be his last.

As Tommy marched down the sickeningly long halls, past ocean blue paintings and fixated bird-like sculptures, he abruptly stopped when he saw Wilbur in his room with the door wide open. Tommy hadn't seen Wilbur's room many a time as Wilbur seemed to like the privacy he owned in the comfort of his room. Wilbur's room consisted of cream white walls, a brownish bed cover on a king sized double bed, a wardrobe filling almost the whole of the wall on the right side and two wooden bedside tables with small lamps on them alongside a desk with a pc, about the same one as Tommy. Wilbur didn't seem to notice Tommy standing there, which is when Tommy noticed what Wilbur was doing. Guitar in hand, he played the softest tunes Tommy'd ever heard. The sweet melody hummed in his ears as Wilbur played on, eyes closed and fingers thrumming the thin strings of the classical, wooden guitar. Tommy felt he could sleep right there right then on the same wooden floor that was polished and hard as a rock. He slid next to the door, a position in where it was impossible for Wilbur to see him from where he was sitting. He slid down to the rock hard floor, legs rested on a fluffy, white rug, poised in the middle of the hallway.

It only lasted a moment or two, but the soft tune of the guitar glazing over Tommy's head, made him content. Like it filled a hole that was threatening to grow. When the tune finished and he heard Wilbur shuffle upwards, seemingly about to leave his room, Tommy lazily sprung upwards and strutted towards his room.