"Well, have you learned anything from this experience? The next time I ask you to do something, perhaps you will do it properly!"
"Yes, father," said the young boy meekly, quickly ducking out of the cupboard beneath the stairs as his father shut it behind him.
"Now go to your room and study the Sanskrit like I asked you to earlier and try not to be such a nuisance!"
"Yes, father." The boy hurried up the stairs.
Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was used to such berating from his father. After all, Roger Wyndham-Pryce was an important man, part of London's prestigious Watcher's Council. He didn't have much time to give pep talks to his son, or much of anything, for that matter. And besides, Wesley figured that the recent snub his father had received in being passed over (again) as the Watcher for the newly called Slayer had been a sore blow. He probably wouldn't get another chance. There were too many new young Watchers coming up. It was up to Wesley now, to retain the honor of the family name. He mentally scolded himself. He would have to work harder. He pulled out the heavy old book and began to pore over its pages.
Wesley was quite perceptive, for a 10-year-old boy. He was rather unusual in many aspects, actually. Being the son of a Watcher would do that to you. He was nothing special to look at, being a small, frail, clumsy child, but behind the too-large glasses were the makings of a great mind. Wesley was at the top of his class at The Watcher's Training Academy, and showed great skill at languages and demon lore even at his young age. He even was beginning to show some prowess with magic. He had good reason to study hard, though, because Roger Wyndham-Pryce held him to high standards. It was in Wesley's best interests not to do anything to aggravate his father.
However, nothing ever seemed to be good enough for the elder Wyndham-Pryce. No matter how good Wesley's grades were or what new language he learned, he could never earn any praise. His father always managed to find some fault. Perhaps it was because of this that Wesley was not very popular in school. He had become rather shy, preferring to spend his free time reading instead of socializing, and he had not much confidence in himself. The other children were jealous of Wesley's grades, and Wesley had started to develop a bit of arrogance to mask his feelings of insecurity. That is, when he actually spoke to people, which was rare. He was always the last boy picked to a team and he was always targeted during rugby games.
Wesley sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes; he had begun to have some trouble making out the writing in his book. He glanced at the clock. No wonder he couldn't stay awake- it was nearly 2:30 in the morning. He decided that his father couldn't begrudge him some sleep now. He turned off the light and fell asleep at once.
Two weeks later
"Wesley! What in heaven's name do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, I was just… I wanted to do some research…"
Roger Wyndham-Pryce yanked the book out of Wesley's hands. "How many times have I told you to stay out of my library? Are you daft, boy? I don't want another incident like that time with the resurrection spell!"
"I'm sorry, father. I only thought…"
"Quiet! I did not give you permission to speak!"
"Roger," Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce came hurrying into the room. "Come along, dear, he didn't mean any harm, did you, Wes?"
"That is not the point! You head straight to the stairs right now. I will not have this disobedience in my house!"
"Yes, father," Wesley said as he walked over to the cupboard and shut himself in. He heard the click of the lock and the retreating steps of his father. He was shrouded in darkness and left with his own thoughts.
Wesley began silently reprimanding himself. He had only wanted to look at another source on Bracken demons for a paper he was writing, but he should have known better. He knew his father hated it when Wesley went into the library. He remembered a few years ago when he had taken a resurrection spell. He had wanted to resurrect a bird that had died when it flew into Wesley's bedroom window, but his father was furious when he found out. That had been his first stint in the cupboard. He hadn't meant any harm that time either; he had only wanted to help the bird. But his father didn't see it that way. His mother had thought it amazing that Wesley had been able to even read the spell, but Roger did not feel the same way. And there was nothing Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce could do when Roger decided to punish Wesley.
How long had he been in the cupboard? Wesley began to wonder. Surely it had been at least a couple of hours. He strained his ears, listening, but he couldn't hear anything. He shivered. The space was cold and damp. He tried to get into a more comfortable position, but the space was too cramped to allow for much movement. He heard his stomach growl; he hadn't eaten since breakfast. His father would come any minute now to let him out, Wesley thought.
Soon Wesley lost all sense of time. He was shaking uncontrollably now, both from the cold and from fear. He felt like screaming, but his throat was too dry to make more than a whimper. He tried banging on the door, but soon his hands became numb and sore. He thought he could feel something wet- he must be bleeding. Wesley's mind began racing frantically. Where is father? Has he forgotten? Something must have happened for him to be gone so long. He would never do it on purpose, surely he wouldn't. And mother, where is she? Why do they not come? Tears began to course silently down the young boy's face. Wesley wasn't sure when he passed from wakefulness into feverish dreams of being buried alive, under miles and miles of dirt, desperately clawing to get out… He was imprisoned, he was suffocating, he was lost forever… No one to hear him scream…
From far away there seemed to come a sound, but then it grew steadily nearer. A soft click, and Wesley collapsed against the opened door. Strong arms grasped at the frail shoulders and pulled him up.
"Wesley? Wesley! Look at me!"
"F-father?" Wesley peered up into the eyes of Roger Wyndham-Pryce. He thought he could smell a stench of alcohol.
"Here, boy, go on upstairs." Wesley thought the voice seemed to waver, but only for a second. Perhaps he had imagined it. "Go on to sleep, Wesley. Have a drink of water. Your mother's not home. And… no, never mind. Just stay out of the library from now on."
Wesley was left alone. He laid thinking. It must have been an accident, surely his father never would left him there for so long on purpose. Of course. An accident. He must have gone out and just had forgotten. And after all, it was Wesley's fault. How could he have been so disobedient? He needed to work harder. He would make things right, someday. And someday he would be worthy of the name Wyndham-Pryce.