The Curse of Virgil Sanders

Epilogue

   Virgil let out a distressed sigh, running his hand through his already disheveled hair. His hand suddenly froze half way through, feeling a small piece of metal. He took it out and realized what it was: a forgotten bobby-pin. He went to discard the pin when an idea abruptly stopped him. He whipped his head around the hallway, searching for any sign of the fatherly or logical side. When the coast was clear, he crawled closer to Roman's door until he was touching it.

    "This is a really bad idea," he muttered to himself. Slowly, he let out a deep exhale, then stuck the bobby pin in the lock. After jiggling the piece of metal around for about thirty seconds, he heard a click.

    Knew that skill would come in handy one day, he thought to himself. He stood up to open the door, when suddenly a million thoughts bombarded him.

   What if he doesn't want to see you?

   He's probably been trying to avoid you this whole time.

   What do you think you are? Some kind of therapist? You're anxiety. You'll only make things worse.

   Shakily, Virgil let out a breath he hadn't realize he'd been holding. He shoved all of those thoughts in the deep pits of his mind and turned the knob.

 

Roman was buried underneath the covers, trying-and failing- to keep his sniffling to a minimum. With each horrific thought slicing through his heart, he wrapped the covers that much tighter around himself.

  Your fault.

   You seem more like the villain of the story.

   You ruin everything you touch.

    He was vaguely aware of the faint sounds happening on the other side of his door. It was merely background noise to the much louder thoughts going on in his head. He somehow managed to curl in to himself tighter when suddenly, the background noises seemed to amplify as he registered what was occurring.

    The metallic click of his lock.

    ...Someone's coming in?

   The slight turn of his door knob.

  Someone's coming in.

   The quiet creak of his door opening.

   Someone's coming in!

   Feet hesitantly shuffling in.

   Someone's coming in!

   Roman stilled, hoping that the intruder would think that he was gone: off on a quest, in the commons, the real world with Thomas, anywhere but here. He could make out the trespasser stepping on the many papers scattering his floor. He could make out the ruffling of their clothes they seemed to be running their hands over in a hasty fashion. He could decipher their heavy and uneven breathing.

    Wait.

   That could only mean-

   "Ro?"

   Virgil.

   A pathetic whimper escaped from Roman's lips at the sound of the other's voice. He mentally scolded himself, but Virgil being there- in his room- stirred the pot of unwanted emotions up even more. He prayed that Virgil hadn't heard the noise, that he notices that he's not in here, that he-

   A sudden added weight to his bed stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks.

   "Hey, Ro," Virgil said, concern lacing his words. He waited for the anxious trait to continue. And waited. And waited. But Virgil just sat there wordlessly, as if he too were waiting for something. Waiting for Roman.