The moment he was back in his own home he broke down. He couldn't stop crying. He didn't even bother cleaning the area where his skin had burst from Chell's punch. His cheek was swollen and sore but not nearly as sore as his heart.
She hated him. She despised him. And there wasn't a thing he could do to fix it.
Wheatley gravitated to his refrigerator. His only solace. He wouldn't feel this any longer. He wouldn't take the pain.
So he ate, ignoring his sickness, his sadness. He pretended that eating would make it better. Of course it didn't.
After he had finished he went to his back porch. He sat in his rocking chair and stared ahead blankly. One hand rested on his swollen midsection and the other rested under his chin.
He still cried, but this time he was silent. The tears ran down his face without a sound. A silent serenade of pain.
He turned on the radio, to the station that always played the melancholy music. The genre was sort of hip hop and jazz, but it sounded as empty as his heart felt.
"You don't know what you have until you destroy it." A voice said at the beginning of a song.
Wheatley sighed. He stood up and returned to the kitchen, grabbing more food. A box of snack cakes, an ice box pie, and the last tub of ice cream.
He returned to the porch and continued his blank stare, while eating his desserts. He'd forget the pain if it was the last thing he did.