TW: death, grieving, tell me if I should add more-

The little boy doesn't understand why there are tears coming from his mother's eyes. She is always happy, always glowing and smiling and playful. 

She plays tricks with her light, laughing all the time. Sometimes she makes rainbows for him, letting them dance over his dark skin.

But now she doesn't look at him, turns her head away as if she cannot bear to.

He wonders where his father is, but when he asks, she just cries harder.

He wishes his father would come back. She's never sad when he's around.

His mother's shoulders shake as she wraps her arms around herself, and the little boy goes to wrap his arms around her the way she always does for him.

She shudders when she feels his arms, twisting to face him and hold him tightly. He sees her eyes, the violet flecks in them magnified by the tears. There is a twinge of unease in the little boy's stomach, because his mother's eyes are worse than sad; she's hopeless.

Hollow.

"Is Daddy coming home soon?" the little boy asks, because he always makes everything better. He feels his mother cup his cheeks gently as she takes a few deep breaths. Her hands shake.

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, and the little boy furrows his brows in confusion.

"Okay," a familiar voice sounds behind them, and the little boy turns to see a man standing there.

His mother makes a sound that is almost a gasp, but the little boy recognizes it as the man's name as he leans forward and takes the little boy's hand.

"I need to talk to you," the man says quietly, concerned eyes matching the quiver in his voice.

The little boy wants to stay with his mother, because she always helps him when he's sad and he should be there for her. But she nods at him, wrapping her arms back around herself.

She looks lonely, the little boy thinks, and he frowns, because he always hates that feeling.

But he follows the man out of the room, where they stop. The man sits down, right on the ground, even though adults don't usually do that. He pats his lap, and the little boy climbs into it.

"Do you know where your father is?" the man asks, and the little boy frowns again.

"He went away," he answers, his voice small in the emptiness of the room.

The man closes his eyes quickly, and the little boy watches a tear crawl down his cheek.

He wipes it away gently, because adults aren't supposed to cry.

...

The boy finds her too late.

He is not so little anymore. This time, he understands the magnitude of what is happening to her.

Her skin is pale, almost iridescent, and the boy shouts into his imparter again and again. No one answers.

His voice cracks as he holds his mother's hand.

This isn't right. Her eyes have regained their sparkle since the day his father didn't come back. Her laughter has returned, and her hugs are warm. She is full of life, his mother. Always full of love.

But now her skin is gray. He can see the grass through her fingers, and her lips are turning white.

The boy screams into his imparter again, but no one answers.

He shakes his mother's shoulder. She's cold, but she's always warm. Always supposed to be warm.

There are tears running down his cheeks, now, because they warn you about the dangers but you never really think it's true. They tell you it's happened before, but that was long ago, you think.

He never really cared about their warnings, and now it was too late.

The boy speaks into his imparter one last time, but he knows who he wants won't answer. So he says another name instead, clenching his fists so tightly the dark skin on his knuckles is white.

A face fills his imparter screen, and the boy almost collapsed with thanks. He angles his imparter to show his mother, who is growing paler by the minute.

He tells the man in the screen to save her. Begs him to save her. Cries at him to save her, to make sure he'll have another chance to see her bright eyes.

The man clicks away.

The boy turns back to his mother.

"I tried my hardest," he says, the words choked and stuttered with the tears falling down his cheeks. "I hope it was enough."

What would she have said to him? She would have traced a warm hand down his cheek, let the light that always surrounded her dance in the palm of her hand, colorful and bright. She would tell him to have hope, to let the light shine through.

But when the boy holds out his palm to summon the light, nothing comes.

His mother's auburn hair is flickering, fading, and the boy is too useless to help her.

There is a thump behind him, and the boy twists to see the figures running to them, to save her and him and his cracking heart.

Their words are rushed, questions garbled, and the boy shoves away the hands that try to pull him away.

He wants to be there when she wakes up. He wants to see her smile when he's there.

A tear drips down the boy's cheek, but he doesn't feel it.

The man crouches over his mother, his whispered words sounding like desperation, and the boy's hope rises and falls with his heart as it leaps in his chest.

Until the man turns back to him, and the heartbroken expression in his eyes as he shakes his head is too much for the boy.

There is a scream, and it's only when the boy feels his tearing throat that he realizes it comes from him.

Suddenly, he understands why his mother couldn't stop crying that day his father didn't come back. He understands the endless tears sliding down her cheeks, her deadened eyes, her dull skin.

He understands why she couldn't speak to him.

He watches his mother fade into death, the light that always surrounded her stealing her away from him.

There is only grass left behind.

She's gone, and he is alone.

...

He isn't a boy anymore, but not quite a man.

He is old enough, has been through enough to know that life has not treated him right. He is burdened with too much death in a world where life is endless.

He hears the whispers of those who see him. They have too much pity in their eyes for his liking.

("all alone..." "orphan..." "first the father, then the mother..." "poor boy..." "alone, alone, alone...")

He doesn't want their pitying glances.

He already knows he's alone. He doesn't need their reminders.

There is still hope, he knows. There is still a light in the darkness, but it's been harder to summon it every day. 

Then he sees the girl that could change everything, could fix his broken life. 

She turns away. 

And so his hope is quashed once again, fading away like his mother's violet-blue eyes, broken like his father's mind.

("i'm sorry," people always told him)

The little boy's hope was torn in half.

The young teenager's happiness was stolen away.

("me too," he always answered)

But they are both gone, and Wylie is left alone.

hahahahaha

hahahhahahhahaha

hahahahhahahahahahhahA

Do you know how mad I am that I've written literally nothing with Wylie-