Part 1: Denial - Episode 9

The aged wall stood tall, a dull white paint coated its thin surface – painted those few years ago. Elias let out an audible sigh, looking at the painted ceiling, the smile – he’d forgotten, but only for a short time – faded. His absent smile faded. His lips quivered.
“What do you do when you miss home?” Elias queried with an idle tone present in his croaking voice. “I do not miss home,” William replied with his same, lonely voice. Elias, to William’s right, was surprised as the two sat against the wall, albeit contradictory – for he was not surprised at the same time. “You don’t?” Elias continued. “Do you like this place, then?” he pried, but carefully, caution pulsed through his eyes as he studied William’s profile. 

“No.”

Elias shrugged, but his arms were painfully sore. They ached, waves of heavy fatigue stirred through him. He ran his scarred fingers through his blond hair, the colour angelic as the sun filtering through the windows intertwined between the strands of his bleached blond hair. He reached to the cold ground, aiding himself as he rose, raising his painful arm to the cabinet containing a varying plethora of cups; their crystal shimmered in the light. But there were none there. All dirty, he thought to himself. Taking a dirty cup – only assuming it was his – he ran it under water, the friendly warmth sent a nostalgic tingle through his hand as the tap water struck his skin.

William stared at Elias unknowingly, the sun folded around him perfectly as he moved to clean the cup, and eventually, polish it with a relatively new tea towel. Elias turned, slight indignation lingered on his expression; the light gently touched his hoodie. Mockspade, a name, William assumed, in white font on the front of Elias’ jumper. Once again, Elias let out a desperate sigh, sipping from his cup, slowly. “Evening is my favourite time,” Elias smiled. Only for a short time, and his smile was all but sad, yet he turned, placing the cup on the polished metal sink with care. A plethora of birds – their calls unfamiliar came to a halt, leaving the silence eerie in the evening time. The Whistling Woods were a dark place, lonely. A purple tint always seemed to linger, seemingly more noticeable in . . .

Seemingly more noticeable in a grove; one of familiarity, yet one so foreign, it seemed like a new place entirely. William remembered. The feeling of his fingers – numb, cold, shivering. William remembered . . . Abel’s body was losing heat, his hair, soft as ever. The two shook as they sobbed, so long ago. So long ago, yet, was it really that long ago after all? The time after Abel’s death was a blur – dark, forgetful, even. William often forgot vital information, retaining a very small amount, lying idle in his creaking bed for hours at a time. And sometimes, all at once, it hit him. Alone, in this old cabin. Only him and Lloyd. Until Elias came.

. . .

Walking around absent-mindedly, exploring the cabin, even, Elias hummed a quiet tune, almost inaudibly. While Elias had been here for a few days; he had barely taken interest in the cabin whatsoever; a lingering sense of cold, even if the cabin was filled with warmth. Elias could not feel it. A newspaper, the colourful ink faded around the edges, weathered with age, he supposed, lay flat on the glass coffee table. It read District Public High – Elias’ high school. Though his expression remained flat, it still seemed to drop slightly. The chill of the cabin fought against the burning memory of the sun blazing passionately as it struck his skin in the memorable evening. The sea, open, calm, was behind him. His white shirt was crinkled slightly, his school uniform. Black jeans, dr martens, a belt, with a rainbow keying dangling off, and that crinkled, white shirt. Without noticing it, Elias stood in the middle of the living room, alone, stuck in his daydreamy memories. 

The sound of Elias leaving the cabin alerted William, though he shrugged it off – he preferred to be alone, right? He sat at the table, it was small, round, only fitting three people. That’s how many seats there were. Three. One remained empty for a set period of time, in Abel’s absence. Now he sat at the table alone. Slowly, the forest’s eerie sound of silence; no sound, yet screaming for his attention. He closed his eyes, his jaw was clenched. A lump formed in his throat. It was harsh, sharp tears pricked at his eyes.

“Men do not fucking cry, William.” Those words haunted William. He could not escape them, for all he wanted was peace. He came to these woods . . . for a reason. He escaped the city to the woods with Abel, ultimately, for one core reason.

Peace.

William let out a pent up sigh of anger and frustration, his head had a slight ache stirring; his eyes hurt. William shifted in his seat, putting his head down.
“Do what your father says, William.” His mother cooed in that familiar tone. They are not here, he repeated.

Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. Do what your father says. 

. . . 

Elias sprinted through the woods, his eyes wide and his heart pulsing faster than he’d ever felt before. Dodging trees, darting through groves, his hair shone in the prickling light struggling its way through the increasingly thick canopy. Thy Bad Habits roared – but more so its mic scream – pulsing anger prickled on the surface of its unearthly “skin”. Finally disappearing in the eerie purple tint of the Whistling Woods, Elias slowed to an inaudible jog, turning into the hidden grove with a stone protruding out of the ground – a single flower lay there. Old, shrivelled, soaked by rain and trodden on. He picked it up, studying it in the low light, yet dropping it as he heard the deathly sound of a large twig snapping – the crisp sound whistled through the forest.
Elias’ head darted up as he stumbled behind a thick grove of trees – to Lloyd’s cabin. Bursting through the front door, his breath escaped him. With care, Elias lay the groceries on the floor. It was wooden, aged and creaking. It had been a minute, he’d regained his breath. Finally looking up, he saw through the kitchen entryway.

There William lay. On the tiles – they were cold and shiny – his hand lay limp, Elias half-crawled half-ran to William’s body, unsure what to do, his breath quivered as he kneeled in front of William’s unconscious body. Recalling himself sitting idly in the school hall all those years ago, a CPR doll in front of him and a fast tune playing in his head, he carefully shifted William onto his side – his leg and arm at a right angle – ninety degrees. Lack of sleep? Unlikely, but possibly. His fingers shook slightly as he stepped slowly away from the scene, regaining his composure; yet it slipped through his fingers like time. 

. . . 

The sun glazed the basketball courts, a vibrant, brilliant tone of orange and blue reached for metres. Abel and Willian strolled slowly, Abel ranted with a passionate tone present in his lively voice about a past opponent of his in chess, though it felt as if he was describing William himself. William straightened his blazer, a passionate shade of bright blue, with an intricately embroidered emblem on the breast pocket, lined with a lightly coloured silk – Centre Region Boy’s College. A small handful of Centre Region’s boys were present at District Public High – a chess tournament had taken place that day, but the bus back to school was delayed, leaving the students to wander the school aimlessly for a period of time that remained unset.
William’s vision hazed slightly, Abel’s voice faded as he looked down, his uniform was gone, for he was back in jeans and his purple t-shirt, in the Whistling Woods. Abel lay in his arms, shaking, his body losing heat by the second, hearing Elias call his name he looked up in exasperation with a hint of precaution and desperation. 

“William!”