Wilbur had been stabbed in the back too many times. His back bleed in pain and memories. He was tired. Mentally and physically. Wilbur sat in his small flat, on his wooden floor, hugging his Russian wolfhound in his lap. He wasn't wearing a shirt-- only in jeans. He felt dull and tired. He was at fault for all of failed relationships.

He hasn't slept in about a week, and missed the smell of those misty nights. Now he just stayed inside. Hugging his dog for comfort.