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It’s freezing, but he pushes through anyways, should’ve brought a coat or something. Boots hit the muddy walkway
And everything feels empty
He’s close now, can smell the leftover bits of coal from about a week ago, can taste the warmth of fresh bread and cherry marmalade that they’d make together in the summertime, can hear the giggles of fifteen year old innocence, roaring into the blooming peonies and lilies, all wilted away. He feels like pinching his forearm, because this can’t be real, it can’t be real. Boots hit the familiar gravel path.
I rely on empty touch
And yeah, its only been a week. But it feels like it’s been ages since he’s been able to hear his voice. Wasn’t there a saying about how “time flies when you’re having fun” or some shit like that. You never really think about how much you see a person until you don’t see them anymore. You never really think about how much happier you are whenever you’re with them until the only thing that keeps you company at night is the thought that you can never hear their voice again. It echos, and echos, and echoes, until you give up on sleeping and opt to run into the woods, because you’ve become a madman of the former hero that everyone expects you to be. Boots hit the wooden planks.
To ignore the days that I hate myself and miss you too much
It takes him a second to take off those boots, because his mind is all over the place, thinking everything and nothing when he looks at the all too familiar entrance to the cabin by the offshores of the atlantic. Frostbite pecks away at his fingertips, but that’s of little to no comparison against the bitter cold that covers his lungs. Feet hit the cabin floor.
And everyone feels cold when they lack something familiar
A dream catcher hangs from a burnt out torch. It’s covered in white paint that Wilbur used to make from grinding the skeletal marrow of black crows. Tommy used to find it ironic, how an animal with such dark features can create something as bright, and as pure as the white paint that lines the walls of most of the buildings.
Phil used to tell him these stories of big scary monsters that were trying to end the world, and about the doves that fought against it. They were valiant, triumphant, but as a reminder of their victory had been forever cursed with the darkest coat of feathers. They were never supposed to be evil, they just did what they had to do to keep us alive. Tommy always thought about this story whenever he’d see a flock of ravens fly overhead, or hear the squawk and babble of nearby crows.
But now, he remembers the bloodshed, the screams, the agony, the loss, and he can’t seem to think about anything other than fear when he catches a glimpse of fluffed black feathers.
His eyes were red, stone cold like the blood that covered the rubble and ruins. Tommy wonders where Wilbur had gone, but stopped asking when he looked back up again. The sun burnt his eyes. Hands touch the loose feathers.
There is light trides, where the sun was
Tommy feels his hands start to shake, and he curses the months of physiotherapy that have probably gone down the drain. Techno’s probably sulking all the way over from the antarctic. Hands waver in the air.
This is harder than I thought
Leftover bottles of raspberry soda and hot chocolate powder lie atop the wooden platform, and Tommy brushes through all the many different spices before he finally reaches the familiar pandora box. It was made of glass, or something of that nature as it shone iridescent rays onto the room around it. He runs his fingers over the small carvings, and relishes in the poor handicraft manship that Tommy remembered so fondly.
“You always forget what you need, but never what you want.”
Hands flip open the lid.
I will always look for you in the quiet, empty nothing
All that was left was a silver key. Slightly rusted from overuse, but still a functioning key nonetheless. Tommy feels it in his hands, feels all the bumps and edges and smooth inbetweens. The key, in a strange way, reminded Tommy about him too. It seems so naturally imperfect in every perfect way, that even the handle had been slightly bent out of proportion. Hands grip the silver metal.
Where you were convinced there was only dark
Tommy had to step over all the mess that cluttered onto the floor, before getting to that honey oak door that he’d been eyeing this entire time. He twists and turns, before he hears a click and some creaks. He prepares himself, remember what Wilbur told you, because he knows that once he opens this door there is no going back.
Breathe in,
Breathe out,
Breathe in,
Breathe out,
Breathe in-
Hand grips the silver door knob.
In the sharpest objects
And there he finds, hanging on a steel wire cloth hanger, something that he hasn’t seen in forever.
I saw your coat
Tommy runs the polyester through his index and middle finger, feels every crease (though barely any) and admires it’s makeup. It was a dark blue, made up of crushed lapis, and another rhinestone that he couldn’t bother to remember the name of. He remembers how much he made fun of him for this coat, because it’s so unlike his humble nature, his calm nature. All the things he wishes he could say to him, summed up in the back of his head like a broken vinyl.
I saw it like a martyr sees its body
The Manburg flag still dangles through a thread, though the gold from its pin is starting to rust off. He wants to rip it off, wants to stomp on it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and-
Well, you get the gist.
Tommy wants to bury it in the dirt, somewhere six feet underground because he doesn’t want to think about that anymore. He wants to crush it with a brass mallet and feed it’s remains to the fire that burns within his body. There’s oh so many things he wants to do, but he restrains himself. This is the last memory of him left, and he should do his best to keep it that way, in all it’s pristine condition.
I saw your coat
Tommy retracts his hands, and positions it over his own trench coat. The buttons come undone, and all he’s left in is his t shirt and a pair of briefs that he’d found in his own closet while on the rush here. Thank god the heating in this house still works, because by the time Tommy has the suit on he feels like he’s about to freeze.
The pants fit surprisingly well, although they cut short about halfway through his shin. The coat, well, that’s another story all together. He only just gets them on, after sucking in his breath as he does up the last few buckles. It’s snug, that’s for sure, and it feels like home.
Like the shadow of a ghost that wouldn't leave here
There’s already a mixtape in the walkman so Tommy presses play. It opens up with an acoustic guitar, laughs that he recognises as Wilbur and his own bombard over it’s top, and Tommy stares blankly into space.
And then, there’s a crackle, a clearing of a throat, snaps of fingers and small cheers that innocence reminded him of grassier plains and warmer Julys.
A voice starts singing, and Tommy feels his body loosen.
I saw your coat
His arms and feet have a mind of their own, and Tommy starts swaying to the beat. The lyrics are so awfully cheerful that it puts a smile on Tommy’s own face. The voice reminds him of butterflies in the spring, so it’s no reason why he feels a flutter in his step.
Tommy thinks he likes it the best like this, when he doesn’t care, doesn’t feel like he needs to care. He feels like a kid and wonders if this was what his childhood should have looked like. I mean, he wanted this, he really did, rather than the whole shit show that came with war after after war after war and,
Of course, after death
Hanging in surrender like a lifeline
He uses his hands to hug around the clothes that lie on his body, embraces the fabric like a second shed of skin. It’s like a warm hug, comforting just like he’d always imagine it to be.
And then somewhere along the lines, the laughs in his mouth turn into desperate sobs, choking, gasping for air that surrounded him in the millions. They come in packs, dashing across his face like they’d just seen a new prey. They are hungry, hungry to explore and Tommy doesn’t know how much he can give them before they turn to him. The suit feels like it’s suffocating him, and god knows how many times he’s had this happen to him before.
His legs come crashing onto the ground, and all he can hear is the voices in his head, they swarm in the millions. He wants to feel nothing, or cry until he does. He wants to lose his voice, or scream until it does. He’d replay all of the bloodshed, all the pain, everything. He just wants to see him again.
I saw your coat
Tommy crawls over to the walkman, on all fours because he’s too weak to stand up anymore. The sun is shining through the melting snow, and he feels his fingertips warm when they pop open the cover, grazing over the label that writes in the font that he knows all too well.
And I hate this,
“Goodbye on a sunny day - Tubbo”
Hands grip at the cassette tape
this is harder than I thought