The Memories Within the Walls [Discontinued]

Silently

The room Wilbur found himself in when he slammed the door behind him was not his.

It was brighter. It was lovelier. And most importantly, it was unfamiliar.

Two twin beds positioned in the two corners of a room too big to ever exist in the house. Clean sheets, white like snow and not grey with dirt and grime. The smell of pancakes wafted in the air but unlike the one he woke up to every day, the one that made him want to gag.

It smelled... Different.

Wilbur wanted to explore, wanted to look around, but then the sight of the boy made him yelp and slam himself into the nearest corner in terror.

Because it was a boy. Not Techno. Not Phil. But a young and pubescent boy. A teenager with hair, the colour like his own. A stranger, sitting in his house. A boy.

But his fears were quickly stamped out when the boy began to strum the guitar. Terror replaced... With a sense of deja vu.

One note. One chord, one the boy just happened to play on accident or on purpose, and the words landed on the tongue of the ghost, like they always belonged there.

"A- I thought I..." He whispered, haltingly and hesitantly. "C-couldn't love... anymore."

And as he sang the lyrics, the nonsense melody began to morph and change as well, becoming more solid, under his words, into something that too felt so achingly familiar.

"Turns out... I can't, But... but not for the same reasons as--"

"I didn't know you listened to Wilbur Soot!"

As the tune died, so did the words fluttering to his tongue. The lyrics dissolved as quickly as they appeared, no matter how desperately he tried to cling to them.

For the first time, tears flooded his eyes, unprompted. Unscheduled.

He wanted to scream. The newcomer. He ruined it. This other boy, with his straw coloured hair and red shirt, who's voice seemed to have the capability of crumbling the house down.

"I thought I--"

But then, Wilbur heard it again. The lyrics.

"--co_dn__ l__e a___m____. T____--"

But the more he tried to listen, the more they became noise, sound, nonsense. And he knew it was hopeless then. That he wouldn't be able to remember it. That nothing would let him remember music. Nothing saved for that cursed guitar.

It was here, with his dark thoughts, that the man realized everything had gone suddenly silent. Curious, he glanced up, and saw the boy -- this stranger with his guitar, who played music that was familiar but not -- staring at him, mouth slightly agape. In surprise? In fear?

"Can you see me, perhaps?" He asked, eyebrows knit in confusion. "Were you not able to see me before? Am... I not supposed to be here?"

But the boy didn't move, didn't respond.

"Hello?" He said taking a step forward, slightly annoyed. "I asked-"

A sound pierced his ears, a second of a surprise he didn't see coming, causing him too to scream, wide eyed and pale with fright.

But then the wall he slammed his back on was suddenly right at his heels. The room was suddenly smaller. The beds lessened to half the number of what used to be. The sheets were grey. And the guitar lay on the floor, perfectly fine as if nothing ever happened.

He didn't dare touch it. He didn't dare touch anything, in this quiet, godforsaken house.

"No." Wilbur whispered, confused, his hands flying out in front of him as if the boy were merely invisible, and not entirely gone. "No, no come back. Please. Please, I'm begging you. Come back. I didn't... What did I do?"

But of course, like all houses do, it gave him no answers. Only more questions.

He tried to hum the tune again, desperately, but it was already gone, like a dream, a vague impression of what once was. Like him. Unlike him. A memory that was allowed to fade.

"Wil?"

The voice shocked him out of his madness. His cheeks were wet. Why were they wet? It's no different from every other time. Every other cycle, when he tried to remember. Except it was.

"Wil, are you alright mate? I heard a scream."

"I-"

The temptation to tell Phil what had happened clawed at him. He wanted to burst out, shouting. But he held his tongue.

One small secret was better than an eternity of pitiful eyes.

"Techno says he's sorry." He continued, and Wilbur remembered the script, remember what he was supposed to say next.

He tried to bite his tongue. But it slipped out anyways.

"He's not. He never is."

"Should I come in?" His father asked, and for the first time, he was happy for the script. Happy to agree with something he once did in his past.

"No. I'm fine."

"Alright then."

He could hear Phil's hand let go of the doorknob. His voice had a twinge of sadness.

"I got biscuits on the table if you ever want to come out and talk." he said, and Wilbur listened to his steps walk back down the hallway, a beautiful and simple irregular 1... 2... 1... 2...

Music was everywhere. Music was in the sounds of the wind, the drips of water on water. The sizzle of food cooking over a fire. Music was the beat of nature, of how things worked, the time that kept ticking forward.

Music was supposed to be a comfort.

So why did it refuse to approach Wilbur as he curled up onto the floor and cried? Cried out for his hope and joy, for his love, for his creations. For the things that were there. For the things that could be there but just aren't.

Why did it always leave him an arm's length apart?