Toolbox Theory - Chapter One - Vivid Lacerations
June Carter's third son, Wilson, is a troubled 12-year-old whose mysterious nature and hidden struggles leave neighbors unaware of his true challenges.
June Carter has a third son.
Amy and Sarfaraz know this. They’ve been next door neighbours to the Carters for the past couple of years now, and apparently, a few years ago, she adopted a little boy. A nine year old, Amy remembers overhearing--the boy would be twelve now, if she remembers correctly.
Except, for all their visits to the Carter household, Amy and her husband have never seen him.
“He’s here,” June says uncomfortably when they inquire his whereabouts, “he’s just...he’s very skittish. He doesn’t really like people all that much, you’ll have to understand.”
It was an interesting choice of wording. “Skittish” rather than “shy” and “you’ll have to understand” rather than “you’ll have to forgive him.” The neighbours were confused and sceptical; after all, they’ve never seen the boy, or even any sign that he actually exists at all.
Amy is over at the Carter residence for coffee one day (June is always very welcoming, if just for a short time; she never has company for more than thirty minutes or so) when she sees the first sign of there actually being someone else in the house.
“I hope Michael and Luis are doing well.” Amy said during said visit, stirring her coffee absentmindedly if just to have something to do. “So, this other son of yours - Wilson, was it? Are we ever going to get the chance to meet him?”
June smiled softly. It looks painful. “Maybe someday,” she said, “hopefully. He’s…” She stirred her own coffee nervously. “He’s, well, he’s very--”
A door slams abruptly in another room.
Amy jumps, nearly spilling coffee all over herself, and June raises her head. She isn’t startled, merely...concerned. Like this has happened many times before.
“I’m sorry,” June says, setting down her coffee and rising to her feet, “but, for now...I’m going to have to ask that you go.”
This has also happened before, June asking her to leave abruptly. June, of course, is as sweet as she can be about it, never demanding and always very kind, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t odd, and that doesn’t mean Amy isn’t offended.
The Carter household is strange. Amy and her husband don’t visit often, or they did. Time had all but eroded the close relations between the two families. Their daughter Melanie was good friends with Michael, the oldest of the Carter sons. However, every time they’ve been over this far, the household has had a...strange air about it. Or, perhaps it’s not the household so much as it is the feeling Amy and Safaraz get when they’re in the household. June says that it’s an old house and maybe it’s just because it’s creaky and rickety, but Amy has her doubts.
That, and she finds knives lying around the house sometimes.
She doesn’t find very many of them and the occasions are rare on which she does, but they’re there--embedded in the walls, scattered across the coffee table, even behind the couch cushions sometimes. June laughs it off, but the laughter is always nervous and pained.
“It’s nothing,” June says, yanking two knives from the wall and setting them on the kitchen counter. “You aren’t in danger here, I promise you that.”
Another odd choice of wording. June doesn’t explain the knives; she never has, and Amy doesn’t think she ever will.
Amy doesn’t try and investigate. She isn’t sure she won’t find something she’ll regret. The Carter household is full of secrets, and despite her curiosity, Amy isn’t about to go snooping again.
The one time she tried, when June was making tea in the other room, two knives had shot out of nowhere and missed her by inches.
Amy’s visits to the Carter household stopped after that. June had been furious, and she said that Amy had no right to go snooping, which was true, but either way, Amy wasn’t about to step into that household again.
June Carter has a son. And, apparently, Amy is on both of their bad sides.
June does have a third son.
She has a son, twelve now (she thinks--the police hadn’t been able to find out Wilson’s birthday for sure, but he’s about twelve), and she loves him with her whole heart. Wilson is quiet and skittish and he has a bad habit of throwing knives at people when he’s scared or feels threatened. He’s less skittish around his brother, Michael, but still very reserved. He… tries his best.
Amy and Sarfaraz left after a visit, their final visit, and June, once she was sure they were gone, creeped down the hallway towards the door of her son’s room. It’s never locked, Wilson never locks it, she knows this without trying. She knocks on the door twice, and when she receives no objection from within, she heads inside.
Her son’s room is... special.
That’s really the only nice way she can put it.
The walls are splashed with multi-colored paints, reds and blues and greens and purples and pinks and oranges and, basically, all things bright and colourful. Oh Michael had spent a good amount of his own money on his brother’s room, ‘anything for Wil’, he advocated the last time she told him off. Her son fell in love with colours the day June brought him home, and one of the first things June had done was bought several cans of paint and let him splash the walls with colour.
Her son likes colourful things, and he also likes stuffed animals and blankets with “pretty patterns” and…
And…
...He likes knives, too.
The walls, bright and colourful, are lined with knives. None of them are longer than June’s forearm, but the blades gleam in harmony beneath the overhead lights of the room, threatening despite their sizes.
The knife thing isn’t exactly new; Wilson had always had knives on him since the day he was found. He’d almost knifed Mightless, the hero who found him, in the face several times.
(No one blamed him.)
(No one could.)
June makes her way across the room and to the closet. This door is locked, she knows it is without trying the handle, and she knocks twice. She waits a moment for an answer, and when one doesn’t come, she opens her mouth.
“Wil?” she calls gently. “You can come out now, it’s alright. They’re gone.”
There’s a beat.
And then, two knocks come from the other side of the door.
June smiles gently, even though Wilson can’t see her. “Not yet?” June asks.
One knock this time.
“Alright,” she says, understanding. Her son loves her, she knows this, but he needs space sometimes. A lot of space sometimes. “Do you want anything to eat?”
Two knocks come as an answer.
“Alright, that’s okay. What about ice cream?”
There’s another long beat.
And then, one knock.
June smiles brightly again, despite that Wilson can’t see her. “I’ll be right back,” she says, a promise, and she turns on her heel and retreats the room.
June loves her son. She’s only been his mother for three years thus far, but she loves him dearly and would do just about anything for him.
“He was brought in last month by the hero, Mightless. We ran his DNA through the system, but there aren’t any matches. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this boy doesn’t exist.”
June is awoken that night by a hand shaking her shoulder.
She sits up, blinking rapidly and willing her eyes to adjust to the dark. “Wil?” she murmurs, suddenly more awake now that she realizes what’s going on. “Wilson, are you…?”
Her eyes adjust enough for her to make out Wilson’s outline in the dark. He’s fiddling with something--knives, she realizes. Two of them, one in each hand, the blades gleaming in the light of the full moon shining through the window.
“I-I’m sorry,” Wilson stammers, his blades sliding against each other. His hands are shaking, she notices. “I-I...I-I just…”
“It’s okay,” she says immediately, and she reaches out, gently--very, very gently--settling her hand on his cheek. “It’s okay, Wilson, it’s okay. You’re safe, I promise. Come here.”
He does. He sets his knives on the nightstand first, but then he’s in June’s arms, and she hugs him tight.
This happens a lot, Wilson coming to her, usually Michael, (in this case he was on a patrol), in the middle of the night, never offering an explanation (never needing to offer an explanation). He’s had nightmares regularly since the day he came home, and June’s heart aches for him every time.
She never asks what he dreams about. She doesn’t dare make him relive whatever horrors he sees in his dreams. And anyways, it’s not like she needs to know to be able to hold him and comfort him, so she lets it go. It’s been three years, yes, but she’s still finding June’s boundaries. He has several of them.
“It’s okay, Wil,” she promises, running her fingers through his hair. He’s trembling (not crying, he never cries) and holding onto her in what she’d consider a death grip. “It’s okay, you’re safe, I promise you’re safe.”
It’s a horrible, horrible thing, his nightmares. The boy has a hard time sleeping already; add “nightmares” to that and he hardly ever gets the chance to rest peacefully. It isn’t fair, June thinks, holding him and stroking his hair as he trembles in her arms. He’s done nothing to deserve this. For all his knives, he’s done absolutely nothing to deserve this.
“Sir, with all due respect, you are just a child, you cannot adopt him.”
“I’d like to see you stop me from visiting him! And I’m not leaving without him, I saved him!”
“Sir, pl-”
“Might I interject? As his mother, I can adopt the boy.”
“Are you sure about this? He’s our hardest case, if you're looking to adopt a child, there are others--”
“No. I’d like to meet him. Please.”
Wilson doesn’t like people. He never has. He tells June to have company over so she can hang out with others, but then he runs off and locks himself in the closet until they leave. He doesn’t like company, and she’d stop having people over altogether if he’d let her.
But he doesn’t. He wants her to have friends. Which is odd, considering Wilson's own distaste for people.
Or maybe “distaste” is the wrong word. Perhaps “fear” is more accurate.
He doesn’t like going out in public at all, he never has. He’ll go out with Michael occasionally, but stays glued to his side like he’s terrified to lose him, and he doesn’t let him out of his sight. He gets startled easily, and when he’s scared he brings out the knives and that is not something June wants happening in public. The public doesn’t understand that knives are Wilson’s comfort, that knives make him feel safe and that he’d never actually hurt anyone. He throws knives when he’s scared or startled, yes, but his aim is accurate and he’d never, ever hit anyone.
The public doesn’t understand this, and for this reason, Wilson doesn’t go out often. When June goes shopping for groceries, she lets Wilson stay home, where he does his schoolwork (she’s homeschooled him since adopting him--he can barely handle a walk down the street, much less being in a classroom full of other kids) and, when he’s able, he rests, too, which is good. He needs whatever sleep he can get.
He likes going out with her to the park on occasion, though. He’s told her before that he loves the sunshine.
“Hello, there. My name is Michael. What’s your name? ...No? You don’t want to tell me your name? That’s okay, you don’t have to buddy. Take your time.”
Wilson dyes his hair brown.
He says it’s because “black is scary” and “brown is pretty,” but June has a suspicion it has something to do with the fact that Michael’s hair has a natural brown hue to it. Wilson is shy and skittish and not much of a talker at all, but June knows he loves Michael, and she doesn’t miss how his eyes light up when, due to their matching hair color, strangers at the parks they visit comment on their “family resemblance.”
It’s expensive, keeping up with hair dye, but June does it. She knows how much it means to him.
“I have a question, buddy. Would you...like me to be your brother? Would you like to be a part of my family?”
Wilson does not smile.
It’s not that he isn’t happy, because he is. June has seen him truly, honestly happy a fair amount of times. Like the day she brought him home and showed him his new home, or when she bought him his first stuffed animal (and all the stuffed animals that followed). He doesn’t smile--June isn’t sure he can-- but his eyes fill with life and light, and even though he isn’t smiling, June can always tell when he’s happy.
She isn’t sure anyone else outside of the family would be able to tell, but they can, and that’s what matters.
“Would you like a new name? ...Yes, that’s right, you can if you want to. You can pick anything you’d like. ...Would you like me to help you choose?”
A nod, small, shy and quick.
“Alright, let’s think, shall we? Hmm…”
“J-June…?”
June turns; Wilson is standing in the doorway, fiddling with one of his knives. He’d spoken to her, but he isn’t looking at her.
She wishes he’d call her “mom,” but he’s only recently dropped “Mrs Carter,” and she’ll take small victories. They’re still trying, still moving forward, still making progress. They’ll get there. Eventually.
“Yes, what is it?” June asks, smiling gently. Wilson is much like a cat in that he gets startled easily and that it takes time to gain his trust. June is proud to say that Wilson trusts her, but even so; he’s easily spooked and extremely hard to calm down.
Plus, he has a tendency to lash out and throw his knives when he’s startled, and although he’d never hit anyone, June doesn’t want him to feel threatened enough to attack.
Wilson fiddles with the knives some more. The brown is fading out of his black hair; they’ll have to get it re-done soon.
“H-Hypothetically,” Wilson stutters slowly, “c-can...c-can I be a hero?”
June pauses with a small frown. “Why do you ask?”
Wilson bites his lip. “I-I mean,” he says, “I-I was just...thinking, recently. I-I mean, h-heroes don’t really...look like this, do they?”
June absolutely hates the way he phrased that, but she understands where he’s coming from.
Wilson has never been the healthiest person. He’s skinny, pale, and he’s prone to illness more often than June wants to think about. But, aside from that...Wilson is covered in scars.
All over his forearms, all over his legs, all over his face; beneath his clothes are more scars, more times he’d been hurt. Some of them are small and faint and others are long and jagged, like his skin was cracked.
“...Wil…” She studies his face, his eyes. “Is this...really hypothetical?”
Wilson doesn’t flinch, but he slides the blades of his knives together slightly more frantically. “Yes.”
It isn’t. He’s lying. And June gets the feeling that he knows she knows he’s lying.
She doesn’t call him out, though. Instead, she crosses the room towards him. He doesn’t flinch back like he used to; he stays where he is, and when June reaches him, she kneels in front of him and settles her hands on his. The knives finally still, and Wilson raises his head. He’s small for a twelve year old, and they’re eye-level.
“Wil…”
“Is that the one you want? You decided?”
A nod.
“Alright.” Michael smiles. He doesn’t hug him, even though he wants to. It’s taken months for them to build enough trust for him to answer him when he asks a question (he answers non-verbally, but even so), and he isn’t about to break that trust.
He’ll wait for him. He’ll wait for him, wait with him, and he’ll be patient all the way.
“You’re absolutely sure of this, champ? This is your choice?”
The nine year old nods feverishly, and Michael beams at him.
“Well, in that case...Wilson it is.”
Wilson doesn’t smile, but his eyes shine with a newfound light. It’s the first time Michael has seen it.
It isn’t fair, June thinks, for what feels like the millionth time when it comes to this boy. It isn’t fair, none of it’s fair. His entire life hasn’t been fair. He’s suffered through so much and been hurt so many times, seen and endured more than any human being, let alone a child, should’ve.
It isn’t fair, June thinks. It isn’t fair at all.
But Wilson is watching her, waiting for an answer, and she puts those thoughts aside for now and smiles at him.
“Wilson, sweetheart…” She meets his eyes and squeezes his hands gently. “You’d make a great hero. Your brother did it and he’s mightless, you’re a shoe-in…”
There’s just a moment, a moment in which she sees light in his eyes, bright and shining even though the rest of his face stays stoic as always. The knives hit the floor and then he’s hugging her, and she hugs him back tightly.
“Do you like it, Wil?”
A nod.
“Good. Because it’s yours. This is your room now, buddy.”
He whirls around to stare at him, eyes wide. He blinks once, confused, and he smiles. He doesn’t return the gesture, but he can tell by the light in his eyes that, if he could, he’d be smiling back at him.
“I’m home,” Michael announces, his voice carrying the weight of a long day. He steps inside, his suit showing signs of wear, his cape fluttering tiredly behind him.
“Tough day, Mike?” June’s question is soft, but there’s an edge of frustration in her tone.
Michael lets out a weary sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Must I mess up my feathers to answer? Just look at the state of my suit!” His eyes, tired but intense, survey the room with a mix of fatigue and determination.
“Well, it’s still better than the aftermath of the Phoenix Raid,” June remarks, her voice betraying a hint of bitterness.
“Yeah. Yeah it is.” Michael hitches a breath, then his gaze softens. “How’s Wilson?”
“Asleep right here.” June gestures to the couch, where Wilson is curled up under a blanket, his small figure protected by a soft cocoon of fabric. Michael’s face lights up with a mix of relief and affection.
“I love that little rascal,” Michael murmurs, his voice breaking slightly. “Here, I got him a scabbard.” He holds up the small, intricately designed scabbard with a careful reverence.
June pulls back the blanket to reveal Wilson’s peaceful face, and her heart aches. It isn’t fair—she reflects—as she looks at the child who’s been through so much pain, nestled against her with two small knives loosely gripped in his tiny hands.
“Anything eventful today?” he asks, his tone betraying a touch of concern.
“The kid asked me if he could be a hero,” June replies, a note of pride mingling with her exhaustion.
“And he asked you? I’d have thought he’d come to me for that. What did you tell him?”
“Come on. You know I said yes.” June hesitates, a furrow forming on her brow. “Michael, I know you wanted someone to train you when you were younger. Could you please be that person for Wilson?”
“Right then. I suppose a Mightless person like me is just who he needs?” Michael’s voice carries a tinge of sarcasm. “Look, I am the first person to even attempt to become a hero without a Might. I don’t think I, someone who hasn’t even fully become a hero yet, could train someone like him.”
June’s eyes soften with understanding as she looks at Michael. “Michael, he needs you. You might not have all the answers, but you’re the closest thing to family he’s got. He needs someone who believes in him.”
Michael runs a hand through his hair, his face conflicted. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t. You’re doing it out of love, and that’s what matters most to him,” June reassures him, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of emotion.
“I’ll… see what I can do,” Michael says quietly, his resolve forming despite his doubts.
June gently brushes her fingers over Wilson’s cheek and through his hair, her touch tender but distracted. When her fingers skim over the scars on his skin, her heart aches deeply. It isn’t fair that this boy, who has endured so much pain and injustice, should have to suffer so deeply. It’s also heartbreaking that the boy who dreams of heroism has been so cruelly hurt…
And it also isn’t fair that the boy who wants to be a hero more than anything else…
...Would be raised and hurt so devastatingly by villains.