“i can’t remember.” With darkstache 👉👈
Time was a horrible thing. It never quite moved how Wilford expected it to, even now. His mind was like an hourglass, the years all the grains of sand within, but there was a crack in the glass. Sometimes, some of the sand would fall through the crack and become lost to him.
Those moments scared him.
They scared him because he knew that one day, the last grain would fall through.
The clock downstairs struck two in the morning, its mournful chime reverberating in his already pounding head.
“Fuck this.” He sat up out of bed and set his feet on the floor, pausing for a moment to let the room stop spinning. When it did, he stood up, and made his way down the hall toward the stairs.
Once downstairs, as the dutiful ticking of the grandfather clock mocked him from its place in the foyer, he headed for Dark’s den.
He knew Dark would give him an earful about trespassing in the morning, to say the least of ransacking his booze cabinet, but in Wilford’s opinion it was a small price to pay for a marginally more tolerable night.
He slipped inside and first stopped to glance through Dark’s desk. He didn’t bother to check in any of the drawers, instead sliding his hand beneath the wood that made up the desk’s surface until he felt a hard switch. He pressed it, and one of the decorative panels on the side of the desk popped open.
Despite his miserable mood, Wil couldn’t help but smile. “Always a flair for the dramatic, eh?” he chuckled quietly to himself before bending over to pluck a shiny silver key from the secret compartment. The key was quite old, but Dark always kept it polished and gleaming like new. Something about paying homage to the old house, he’d said, but he had not met Wil's eyes as he spoke.
Wilford pinched the key between his thumb and forefinger as he moved over to the ornate glass liquor cabinet set into the wall. He found the lock that kept the thick glass doors shut and tried the key. Sure enough, it clicked unlocked, and he slid it open without issue.
After perusing the contents for a moment, he selected a glass and a bottle of brandy and carried them back to the desk. As he poured out a drink, his mind strayed to the last time he’d been in this room, performing the exact same action. He'd been so much younger then, still with a hearty spring in his step and hair free of the grey strands that plagued him as of late. Things had certainly changed since 19...
He frowned, pausing with the glass almost to his lips. What had the year been? Well, how old would he have been at the time... 25? Younger? Older?
Wil shook it off and took a long sip, feeling the liquor burn his throat as he swallowed. "What does the year matter anyway? It's not like it's of any importance," he said aloud. "I'm not mad, still got what brains I need. S'alright if a few numbers slip my mind, they're just numbers after all. Hmph." He sat down on the corner of the desk, and something reflective caught his eye. Out of curiosity he set the glass of brandy down and picked up the object.
It was a photograph of a group of people. Damien stood smiling in the center, looking regal as ever. Beside him, her arm looped around his, was his sister. Wilford felt the familiar sharp pang in his heart as he studied Celine's face, and he quieted it with another sip. She looked happy in the photograph, her face turned slightly away from the camera, a wide grin lighting up her expression as she laughed at the rowdy looking man on Damien's opposite side.
Wilford recognized himself, dark-haired and cutting a fine figure in the uniform he shouldn't have been wearing, and scowled. But for the life of him, he could not recall why he felt so disgusted by the sight of the red and white bars over his lapels. It was right there, just out of reach in his mind... there. Yes, he could see it, hear it, the bang and the spray of scarlet that followed, the screams, but not their faces. Never their faces, but what did that matter? They were just numbers after all.
"I'm not mad. I remember," he assured the empty room. "Of course I do, I was there. I did it, didn't I? Did what? I don't..." He trails off, rubbing his face and gritting his teeth.
He starts badly, dropping the photograph back onto the desk.
Dark stood in the doorway to the office, watching him. "What are you doing?"
"I--uh--" Wil spluttered, his face going red. "Y-you're up late..."
"I often come down here to work during the night. You know this."
"Y-yes, right you are..." Right. Of course. How could he have forgotten? "My apologies, I was simply, er... Reminiscing?"
Dark raised an eyebrow. "About who?"
"I... I can't remember," Wil said quietly. "Their names, faces, voices... they're gone. I'm gone."
"Forgotten, Damien! I've forgotten. And I'm scared I'll forget you next."
Dark gazed coolly back as Wil's panicked stare bore into him, pleading silently for him to say something, anything, to reassure him or somehow make the clamor in his head be silent if only but for a moment.
But he said nothing. Instead, he held out his hand for Wilford to take.
Wil blinked at it, and then placed his hand in Dark’s.
“If you forget, then I will be here to remind you,” he said simply. “Let’s go to bed.”
Wilford took a breath to speak, then stopped. He nodded, and allowed Dark to lead him back upstairs.
He was still scared. But he would not have to face it alone.
