Finding The Write Words

Chapter Ten

All was silent for days.

After a week of near nonstop tingling warmth in his arms, all was silent.

There were two days - maybe three... they blended together at some point - where Virgil's skin was no longer tingling.

No longer warm.

He had gotten so used to the contact that he was lost without it. Minutes blurred into hours. Hours blurred into days.

He must have missed work at some point, because he got a call from his manager telling him that they were going to have to terminate his employment.

It was fine.

He had gotten an email back from the freelance writing site and he had been planning on putting in his two-weeks anyways.

Everything was fine.

They had finally given up on talking to him. Judging by the date that popped up on his phone, Lo had finally come to town, and they had each other.

They didn't need them.

It was fine that they had given up on talking to him.

Given up on him.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

He was happy for them, really.

It was fine.

He didn't even believe himself.

Virgil dragged himself out of bed, his legs aching as he stood. When was the last time he stood up? How long had he been in bed?

How long had he wasted time he could have been doing something productive?

How long had he been such a failure?

Why was he such a fucking failure?

His stomach growled loudly at him and he stumbled his way into the kitchen.

When was the last time he ate?

He decided on a bowl of cereal - something fast and easy - and sat himself down on the couch. He shivered, though the AC had been broken since before he moved in.

He wasn't sure when he got up to get his blanket, but when he came back to reality, the plush comforter was draped around his shoulders and over his head like a hood. He spooned his cereal into his mouth, not caring or even overly noticing that it was soggy now.

Even though he knew he wasn't going to get anything productive down, Virgil grabbed his laptop and opened it. He caught sight of his reflection in the black screen in the moment before it booted up, and he wanted to throw up.

When had the circles under his eyes gotten so dark?

He had had them for years, faded purple circles that deepened temporarily when he had a few especially sleepless nights. But they had never been this dark. His skin had never been this pale. Even when he was younger and he got a really bad flu.

The laptop booted up quickly and his reflection was gone. He was thankful for that, at least. He didn't have to look at himself.

The hours blurred together as he stared at the word document for his novel. He was so close to being done, but he was stuck on the chapter right before the ending. He knew how he wanted the book to end. There was no doubt about that. But to get there was the trouble.

Before he knew it, the entire day had passed him by. It was late when the warm tingling startled him out of his thoughts - even though he wasn't getting anywhere with them - and he scrambled to roll up his sleeve, looking down at his arm.

He didn't want to see. He didn't know why he looked.

He hadn't looked in a week.

When he did look, his lips parted slightly in shock and his brows pulled together.

He rolled up the other sleeve to look at his right arm, and his confusion only got stronger.

Sure, his arms were covered in writing from before the silence, but it was different now.

The writing was different.

They had washed off the old drawings and scribbles from their arms and written in new. Pat's scribbling scritches were the most frequent, with his days narrated and a "good morning my lovelies" every morning and "sweet dreams" every night. Ro's was the next most frequent, with random messages about art, school, and the potential of being in a community play. Lo wrote the least of all, their messages smudged as if they had washed them away to make room for more of Pat's and Ro's writings. There were very few doodles.

What had changed?

His silent question was answered when he looked to the newest writing on his arm. A long block of writing from Lo that covered much of his inner left forearm.

"To our fourth. We know that you exist, and I just wanted to tell you that it's alright. I don't quite understand why you wanted your existence to remain secret, nor do I understand why you seem to want nothing to do with us. Patton and Roman don't know I'm writing to you - I said that I wouldn't. We agreed to give you your space for a while, but I can't help but ask"

The writing stopped for a moment before it resumed, though it seemed more hesitant now, pausing with every letter.

"Why do you hate us?"

Virgil felt his heart stop at the words. He swore he was having a heart attack. His chest ached and his lungs stopped working.

He clamped his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to surface as he gasped for air.

He hadn't meant to make them think he hated them.

He didn't hate them.

He didn't know them in order to hate them.

He opened his eyes and stood up from the couch, tossing his laptop to the cushion beside him.

Pen.

He needed a pen.

Where the fuck were all his pens?

He found his purple gel pen after a minute and he uncapped it.

And froze.

What was he going to say?

What could he say?

What would be significant enough to apologize for months of ignoring them?

He wrote in hesitant, jagged script that blurred when his tears fell on his skin.

"I don't hate you. -V"