CW: Fatal domestic violence, dead body
I sat down to write this morning knowing it had been a while. 5 or 6 days, I thought. But the document I keep this free writes in has dates for all of them, and apparently it’s been 10 days. This has always been my biggest challenge as a writer: consistent practice. But it seems there are at least a few people regularly reading these (hello!), and that kind of helps. So thanks. Anyway, today I dived into Wilson’s history quite by accident, so that’s… exciting?
Wilson woke up suddenly in saturated sheets and felt Byron writhing next to him.
“Jesus.” he said blearily, “Byron? BYRON?” Byron snapped awake.
“What the fuck… eugh, god.” He noticed the sheets, too. “Oh god. I’m sorry—“
“Don’t be sorry. Are you ok?” Wilson placed the back of his hand on Byron’s forehead, then grabbed it away.
“Christ, you’re ice cold.”
Byron shook his head a little.
“I guess we should change the sheets, hey?” he slurred.
“Yeah, don’t worry about that right now. Why don’t we just get you… uhhh…”
“Can I have a shower?” Byron asked, his voice high and worried, reminding Wilson of his nephew. Wilson reached his hand forward and pulled the strands of wet hair off of Byron’s forehead, smiling grimly, then ran his fingertips across the scalp, eliciting a little shudder, after which he saw Byron’s body relax.
“Yeah. Of course.” Byron looked at him, and he saw wide eyes, filled with a little boy’s confusion about the big, scary world flying at him.
“What’s happening?” That voice again, with it’s insistence that the person being asked must know the answer, must know everything. Wilson suddenly remembered a 4-year old Elián giving him that look, using that voice. Looking to tío Wilson desperately for some kind of order when his mother died, though Wilson himself was only 16 at the time, still a kid himself. The image of her broken body lying on the floor of the kitchen, her husband sitting next to her, crying.
“It was an accident.” he sobbed, half-yelling. “I wasn’t… I didn’t… I wasn’t…” Then looking up and seeing Elián peeking around the corner from the hall, seeing those eyes that now looked back at him from his husband’s face. Wilson hissed a big breath into his nose and let it slowly drift from his mouth, carrying the memories and images away so he could focus on Byron, who needed him much more urgently.
of Wit and Whiskey 