Chapter Text
wilbur doesn't like the ocean, doesn't like how it crashes against him, pulling him. so damn loud. he doesn't like how it feels like he's one step away from falling off the edge, dying.
as a kid, he liked the water.
wilbur thinks he likes it now, but for a different reason.
the waves roll at his feet, reminding him we're here for you, anytime.
anytime he wants to, the ocean is there to remind him of how easily they can drown him, push him beneath the surface, have salt water clog his lungs as he chokes on it. every time, it's always thank you but the action is never done. wilbur always slips away, leaving death behind him. always waiting with open arms.
it's time, we're here the ocean sings to him, and it's pleasant. like wilbur would imagine people who listen to his music think when hearing his voice.
saline solution, to all your problems
how ironic.
wilbur hums, although his voice is raspy from lack of anything. food, water, talking. just taking care of himself. he feels weak, so so weak. his bones ache, pushing to throw him six feet underground. the call of gravity making his bones want to rip straight from his flesh cage.
he's swaying, swaying in the cold dark waters of his saline solution. he tips, over over over-
i'm sorry, wilbur whispers to the water as he walks away.
---
it's okay, i'm fine.
time has proven that fooling himself into believing a lie is the most effective way of dealing with things he has no control over.
because it's true, isn't it? that he has no control over himself, over his life. he's on the brink of losing, but wilbur finds he cannot care. he's lost so much that it's white noise to him at this point.
he likes to listen to the mixtapes she had made him, likes to think too much about ever single word he hears. was this a sign that things were going wrong? no no, he was the one that cared too hard, not her.
he likes to listen to them, to have even more of a reminder that he was useless. to have even more of a reminder that she left because of him, because he talked too much about himself and his problems and yet had an odd belief that she was the one, that she was his world.
stupid, stupid, stupid.
he stays up every single night staring at his phone, trying to find an unknown courage in himself to turn these demons, these constant reminders of his loneliness into nothing more than a bad dream. his eyes are haunted, he surely looks like shit. tiredness weighs at him all the time, and he can't seem to want to ever get out of bed. if he could just talk to someone-
no no, he can't burden more people with the problems that he gave himself. he's the one at wrong, and now he deserves to suffer. he's drowning in himself, in how every part of his house reminds him that he's alone, no one around. he's left by himself, swept away by his own self hatred. thoughts of ending it, taking that saline solution, finally getting rid of the constant pain he was.
it was the coward's path, but wilbur had never been brave.
his lie is shit because he deserves it, because he did this to himself. everything he does is bad, real bad. he's useless and fucking horrid, and he'll probably die off like the wilbur soot in the dream smp.
hated, driven to death by his own insanity. ruining everything even more just by existing for a second longer. it's nearly impossible to cry now, with no matter how much he wipes the memories of tears and shitty nights forever stained on his cheeks.
people said he had a nice face, wilbur wonders if they would say that now with his sunken eyed gaze and sullen cheeks with too-pale skin. he looks like shit, and it reminds him of his early years. he thought he had gotten better, learned to cope. of course wilbur couldn't even do that.
he avoids the discord calls he gets from his friends for weeks even though they're the only sense of consistency he has left. he wants to vomit from ignoring them, but he has nothing to get out so instead he just dry heaves. he doesn't pick up a guitar for weeks, doesn't stream much anymore. he's watching himself falling farther away, taking a backseat to the word around him.
he doesn't fight it, doesn't fight the water threatening to explode his lungs.
wilbur feels too much nowadays, emotions washing over him like a dying man. and that's what he is, isn't it? a dying man.
he learns to drown every single one of his feelings in old stolen rum that he finds while wandering around at night in the streets, mind long gone. he learns to love the taste of it dripping down his throat, finds comfort in the warmth coming from his stomach.
he's drinking bottled love now.
he doesn't need other people to drive away his loneliness, he just needed to find a way to talk to it. and he talks to it, in cuts spread across his body, covering him until he becomes numb to the way they rip open, blood dripping down the cuts.
they'll scar, a voice that sounds suspiciously like phil's reminds him.
good.
he laughs and laughs even though the sound of his voice makes him sick. he's so cold and yet overbearingly warm. the alcohol warms him inside, shushing him as it gently lets his body rot away. his insides feel like they're about to come out of his throat with every cough that rattles his pale body.
he's like a ghost now, he's already haunted himself.
he's staggering, shoes thrown haphazardly as he digs his toes into the sand, a bottle of liquor clutched in his other hand. he hates himself, he hates every part of himself. why is here? what does he gain by torturing himself but never actually going through with it.
wilbur laughs, but it comes out as more of a weak scream. he's so weak, drunk and depressed and suicidal. pathetic and weak and horrible.
i want to take a nap, and he really does, his body screaming at him constantly from lack of sleep. he probably shouldn't fall asleep on the beach, he could get mugged, or kidnapped, or other horrible things.
he brought the guitar, a last minute decision that he couldn't decipher in his drunken haze. he grabs it with shaky hands just as he falls onto the sand. he strums a little, it's out of tune.
it doesn't matter, because his shaky fingers can't form the right chords anyway.
exhaustion is pulling on him, and wilbur finally gives in and lets his body collapse.
he feels so warm.