Luke wasn't sure of when he last left his room. He knew he had been holed up for more than just a few days, but the passage of time seemed to elude him as he sat curled up on his bed.
What more was he to do, anyway? He killed his own father. His mother would occasionally knock on his door, and ask him to come out. Luke had made it for a few days at first, until his natural bodily urges kicked in, such as needing to eat, drink, and relieve himself, so to speak. He got more than enough sleep, however.
Dinners were awkward. Luke could tell his mother wanted desperately to engage him in conversation, and bridge the forming gap between them in the wake of his dad's death.
Arianna, too, would sometimes knock on his door, or try to get his attention from his window. He started closing the curtains, and telling his mother not to open the door. He wasn't ready to confront that just yet, and he wasn't sure when he would be.
He'd done what she'd asked, in a way. He'd gone back to his nice family—which now only consisted of himself and his mother—and his perfect house—which was so, so empty without his father.
Luke liked to imagine better outcomes, like where he wasn't so stupid and didn't walk so close to the river, he never nearly-drowned, and he never killed his father with a stupid wish. Luke knew it was his fault. There wasn't a way he could spin it that put him in a good light.
Sometimes, he scribbled in a notebook, about these better worlds. Sometimes, he contemplated wishing his father back to life, but then he realised he'd most likely kill Arianna's father in the process, with that whole price for each one.
Luke hated this because it put him in a tough spot. He was a bad person if he let his father stay dead. He was a bad person if he killed Arianna's father now. Was he just a bad person either way, then?
He was interrupted from his thoughts by the painfully familiar sound of his mother calling him for dinner.
Luke very slowly extricated himself from his bed, and began the trek to the dinner table. Tonight's meal was nothing special, at least to Luke. It was soup.
"So, Luke," his mother began, "how have you been feeling?"
Luke blankly stared at the bowl. Why was this question asked so much? It wasn't hard to guess how he was feeling. He certainly wasn't going to magically start feeling happy one day.
"You know how I feel," Luke's voice was barely audible, but it didn't matter. His mother seemed to get the point, as always.
While Luke once ate with fervour, he slowly scooped each bite into his mouth like it was a chore, and it was, to an extent. He used to joke around with his father at dinner. They'd laugh and sometimes he'd laugh too hard and choke but then his father would be there to help him and now…
And now…
He felt that combination of moisture and pressure one gets behind their eyes before they start bawling. Luke excused himself from the dinner table. His excuse was that he was full, and while his mother most likely knew that to be a mere lie, she allowed it. He needed his space, anyway.
He shut his door, and the pressure burst into drops that adorned his floor and bedsheets.
Days like this passed, and Luke lost track of how long it had been since everything was good. As far as he knew, it was always like this. He laid in his bed, his only comfort, got called to dinner, ate, and then went back to sleep. This was the only thing he could do that guaranteed stability, with no surprises. A static ritual that never changed.
One night was the same as any other. He was curled up in his bed, and it was quiet. Except… no, he heard something. Creaking floorboards accompanying footsteps.
Luke's body tensed, and he shifted silently. Was that getting closer? Was someone in his house? His mother doesn't walk that slow. His mother doesn't walk that heavily, either.
He buried himself in his covers, trying to think of what to do. He could make a… no. No, he would not do that. The last thing he needed was to end up with someone dead again, or worse—
The creaking stopped.
Luke was breathing very quickly but very quietly at the same time. What if this intruder was armed? He'd have nothing to defend himself with but a wish. But he couldn't do that!
The silence that stretched as Luke waited for the next move of the potential intruder was deafening, and Luke felt not just dread, but terror pooling within him. His brain seemed to love coming up with the worst-case scenarios of what this person could do to him, and that wasn't helping in the slightest.
Then, finally, the creaking resumed, moving away. Luke breathed in and out for a long time, taking deep breaths and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. What was that?
He couldn't fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried, instead continually tossing and turning, afraid that the intruder might come back if he fell asleep.
The morning came, and Luke deliberated heavily on leaving his room. His fears kept him tethered to his bed, as he was absolutely terrified of what could happen if he left.
But as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, he figured it was silent, so he could leave. But wouldn't his mother have made noise by now?
He put one foot on the ground, then the other. He wasn't sure of this, but he had to try. He opened his door, and found… nothing. Anticlimactic, sure, but Luke was grateful he didn't meet some crazy burglar or murderer on the other side.
But where'd his mother go? Did he accidentally wish something? He hoped he didn't. He already did something once, he didn't want it happening again!
His panic only increased as he realised he was alone. But… surely his mother could have left him a note if she decided to leave so suddenly, right?
He sat down against the wall. If his mother was gone, and he had no part in it, then what happened? That intruder? It had to be connected, somehow, but at the same time he was overwhelmed by all this, and really just wanted to retreat to his room and wait for his mother to return, and hope that it would all work out.
He knew it wouldn't, though. Something happened. He didn't know what, but something did.
