Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 13

Finding my way into the nearby kitchen, I'm amazed to see such a beastly feast of a meal covering the entirety of a rather sizable plate. Two fried eggs, sausage, baked beans, slices of tomato, fried mushrooms, a slice of black pudding, two halves of toast, and giant pieces of bacon—obviously different from the American style of bacon. I hardly know where to start, even though I've had a full fry up twice before. I feel honored that Edmund actually cooked up the real deal for me—I didn't know that he could cook and I'm utterly floored—and the mere sight of it manages to take the edge off of that emptiness in my chest, slightly easing the grip of that ever-present loneliness.

After breakfast, I shuffle over to the living room. Still exhausted, I lie down on the soft smoke settee with eyelids now heavier from a sort of food-induced coma. I try to fight off the fatigue, hoping to stay awake to wait for Edmund's return, but I know that I'm obviously losing the battle as my eyelids get heavier and heavier every time that I try to reopen them. Fighting the futile war, dipping in and out of consciousness, somewhere along the way, I lose.

~ ~ ~

I awaken to the muffled sounds of a car horn and my eyes shoot open with the thought that it must somehow be Edmund attempting to get my attention from outside somewhere. In my groggy state, I hop up and shuffle to one of the terraced windows. My fingers part the gray curtains and I peer out onto the London streets below, but I see nothing of interest—Edmund is nowhere to be seen. I shake my head, laughing inwardly at myself for thinking that Edmund would even be out there, outside his own home, doing something as ridiculous as that.

I return to the settee and sit down, checking my phone to see if he's texted or called me at all. There's nothing. I look at the time, shocked to see that it's almost two in the afternoon. The pain of loneliness mixes with the pang of worry. Is Edmund all right? Isn't his appointment over with by now? Where is he? Why hasn't he texted or called by now?

I text him, asking if he's all right. After anxiously waiting for twenty minutes, I get nothing back. At the half-hour mark, I call him, but it rings and rings until I reach the tone of his voicemail.

"Edmund, I need to know if you're all right. Please, call me back," I say. Something feels really very wrong.

Another half an hour goes by as I agonize over whether I should call him again. I check my phone for what seems like the thousandth time, but there's still nothing. How can there still be nothing from him?

After another half an hour or so, I settle on sending him another text instead of calling. I pull up my messages app, wondering what I should type, feeling as if I should definitely change up the message at least a little bit. As I begin to type, down the hall, through the silence, the front door clacks as it unlocks and creaks as it opens and shuts again. I hurry over to see him, his hair disheveled, his expression distant and solemn, mud cakes his shoes. He stands there, leaning awkwardly against the door and seemingly off balance, his hand still on the doorknob.

"Are you all right?" I ask, confused and worried beyond belief at how out of it he seems to be. He turns and heads straight into the kitchen, saying nothing as he stumbles on through. I get up behind him, the faint odor of whiskey creeping into my nostrils—why is he drunk so early in the day? "Edmund?"

"Hmm?" he mumbles, stumbling over his muddy tracks as he turns around. Nearly losing his balance, I grab onto him to steady him upright. He looks over to me, eyes wide as he says, "hello, Dalt."

"Are you all right?" I ask again, staring into his unfocused halos of ice. He looks down onto the floor, his lips trembling and curling, his icy halos glass over, welling up with tears that have yet to be. He seems to try his best to give me a brave smile. Tears form at my own eyes as I watch that weak smile of his break and crumble as he shuts his eyes.