Part 1: Denial - Episode 15

There William sat, slouched, defeated on the edge of his bed. He gazed at his pale hands intently. Calluses were dotted unevenly over the surface of his palms and fingers. The calluses were large, present from the grip of his box cutter. Using it for what? He grasped his hand shut, it shook violently as he clenched his fist, baring his teeth… Of course, his hand dropped, and his head hung low as he drowned in his thick, unbreathable thoughts. He remembered a sunset; he remembered when he sat on the lush grass of his father’s lawn. The hill overlooked the beach, it was rare for a beach to not have the bustling life of a city seething through it. A lump formed in his throat; a feeling, one of suffering–while not eternal–prominent and present.
In a dire attempt to distract himself, he reached for his book, sitting, collecting dust on his bedside table. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, he gently slid his fingers over the edge of the pages as he opened it. Chapter twenty-eight. ‘It would be difficult to explain, blah-blah-blah,’ he shut the book with a snap. He’d read it many times—all seven hundred pages, out of pure boredom. Books were not easily accessible in the woods. He wasn’t able to easily pick them up from Hope… He remembered this book, each line of the first page, the individual marks of ink without having read them for months. He gently caressed the cover, the feeling of his rough calluses against the smooth, white, and black cover of the novel. William’s eyes closed as he exhaled, placing Crime and Punishment on the bedside table. 

He pivoted, laying down on the creaking bed, the squeals of the rusted metal and wood sounded through the room. There he lay, visibly fiddling with the sheets–he was, undoubtedly, in distress–showing no reaction as Elias timidly shouldered open the door that was previously ajar. The floorboards creaked in an irregular pattern as Elias’ gentle yet hasty footfalls slithered into William’s ear. Living with someone, he thought to himself, frowning deeply. 

In a hazed sense of indignation, William reached blindly for Crime and Punishment again, beginning to diligently thumb through the pages once again, attempting to block out the sounds of Elias also flicking through his sketchbook, the hushed sound of a pencil tin being cracked open, followed by short pencil strokes. This continued for a long while, the novel bored William, exhaling as he slid Crime and Punishment under his white pillow, closing his piercing hazel eyes, his eyelids grew heavy as stones, the cabin slowly darkening as all gentle splotches of sunlight got swallowed up by the ever-growing canopy, the moon–or what could be seen of it–was rising high, a passionate silvery light splintered through the leaves. Small orbs of warm light stirred, floating around Elias, some, though very few, settling on his shoulders and arms, almost like small pets.

. . .

William awoke in desperation and alarm, spinning his feet over the edge of his bed in order to fetch a glass of midnight water. His feet reached for his cold, tile floor, but there was not any floor there. A feeling of shock surged through him. And yet, he could not stop himself, stepping into thin air without thinking until after he’d stepped. He fell, and the shining sunset reflected The City District’s windows, shooting hearty rays of sunlight into his eyes, he flinched away for a mere moment, the wind catching up to him. He looked down, his stomach dropped as he fell. There he flew; airborne for a moment, falling once again, landing painlessly on the roof of his father’s house, stark tiles falling astray, sliding down the slanted roof that stood tall above all other houses in the vicinity. Taking hold of the tip of the roof, he came to a shaking halt as he looked up to see Abel, the latter’s eyes shone as bright as ever, his hair ruffled slightly in the vicious winds. William extended his hand to his beloved, though Abel’s eyes dulled and his expression turned sour as he laid his eyes on William. “I’ve no interest in holding hands with a murderer,” he scowled. William visibly winced, “I’m not a murderer, what do you mean?” he croaked timidly. “You made me go outside that evening,” Abel spat, “You killed me.”
“That isn’t true, though! It was Thy Bad Habits!”
“You made me go outside. I’m dead because of you, Moore.” The sound of his surname slipping out of Abel’s precious lips froze William as if time had stopped. His breath grew short and shallow as he trembled. “You’re right, Abel,” William choked, coughing up sobs, the pain of looking at Abel was unbearable. “It’s my fault… I’m sorry.” Abel turned from his place, standing and taking a stance on one of the many chimneys. “Fuck you.”

William sobbed once again, tears fell relentlessly down his tear-stained cheeks. In the spur of the moment, a dizziness embraced him, he tilted, falling off of the roof, the numb scoffs of Abel echoed, his head hurt, he writhed in pain as the headache that came from his never-ending cries and screams pulsed harshly through his brain. 

The fall felt longer than it should have been. Longer than it did… last time. And yet the ground neared at a pace unbeknownst to man. He fell again, and again, before nearly hitting the ground. But seconds before he was bound to hit the ground, it all went black, he woke up with his head submerged in water, a large, unfriendly, rough hand around the back of his neck, pulling him up, cursing at him, pushing him back underwater relentlessly.. Repeatedly. He screamed as loud as he could in the seconds he got above water, coughing and spluttering as water trickled into his lungs. One last time, William got brought above water, and as he was being pushed back down, darkness. He awoke in his childhood bedroom, the place next to him on his bed cold and empty, the sheets wrinkled as if someone had laid there recently. “Abel!” William called aloud, tears began to sail down his cheeks yet again. “I’m sorry…” He croaked. A moment of thick silence had passed, his door burst open, August Moore–his father–kicked at his shoes laying astray on his floor, screaming curses and slurs. “You and that boy, fucking grot, get him out of here,” he spat. William’s father grew closer, a pen knife clenched in his fists, his knuckles growing whiter by the second. “Abel isn’t here!” William screamed. August raised the pen knife, angling it at William as he slashed. The white sheets were stained with a sincere red.

William exclaimed audibly as he awoke, the springs in his soft mattress creaking. A dream. He thought inaudibly to himself. The sound of Elias shifting, a small groan escaping his lips, brought him back to reality. His breaths were shallow and hasty, interrupted by a whisper from the top bunk; “William?” Elias croaked. “You okay?” he queried out of genuine concern. “Fine,” William whispered–although it came as more of a fearful whimper–met with silence, for William had predicted Elias had passed out yet again. 

Sitting up, narrowly avoiding the bottom of Elias’ bunk, William arose, shakily making his way to the window. The outside was pitch black, the window itself only reflecting the interior of Lloyd’s cabin, as per usual, the small orbs settled on tables and sideboards, as well as around Elias. He’d always wondered what those sprites were, and yet he was never answered. He turned to his reflection in the window, a lump formed in his throat again. 

“I’m sorry, Abel.”