Work Text:
Wilbur Soot looked at his unread messages.
Tears streamed down his face in sorrow, feeling nothing but hopelessness as he couldn't bring himself to type out the letters ‘ i need help ’ in someones - anyones - dm because he was scared? Frustrated? Tired?
He doesn’t know how to feel, there’s too much emotions in his head, too much going on in life, to little hope for the future ahead of him. There’s just no hope.
There wasn’t any hope for him to begin with.
Wilbur knows he abouts to cry. Can feel the tears swelling up, threatening to spill over. He heads into his bathroom, locking the door shut, to keep himself inside.
Or to keep others out.
Doesn’t even bother to flick on the lights. The darkness had always been his best friend for as long as he can remember.
He can’t tell if he’s hurting others by simply existing, he wants to make up for his past mistakes that he knows he’ll never get the chance to, he wants to rekindle old friendships that he knows aren’t worth it in the end.
The intrusive thoughts are getting worse and he wants to hurt himself so badly but knows that people will realise in an instant and he can’t do that. He doesn’t want to hurt himself. He’s been hurt so many times and yet he still manages to hurt people he doesn’t want to hurt. Wilbur cares about them so much, even up to this day they’ll all always have a place in his heart even if the memories are sour.
He wants to cut.
But he can’t.
He can’t go outside of his room, just to grab a knife or a switchblade or a boxcutter just to hurt himself because David might notice. Or Niki. Or Rihanna.
He doesn’t want to worry them. He can’t. Wilbur isn't a burden. Doesn’t want to be a burden.
So he cries. He cries until he can’t anymore, writing random words of scripts or lyrics or stories who fucking knows -
Wilbur has trapped himself in his bathroom. Just stays in there crying because he can. Doesn’t want to worry anyone.
That’s bad. Worrying people is bad.
Music isn’t even helping him. None of the fucking songs none of these stupid fucking songs are helping him these lyrics are so fucking shitty and he hates this so badly -
He screams silently.
No one can hear him screaming. No one should hear him screaming. That would worry people after all.
So he proceeds to silently scream the lyrics of the songs that are able to tell the world how he feels. Without ever muttering a single sound. Tugs at his hair, for good measure, hitting his skull until there's a pounding pain in his head.
He flicks on the light in the dark bathroom. Searching for something, anything that will - and god, he fucking despies how his heart leaps in joy about the fact that there’s a scissors in here!
Scissors! And they’re sharp!
At this point, he’s losing his mind, laughing as he rubs the tears out of his eyes. The scissors are so dangerously close to his irises, and right now he could give less of shit if the blade stabbed him in the eye.
He puts down his phone, plays a song that he always puts on loop when he’s horribly depressed and intrusive thoughts of self-harm become too hard to ignore. Flicks back off the light, the musician doesn't want to see the damage he’s going to do to himself.
And lets the blade dig into his shoulder. Just a couple of lines.
They burn.
They fucking burn.
He wants something sharper so badly. But he can’t have it. And for that?
Wilbur hates himself. He doesn't know what to do now - the fucking cuts are bleeding - let it bleed, honestly, not like he gives a shit.
Will he tell anyone about it? No. Instead? He writes about it.
No one has to know.
No one cares.