it's all futile

4

trigger warnings listed in first part

☆

wilbur has always tried his best to stay silent when he's getting beaten up.

he's always thought making noise would just spur them on. arguing back was never even an option, but he thinks even crying too loud would give them more of an incentive to hurt him.

that's not to say he doesn't cry when he's curled up on the floor in a dark alleyway, getting beaten beyond thought, because he does. he just tries to make it silent, unnoticeable.

being quiet has done him well up until now but, when someone grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls so hard that his body momentarily leaves the ground before yanking it so hard that the hair rips out right from the base of his scalp, he can't control the sob that rips out of him.

it tears from his throat like a scream, reacting immediately to the brain-dumbing pain of his hair being pulled out.

wilbur's blood is rushing so quickly in his head that he doesn't even notice how loud he screams out. it must be loud though, loud enough for his bullies to think someone may have heard it, because he only receives one last numbing kick to the ribs before he's left alone in the alleyway. discarded.

it takes him longer than normal to get up.

he lies there for far too long, so long that it's shocking no one passes through, just crying in a ball and wishing for god to strike him dead. all he wants is for his life to be over.

death doesn't come to bless him and, after a while, wilbur starts to shiver in the dark alleyway. he usually finds getting up after being abused incredibly difficult, but the pain in his head is so intense that it drowns out the aching elsewhere.

early darkness is not a shocking sensation in british autumn time, when sunset can be as early as 5pm, but wilbur still pauses in genuine shock when he sees that the sky is bleeding into oranges and pinks.

he must have been lying there for hours.

he finds the energy to speed up as he crosses over to his house, anxious that his family may be worried about him. the nerves in wilbur's stomach are churning like a sickness as he dreads to think how he looks. he prays that you can't see the missing hair, just so that his family won't notice anything happened.

wilbur doesn't know how to explain the feeling of entering the house to hear phil chatting away with tommy in the kitchen, telling the blond about how chocolate is made.

relief, because he can sneak to his room, clean up, and pretend he was always there? happy, because his dad didn't have to worry?

disappointed, because his absence wasn't even noticed when he was lying, paralysed in pain, in the dark solitude of the alleyway.

his whole face feels like it's burning, like the pain from his scalp has spread and wrapped around until he is entirely struggling. he is aware of the fact his eyes are still swollen with old tears and wet with new ones, but he doesn't suppose it matters. no one will see he is crying, so he might as well give in to it.

he rushes up the stairs, quick but quiet, and darts into the safety of his bedroom. here, he can be entirely himself without anyone to judge or question him. he can cry, sob, wail, in the darkness of his room and no one will know. no one will care.