Chapter Text
There is a dead cat on the side of the road. It has not yet begun to rot, has not yet decayed in any visible way. It could almost be sleeping, merely resting on the dew-damp grass lining the cracked tar-black road. Tommy knew it wasnt sleeping, however, because it was hard to not notice the deep red puddle that soaked its dull grey fur, the thickening blood that travelled along the cracks in the asphalt, reaching out in desperation for Tommy’s shoes.
There is a collar tight and awkward around its neck, with a large silver pendent resting heavy in its centre. He can see the faint inscription of text marring its shiny face, knows that if he went a little closer and knelt beside its limp figure he would be able to make out the writing. Maybe it’s the cats name. Or maybe it’s the owners phone number or address.
Tommy knows that the right thing to do is to try his hardest to contact the owners, to cut their panicked searching short and allow their period of grief to begin. He knows this is what he is supposed to do, but he cant bring himself to walk any closer than he currently stands. A heavy breath laden with guilt-sorrow-pity-regret falls from his cracked lips as he reluctantly averts his eyes. He can’t do it.
His bright blue backpack decorated with scuff marks and scribbles of black pen is pulling him down-down-down, almost allowing gravity to force him under the earths surface. Tommy walks away. He leaves the little grey cat to lay lonely as ants drown in the pools of blood and flies hurriedly flick from one paw to the other.
Tommy is tired. School was hard today, it feels increasingly pointless as the weeks pass, but the holidays commence soon so he is trying his hardest to pull through. He kicks a small stone into the bushes as he passes them, taking a sudden left. The gate creaks and whines as he forces it open, rushing to his front door, key slipping easily into the lock.
‘I’m home! You fuckers miss me?’
His half hearted exclamation echoes in the empty hallway, and he scoffs in unsurprised annoyance as it becomes clear that nobody else is home. Again. His dad is probably staying late at work for the fourth night this week, Wilbur is probably off playing his guitar and making maidens swoon or whatever the hell the fucker does with his time.
At least before Techno went off to study being pretentious in America Tommy could always count on his monotone voice calling out a ‘Shut up’ in response. Whatever, he doesn’t need any of them. They just distract him from the real important things in his life anyways, like playing minecraft and vc-ing Tubbo.
He stomps his way up the stairs, barreling into his room as if he would die if he wasn’t laying on his bed in ten exact seconds. He is so fucking tired, did he mention that already? So tired. His eyes blink closed, the tick-tick-tick of his clock becoming a little song in his brain. Tick-Tick Tick Tick-Tick Tiiick.
A door slams. Tommy shoots up, eyes flying open, thoughts muddled in the way they can only be after being abruptly pulled out of a half-asleep state. His room is dimly lit, how long did he nap for? He groans as he tips his head forward, resting it between his knees.
There is faint chatter floating up the stairs and in under his door. They must be home. He stands, stretches, and walks out the door and down the stairs. Peeking around the corner into his kitchen he sees Wilbur and his dad sitting at the table, two almost-empty bowls smeared with rich red sauce sitting before them. A third bowl sits by the sink, a plate balanced atop the porcelain dish.
‘Hey Toms!’ Phil says as he notices the messy haired boy standing in slightly hazed confusion, ‘Want some spaghetti?’
Tommy nods his head, shoes padding along the hardwood floor, and removed the condensation soaked makeshift lid from his bowl. He finds his place at the table, opposite his father and brother, next to Techno’s old seat. A strange stilted silence has fallen upon the room. ‘Soooo…’ Tommy starts, stretching the word out as he tries to think of a conversation topic, ‘How was work today Dad?’
Phil turns to the boy and gives him an odd look, ‘Its a Sunday today Tommy,’ he says slowly and carefully, ‘You know i never work Sundays.’
‘Oh.’ Tommy replies, and the room falls into stillness once more. A Sunday. That doesn’t seem right. Why doesn’t that seem right? Whatever.
Wilbur huffs moodily, harsh squeaks of his fork against his bowl make Tommy cringe. He twirls some pasta onto his fork and places it in his mouth. It’s cold. He places his fork back on the table, and kicks his feet softly.
‘Anyway, what did you think about the plan?’ Phil says suddenly, head turned towards Wilbur once more.
‘I think it sounds good!’ Wilbur replies, eyes lighting up, swinging his fork through the air as if casting a spell. ‘God knows it’s been boring enough around here with only this random old man to converse with!’ He mocks, Phil reaching over the table and flicking him on the forehead with an exaggerated gasp of offence.
‘Uh-‘ Tommy cuts himself off as the two men both lock their eyes upon him at the unexpected interruption.
‘Yes Tom?’ Wilbur prompts, rolling his eyes slightly in Phils direction.
‘What- Uh, What plans?’ he asks warily, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh! Of course.’ Phil knocks his palm against his head, ‘Sorry Toms, got a bit caught up in the excitement.’ he laughs. ‘Wil and I are flying over to visit Tech in America this weekend!’
‘Yeah!’ Wilbur adds, ‘Life has been so dull lately, and his life must be so mundane without us so we thought we would surprise him with a secret visit!’
‘We know you won’t be eager to take time off school at this point, due to all the upcoming exams,’ Phil continues, ‘So we totally forgot to bring it up with you until now!’. He smiles apologetically at Tommy, who is sitting completely still, mouth slightly open in shock.
‘Why wouldn’t we wait until the holidays?’ Tommy asks in disbelief, ‘You know, maybe I miss my brother as well? Maybe I would be interested in visiting him too?’ Phil looks down at his interlocked hands in apparent shame as Wilbur opens his mouth to interject, but Tommy beats him to it, ‘Like what the fuck? This is so unfair.’ Tommy roughly pushes his chair out from the table and stands, angrily stomping his way out the kitchen.
‘Tommy wait! We’re sorry, we should have spoken about this with you first!’ Phil calls after him, but he is already running up the stairs and slamming his door. He sinks to his carpeted floor and pulls his knees tight to his chest.
‘What the fuck.’ he whispers into his bruised knees. Why wouldn’t they even mention this to him? Did they really hate him that much? He pushes his palms hard against his tightly closed eyes, a shuddery breath escapes as his shoulders begin to shake. A faint laugh can be heard from the kitchen downstairs. Tommy begins to cry.
His tear blurred vision lands upon the shoes that still sit tight upon his socked feet. He runs a finger gently along the sole, tracing the pattern of splattered blood. He thinks of the dead cat once more. He wonders if it has been found yet, or if it still lays there on the side of the road, now shrouded in shadows as the sun dips below the horizon. He wonders if it’s owners are still looking, he wonders if they have even noticed it was gone.
He feels a bizarre connection with the cat. He relates to it in a way that makes him want to sprawl out on the grass beside it and wait to see if his family notice he is gone. He wonders how long it would take for them to realise he wasn’t there. He thinks of cold spaghetti hidden below a plate by the sink, thinks of plane tickets, and thinks that maybe they never would. Thinks that maybe him and the cat would lay there forever while they rot, until their blackened flesh is consumed by worms and beasts and their remains seep back into the earth where they came from.
Tommy crawls across his room, knees stinging as they drag along his carpet, and pulls himself under the covers on his bed. He kicks his shoes off and sits them on the window-sill above his head. He doesn’t want to think anymore today, so he sleeps.
He dreams of grey kittens meowing, long pink hair pulled up into messy buns, Christmas lights blinking with hands warm in other hands, and a porcelain bowl filled to the brim with blood.