Us Against the World

Song lyrics coming from a silky accented voice swirl their way through an abandoned Brighton apartment. “Watching the starlings as autumn draws in, as they make ghosts across London fields. And I would’ve moved out there to be with you. I would’ve moved out there for real.”

“C’mon Wil, there’s gotta be something different you can sing and play. This is like the only song I’ve heard from you today,” complained Tommy as he flopped backwards onto the stiff mattress with a huff. The springs squeak in annoyance.

“Practice is key Tommy,” the elder says in a know-it-all tone. “Bugger off if you’re just gonna sit here and whine you gremlin child.”

“Stop calling me that you senile man! How about you just bugger off. I’m too comfortable here.”

“For God’s sake, I’m only seventeen! You’re just upset we didn’t have any cereal in the house for breakfast. Am I wrong?” Wilbur looks to his rambunctious brother, smirking. He can see the cogs of Tommy’s mind turning for a witty response. Before the younger gets a chance to reply Wilbur continues, “I’ll be in the other room if you need me, lil’ shit.”

Wilbur takes in a deep breath of the musty smelling air. He gathers his private songwriting notebook, his out-of-tune guitar, and leans over with his tall, 6’4” frame, to ruffle the dirty blonde hair of the obnoxious twelve-year-old. Proceeding out of the room, a crumpled napkin falls from the notebook going unnoticed by Wilbur. Tommy opens his mouth to notify Wilbur, but decides against it.

In the opposite room, Wilbur sits against the windowsill in the morning light of the sun. He feels content listening to pigeon cooes outside. His dark chestnut hair becomes illuminated with hints of bronze from the outside light. Unruly, outgrown strands of hair curl around his forehead, daring to cover his eyesight. His makeshift pyjamas, battered cargo pants and a stolen concert t-shirt, hang off his malnourished form. Guitar in hand he hums along to a melody, Hallelujah. With dry hands and dirt clumped underneath stubby, uneven nails, Wilbur strums the simple tune.

Unfortunately, he only gets to enjoy this peaceful time alone for a short while. Tommy appears at the cracked door frame, hair astray, face a seething red, and his fist, white from clenching, holding the crumpled napkin.
Wilbur ignores him at first. When Tommy storms further into the room he finally looks up, the last note strung resonates eerily in the room.

“Wilbur, explain yourself,” Tommy growls. He holds up the napkin and unravels it enough to reveal writing.

“Tommy you weren’t supposed to-”

“What, Wil? I wasn’t supposed to see this, to know about your secret little dirty plans? Well, guess what, this is my life, this affects me! You’re an inconsiderate bastard!” Tommy’s whole body visibly shakes with rage as he hurls the napkin in Wilbur’s direction and spins on his heel back to the bedroom. Wilbur can only stare in shock where Tommy once stood.

Crouching down against the wooden flooring, he picks up the napkin, thumbing its fraying edge. He reads over his handwriting from a few weeks ago, ‘FOSTER CARE HOMES. Jane Woodles- 159 Abbey Road. Clark Worthington- 428 Billinton Way.’

“Shit,” Wilbur mutters. He had been searching for a better home for his little brother, something Wilbur knew Tommy would completely reject. He continued searching despite knowing Tommy’s wishes because he knows he can never provide a life the young teen deserves.

Quiet rock music sounds its way from the direction Tommy retreated to. Wilbur recognizes it as the record he bought for the blonde, which had quickly become a cherished possession. A comfort Tommy always falls back on in his toughest moments. Wilbur knows then he seriously screwed up. Another sound, small, painful hiccups, are barely audible over the music.

Wilbur neatly folded the napkin then jams it into his pocket. Softly padding to the bedroom he peeks his head in. Underneath a mess of sheets Tommy is curled up in a fetal position. His mess of blonde hair sprouts out near the top of the sheets. A scratchy record player on the bedside table spins the familiar vinyl. The only sign of life makes an appearance when a particularly large hiccup racks its way through Tommy’s scrawny body.

“Tommy?” Wilbur calls cautiously. No response. He walks to the side of the bed Tommy is lying on and tries again. “Can we have a little chat buddy?”   

“Fuck off.”

“Please? I’d like a chance to explain myself.”

Tommy shifts the sheets enough to reveal his watery eyes, rimmed with red fury and despair. Wilbur smiles in thanks and sits crossed-legged on the floor. The boys stare with intensity into one another’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry Tom. I should’ve asked you first.”

Tommy narrows his eyes and fresh tears bubble over. “No shit you should have. Wilbur, do you not remember? When we ran away from the last horrid foster home, we swore we would never leave each other’s side!”

“I know Tommy, and I am so sorry. I just want the best for you though. I’m not cut out to help take care of another human being!”

“Wilbur...you’re my big brother. I want to be with you no matter what. I don’t care if we aren’t blood-related. Hell, I don’t even care if we have a proper home. I'll live with you in a backstreet alley or forest for all I care! As long as I am with you, I am the happiest I’ll be. Two men on an adventure, right? Just us against the world, like we always dreamed of doing when we were younger, right?” Tommy’s voice rises at the end in hopefulness.

“Okay Tommy, I hear you. We are still in this together.” Wilbur retrieves the wrinkled napkin and holds it up between their faces pinching its two corners. With a sharp twist of his wrists the napkin is torn, words no longer legible. Placing a calloused hand onto the mess of blonde fluff, Wilbur knows they don’t entirely understand one another, but they are definitely on the track to getting there.