The Memories Within the Walls [Discontinued]

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Wilbur wanted to scream.

He woke up that morning in the plush armchair in his room, his guitar leaning against the backing, polished and cleaned and well tuned as it always is. Or he likes to imagine it is.

He could hear humming from the kitchen, could smell the lingering impressions of baked goods in the air, a sweet treat saved for special occasions, sour like it's grown old in more ways than one.

He could remember the events of this day very clearly in his head. It's the only thing he can remember, whether he likes it or not.

Songs he knows he wrote and performed drift like clouds in his mind, a haze he can't grab, a melody on the tip of his tongue. His hands passed through lyrics like water, scattering like butterflies and flying away before his very eyes. He tries to write more songs of course, but they turn nonsensical, each note fading from his memory as the next one arrives, each word forgotten by the next cycle.

He thinks about touching the beautiful marvel of an instrument, hands hovering over the strings. But at the last minute, he sighs. Stands up, opens the door, and lets his body carry him to where he needed to go.

Maybe once, he would have described the kitchen as beautiful. Counters made of a stone he couldn't bother to name, polished to shine with the little sunlight that streamed from the window through the trees. The hazelnut cupboards complimenting the darker tones of the walls it was stuck to like they were the closest of friends. The fridge -- oh, the magic fridge -- that had an ice dispenser, so Phil could take all the ice he wanted and still leave some left for the boys.

Now, the only word Wilbur can only describe it as disgusting. Something he could see in his nightmares, where a skeleton hand could fall out onto the ground, or where cockroaches could crawl out of corners, almost as if they were escaping some other horrible reality into his.

"How'd you sleep?" A familiar man's voice asks, and Will almost startles. Without his signature hat, it gets difficult to recognize Phil with just his blond hair, but it helps that he's the only blond he's ever seen around.

"Could be better." He replies with a yawn, a lie repeated so many times it became almost meaningless. A string of sound. "What're you cooking Dadza?"

"Pancakes." Phil says, and the boy mouths it mockingly behind his back.

Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?

"Can you go wake Techno?" He asks, flipping the spongy fluff with his spatula. Remember, it's his birthday would have been the next line, but to Will's relief, he didn't say it.

"Yeah, of course."

He smiles, turning around. Leaving the smell of hot cakes behind, humming notes at random in an attempt of normalcy as he walked over to the attic.