Some Semblance of Normal

Chapter 4

~Wilbur POV~

Wilbur was at school, finally. The only real break he ever got from his father.

Unfortunately, it wasn't much of a break. He was the quiet kid, the one who never talked, the one who used his hair to cover his face. He was the outcast. He didn't have any friends, and he never attempted to make any. He didn't trust them. Any of them could and would turn on him once they got the chance.

Wilbur hated other people. Actually, he hated all people, including himself. He hated that he was alive, he hated the people who bullied him, who turned a blind eye to the horrors that happened in his life. He hated the fact that every day he had to go to school he was forced to leave his little brother home alone with that monster. 

He hated that he had to hurt himself to forget these thoughts, and he hated that all of a sudden there were two new teachers at his school, that of course, he had. One of them seemed cold and detached, and had long, pink hair. Wilbur wished he could describe him more, but from where he sat, the teacher was mostly a blurry blob. The other had blonde hair and a bucket hat. He seemed nicer, but that was probably a facade. 

The worst part was that he almost always felt their eyes on him, like they were evaluating him, testing him. He hated it.

He hated that every day he came home he was immediately hit, dragged, and somehow tortured while his little brother watched. He hated that his life was like this, that these were the cards he had been dealt. He hated that he had no option to change his situation. 

He hated that he had no control. He hated that he couldn't say no, that he had no choices. 

Not having control was probably the worst of all of it. Almost every time he thought about it he felt like he was trapped, like he couldn't breathe. He could feel the walls closing in on him, he could feel like world getting darker, and it terrified him. He would panic, because he was afraid of this feeling.

And yet, he continued to live, but only for his brother's sake. It wasn't living, though. Wilbur didn't know what that felt like. What was it like, to live? Wilbur was barely surviving, and had only been surviving since the day he could remember. 

That was how Wilbur distracted himself. He would think about what it would be like to live, to truly live. To be able to sit in your room and not feel a sense of looming dread, anxiety, and suffocation he felt on a daily basis. 

People spoke of the word 'safe'. They spoke of it in class, to each other, and even to him, as if he knew what it meant. Safety was something Wilbur longed for, but would never be able to achieve. 

He longed for nothingness, really. He longed for peacefulness, he longed for death. He wished for death, every day. He longed for a car to hit him while he walked, he wished for someone to come out of the ever terrifying shadows and shoot him. 

But of course, no one knew that. He was drilled, over and over, not to tell anyone of what happened at home. It was normal, he said, but not acceptable to talk about.  No one would believe you, he said. No one would care, he said.

Now more than ever did he believe that, as he was lying on the floor, blood seeping from multiple cuts on his back. He believed that statement, because he went to school every day, a slight limp in his every step, and no one batted an eye. No one heard his gags as he threw up in the school's toilets, or the slight inhale that gave away every time he sliced a new line in his arm or thigh.

And so, Wilbur laid there, helpless to his supposed protector that gave him new wounds every day. He laid there, in his little dog cage in the closet, blood pooling below him as he suffocated in the darkness.

He laid there, unmoving, as the door was slid open and the light poured through.

He laid there, silent, as he was roughly dragged out of that cage.

He laid there, limp, as he was held down by his throat on a little bed and his clothes were torn off.

He laid there, not fighting back, while he was strung up by his wrists.

He hung there, unresponsive, as his father whipped him with a belt, making new gashes in his torso.

He hung there, not aware of what was happening, as the bookshelf was opened and a pink haired man rushed in and stood before him.

He passed out in a man's arms as he was gently carried to a loud van and drove away.