Chapter Text
wilbur blearily cracked his eyes open to bright white everywhere, crowding him, overwhelming his already sensitive eyes as he squeezed them shut.
where was he? he didn’t..he didn’t remember much. what did he remember? what did he remember? there was.. sand. grains of sand shifting through pale fingers. inky black skies. a bottle. another bottle. and another and another and another.
someone wearing a crisp uniform turned, and upon noticing that wilbur was awake hurried over to his side.
the person was a..nurse? but why was there a nurse there? a memory flickered in his mind, of wilbur, pacing in a bus station, cracked phone clutched in his hand. for seconds he’d pause and pick at the skin around his nails, then bang slightly at the map on the wall, and then chew at his lip as he worried over something on his phone. he remembered blood blooming in his mouth, remembered a weakness in his bone and the way he had to clamp onto his arm to stop its shaking.
”w’ere ‘m i?” it felt like his voice was sticky, coating with a thick layer of sluggishness. when the words crawled out of his throat, they were slurred, hoarse and raspy.
he sounded horrible.
the nurse hummed, patiently pressing him back down against a.. bed? either way, there was something stiff digging into his spine.
”you’re in the hospital. that fellow in the waiting room dropped you off, was very adamant about visiting.”
there was something, a flicker of a memory, of drowning lights and a arm around his shoulders, murmured curses of panic as he struggled to stand up why couldn’t he stand up-
“let him in.”
”but sir-“
wilbur glared, although he couldn’t focus on the nurse very well, flickering his eyes around wildly. every time he turned and pressed his vision against something, it seemed to warp and go out of focus even more. where were his glasses?
the nurse side-eyed him but dutifully went to get phil.
there was something in his arm. he lifted his arm up, pressing his knuckles hard enough that sparks flew in the darkness of his vision. the pain hurt but he deserved it, fuck, he did, and it wasn’t enough.
suddenly, it was like a switch flicked. he scrambled up, scratching at his arm rapidly. he wanted to rip his fucking arm out- how would it feel, the bone flying off his socket, him a broken broken doll-
everything was itching. he couldn’t stop shaking his arm, trying to get rid of the beetles crawling under his skin- in his bloodstream, his veins, they were everywhere, disgustingly running all in him, dirtying him. he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t he didn’t know how to breathe anymore. everything was becoming so much sharper.
the silence was dawning on him. he needed- a bottle. he needed to rip out his fucking guts, he needed them strewn out, away from him. intestines, yes, bloody and wet. paint without the t. he needed the ocean and he needed a bottle and he needed to get away from here- these white white walls, overpowering him viscously.
he needed alcohol. that thick dirty liquid that paralyzed him in his drunken, depressive state. there was nothing for him here, not anyway. he’s still clinging to his arm, tugging desperately, trying to wrench the bone out like a particularly hard knot. just twist and the blood will flow and and and
a door opened. a door fucking open and he slammed back into the wall like he was still drunk, vision blurring until the images of people were streetlights burning into his skin and the hands were shiny beetles and the ocean waves. he both recoiled and leaned in.
there was something dirty in his throat. his chest. a beast trying to claw its way out. it was aching like a sloshing mountain.
he missed being younger. he missed having pure thoughts in his head. he missed when he wasn’t just a mindless corpse rotting away.
his sweaty fingers press down on his throat, panic thrumming through his body like blood.
it’s like life threw a net on him, and yet there were far too many holes to swim through.
everything feels too raw right now, like he needs to get drunk and cast himself aside again. and resorting back to the mindset just after throwing himself out in the open again feels like he just cracked his jaw in two. wasn’t this where he was trying to do better? he knows he can, but he won’t he won’t.
and he’s drowning. something sharp pierces into him, trying to tug him up, but he’s going down down down. the constant sense of waiting pressing down on him. he needs something familiar. he needs to get drunk, for things to blur and slide and scratch him bloody and raw. he needs to get the fuck out of here, but he can’t move past the pressure, crushing him whole.
lazy young man.
that’s what someone had said when he drunkenly stumbled over to ask for some money for a drink, scowling at him with not even as much disgust as he showed himself. counting the days until he falls to the final sleep.
shame bridges on his shoulders. it doesn’t take much to make him feel small. not at all. the darkness crows to him like a mangled, dancing carcass.
he reached.
(he fell.)