The end of reality

Chapter4: The deal with the devil

They searched everywhere, asked the neighbors on every floor of the building and even the neighbors in the complex nearby. He wasn't outside the building, waiting at the car. Didn't show up at school that day and nobody of his other friends or his teachers knew where he could be. They searched all day.

24 hours passed by quickly and so they called the police, an investigation started after that. The police didn't act in a hurry, cases like these were common. Kids his age ran away all the time, they expected him to reappear only a few days later. That didn't happen though.

No new clues. So the case got closed as quickly as it started. They called it a child abduction and expected the worst. Told them it would be pointless to keep searching for a body. Said that he was probably dead already.

At that Wilbur lost his shit and punched the officer responsible in the face. He got lucky that he didn't get arrested right then and there.

That was last week and Tommy is still nowhere to be found.

Since then Wilbur didn't leave his room, wouldn't even come out to eat. Phil put every following day dutifully something outside his room. Three meals a day, every day. And every time he stood outside the room and found the food untouched, his concern only kept growing.

He tried to talk to his son, the only one left. He knocked on the door, not daring to come in.

He waited for a reaction, but the only thing he ever received is a scratchy „leave".

And he did leave. He always did.

He feels like a coward. Pathetic.

He's the adult, he should know how to handle the situation, but he just feels helpless.

Another one of his sons gone. And the one who is just next door, refuses to talk to him. It feels like there is so much more separating them, than just something as simple as a different room.

He really is the worst parent, isn't he?

He sits in the empty living room, raising the bottle to his lips. The only thing indicating that he's actually drinking, is the bitter taste of the alcohol on his tongue. Otherwise he just feels numb.

In the dark, he sits on the floor. His back is aching and he can feel his old bones protesting against every sorry attempt of a movement. So he doesn't move.

The only light source is the flickering of
the TV in the center of the room. Playing some old recordings of Phil's youngest son. Tommy looks so happy then, Wilbur too and Techno. At least he thinks they do, his vision is a bit blurry.

He's falling back into old routines.
He swore he wouldn't drink again, but here is. He also swore that he wouldn't let anything happen to his family again, but look how that turned out.

He sips the last bits of the liquid and then throws the empty bottle carelessly into some corner of the room.

He needs more. One bottle can't satisfy him. A second one will do. It won't fill the empty space left behind, but at least he'll likely pass out.

With a pained groan he gets up. He fumbles at the objects around him, trying to get a hold of himself. He makes it successfully to the kitchen, knocking over a picture frame on his way.

He almost ignored it, but the clang of the glass hitting the ground makes him falter. One look is all it takes and he cries out in a
high-pitched screech, immediately falling to his knees. Hastily he scoops up the shards into his palms. He blindly searches through the broken glass, reaching for the picture.

After he finds it he sighs in relief, it didn't suffer from any of the damage. It's still as good as new, except for the little splatters of blood leaking from Phil's hands. The sharp glass must've cut into them while he was in his panic.