A Step By Step Guide To Mortality

WWPD (What Would Phil Do?)

Phil gently wraps his knuckles against the door of Wilbur's room. Pressing a hand lightly against the doorknob.

"Boys?" He sings, slowly creaking the door open and flicking the light on. His eyes blink to adjust to the swift change, taking in the absolute mess of blankets and pillows scattered around the place. Mountains of fabric that lie in heaps like defeated beings. Beams of light scatter through the window and Phil shields his eyes.

"Wilbur, Tommy, time to wake up.." Phil hums gently and walks in. The silence feels deafening; he's never realised how awful nothingness can be. Squinting at the mattress, he notices there's a severe lack of Wilbur. His vision flicks over to Tommy's bed. Again, there's nothing. Hmm.

He focuses on a small piece of yellow paper sitting at the edge of Wilbur's bed. Phil shuffles over, kicking blankets away and picking it up.

It's a hastily written note and Phil laughs at the chicken scrawl handwriting.

Phil can just barely make out the meaning behind it. Tommy and Wilbur have decided to walk to school.

He's not upset that Wilbur and Tommy left earlier than usual, he understands that the two of them are probably walking to school right now, chatting each other's ears off.

Phil was just looking forward to having breakfast with them. The plan was to teach them how to make pancakes— God knows that neither of them know how to cook.

Clutching the note tightly, Phil heads downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe he got too comfortable with the constant company, but being alone now makes the silences in his house feel so much louder.

He stares around at the kitchen, not really needing to eat. On the bench, lying idly are the potatoes Phil was preparing last night. Brown oval lumps in need of being peeled and cleaned.

His utensils, knife and peelers, sit on the bench in a dirty bunch.

Phil looks down at his hand, the cut he sustained fading now into a faint shadow of pink. His head slowly drifts over to the kitchen.

He does something stupid. Call it curiosity.

A five minute break. That's what he told himself when he sat down on the side of the street.

Now, as Techno clutches the side, the sun beginning to rise— God, he regrets it.

He forces himself to stand. Admittedly, Techno looks like some cracked up roadkill more than an actual person. He leans against a brick wall, his arm pressing into it from the force of his weight that the bricks leave red lines along his arm.

In reality, Techno didn't expect to get this far. Staring out from the shadows, to the cars driving past, he almost feels tempted to call out. He cringes at the thought of getting help. Techno's always been independent.

In his state of painful delirium, he had left The Pit, escaping without notice and had started heading towards Wilbur's house. He's just... well it's very dark and he can't exactly move quickly.

Techno breathes unsteadily and takes a step out of the shadows. On the first step his leg buckles and he throws his arm out against the bricks, scraping down until he hits the concrete.