The door slammed shut, fuck. The glass cut his hands as he hastily tried to scoop up the shards. The footsteps got closer, unbalanced and inconsistent. Like the person they belonged to were drunk, which they were. His breathing quickened, his heart pounding out of his chest. The footsteps stopped, right next to him. Swallowing thickly, he slowly looked up.

He was met with a face looming over him, "William," the voice says, slowly, menacingly.

"Yes?" He answers shakily.

"What happened here?"

Wilbur took a deep breath, unsuccessfully trying to calm his racing heart, "I was trying to make your dinner."

"You knew what would happen if you screwed up again." He nodded meekly. Wilbur knew exactly what was coming, that didn't prepare him for it though. The fist struck his face, angering the bruises that were already littering his body. The beating continued for what felt like hours. When they finally stopped he didn't dare move. "Get up." He growled. Grabbing Will's wrist, unsteadily, he dragged him toward the closet. Throwing him against the wall, he grabbed his gun.

The gunshot echoed through the empty house. Pain raged throughout Wilbur's shoulder as he screamed. The door slammed shut and he was left in silence. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Hours seemed to pass with only his thoughts and his pain to occupy him. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. All of a sudden, a noise broke through the quiet. Sirens.

There was a knock on the door. Silence. Sounds of struggling. A gunshot. More silence. Then there were footsteps running up the stairs. Wilbur curled into himself, wincing from his many injuries.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Clear." Wilbur held his breath. All of a sudden, the door burst open. Wilbur flinched violently. "GUYS! GET AN AMBULANCE OVER HERE!" From there, it was a blur. He remembered getting lifted into an ambulance, arriving at the hospital, and then it all went black.