[Discontinued] The Things Left

19. Mess It Up

» Word count: 3,120 «

Note: BLM. Educate yourself on it! And do what you can to support!

**

For three days straight he had been out of his mind. Days and nights blended in together, while hours passed in mere blinks. Shame ran through his body alongside the liquor, which still tasted awful as he'd remembered. There was nothing good, nothing soothing about it. A couple of bottles were hurled against the stone walls, coloring them with the poison as shattered glass rained down. He'd watch the drops leisurely dry before ever reaching the bottom. Then he'd do it again. And again. So much for getting away to sort out his thoughts, he couldn't do it.

Once he finally convinced himself that there was enough alcohol in his system, to make Schlatt proud, he crafted signs. In each he wrote a thought, a feeling and a desire. Soon, the room was filled with signs, the walls showcasing and the floor crowded. He had even ripped pages from books, filled them with writing and stuck them to the signs. Yes, it all made sense in his head. The words were scribbles, almost unreadable, in most. The phrases lacked any kind of sense. And the order was a disaster. Yet when he stepped back to admire his work, the smile blooming in his face was the most sincere smile he had given ever since everything went wrong.

He was so proud, so very proud of it. Because it made sense, it all was in front of his eyes. It made sense. Yes. It did.

But the tears weren't matching his smile.

The longer he stared, the less it made sense. Words blended with his thoughts, so effortlessly like days and night under alcohol. His mind and eyes couldn't concentrate anywhere, overwhelming his senses. But everywhere he looked was decorated with his madness, the words he hadn't had the guts to say, and the words he never should've said. It all began spinning, he was losing himself again.

In the eye of the hurricane there's quiet.

For just a moment.

He collapsed again, his knees hitting the floor as the signs cracked away. Splinters settled around his body, hugging his clothes too. The words erased, replaced by taunting of his own conscience. How cruel could one's own mind be?

L'manburg. Unfinished symphony. Fundy. Schlatt. Tommy. Button. Blow it up. Techno. Dream.

"Never should have left you alone."

Wilbur turned around, seeing only the silhouette darkened by the lights outside. The mask was shadowed, and it was all he needed to deduce who it was. That man needed no introduction.

But he had the urge to show him the door out.

"I said no one was to see me," he spoke slowly, hiding his inebriated state. He got up, avoiding the wobbling. His leg pressed against a broken sign, the splinters pressing through his pants in return. Even with his height, he felt so small compared to him. Sensation only alcohol withdrawal could give.

"Figured you'd want some company here." He said, tilting his head mockingly. He didn't even bother going to him, choosing to lean on the door frame watching a man crumble again. "You went psycho with just Tommy. Can't imagine what stage of madness you would reach alone."

"Still wouldn't be any of your business."

"I can make it my business, if I so desire."

Wilbur frowned, making fists by his side. Without hesitation he pointed his sword, making him straightened up.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," he spoke with a calm tone.