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There is a space between what is known of life and what is unknown about death. A place of static that fills the walls, but isn’t quite the void of nothing. The ghosts that roam the empty streets can access it and sometimes those in the endless void can too. This place is home to many lost souls, split in two by circumstance or otherwise. Everything is known here, and yet nothing is. Questions fill the air so densely that whoever remembers what it’s like to choke can feel a nagging feeling at their throats.
Ghostbur sometimes travels to this place. Every time he does, he fears the inevitable. Yet, he cannot stop himself from entering.
His mind a melancholy wall of untouched memories, he travels the thin line between life and life everlasting. He is a shell. There is nothing behind the husk one would so much as dare to call eyes. Nothing but an endless echo reverberating across the walls, bouncing off and around. His body and mind are so empty that the echo fills the silence nonetheless.
However much hatred that Wilbur held for Ghostbur, and however much fear Ghostbur held for who he calls “Alivebur”, there is a mutual respect, and a mutual self-hatred for who they are. Wilbur cannot be what Ghostbur is. Ghostbur, in turn, could never be Wilbur. It’s a sort of bitter respect that one has for another.
How on earth could either of them be one in the same?
Ghostbur’s empty eyes look into that of the DreamSMP Dragon’s. The behemoth that caused nothing but pain in the lives of people he can only remember positively… And the Dragon stares back. Unnervingly so. For every ounce of emotion drained from Ghostbur, rejected from his very being, forced harshness rests in even the simplest features of his counterpart.
They stand in the void. The distant, insistent shuffle of cards in Wilbur’s hands is the only thing keeping the static at bay, from becoming too overwhelming. There is a distant rumble of what seems to be an underground train in the background, which drowns out the shuffling. The static becomes more known then and there, towering soulless figures fumbling mechanically past.
They stand at an impasse. What do you say to what you could never become? What do you say to a shell? What do you say to a monster?
For that matter, when does a person become a monster?
By definition, a monster is primarily an imaginary creature of a grotesque nature. Imaginary being the prevalent word - a monster by deeper definitions is much more. A congenitally malformed or mutant animal or plant. An inhumanely cruel or wicked person.
Synonyms: brute, fiend, beast, ogre, devil, demon, imp, sadist, animal, bastard, swine, the list continues. What makes a person inhumane?
Inhumane: definition. Adjective. Without compassion for misery or suffering.
Cruel .
Humanity is engraved in one's genetic coding. From birth, these beings are saddled with the reality of humanity, from their first cry. To be human is to be humane . To be inhumane is to be a monster .
Given that information, where does Ghostbur fit? Where does Wilbur fit?
“Alivebur…” Ghostbur is the first one to break the silence despite his hesitancy to do so. Given most of his information of the man before him comes from books and stories, it's much like if one were to find that their least favorite character suddenly came to life. A part of it didn't feel real, if he were to be entirely honest. Yet... A part of it felt entirely too real. He's never quite felt mortal: he's felt fleeting fear, easily solved by a quick holding of some blue, but not... Mortal. Material.
He's felt fear, but he hasn't ever felt quite as frightened. It was like looking at a dead version of a person you were but never quite knew. Enigmatic. Headache inducing. Like the world beneath him that doesn't quite exist is spinning, fading in an out of existence in hot and cold flashes.
“Ah, Caspar the bloody Friendly Ghost!” In every inch of Wilbur’s voice, there is a distinct nonchalant annoyance. The nameless and faceless figures still shuffle by, while Wilbur’s offhanded shuffles stop. They stare at each other, varying levels of husk from behind their eyes, or where their eyes theoretically should be.
Ghostbur's entire demeanor seems to shrivel. The part of him that fights off, that forgets, is more prevalent now than ever. He wants to forget this moment. He pleads to a God that doesn’t exist that he forgets. (The dead can make a believer of anyone, no matter what that belief is. Even the dead who believe in no God can pray for mercy.)
Wilbur however, doesn’t budge. There’s a million and one questions that all fall short for both of them at this moment. Wilbur brings his head to the side and expects a satisfying crack, but quickly remembers that there are no bones to crack. He sighs, though it doesn’t do much considering there are no lungs to breathe from.
“I suppose it’s our turn to switch soon. Even though I made it inherently clear that I did not want to return.”
“--Don’t you want this?” Childish and disconnected voice, after a moment, interjects. “Don’t you want to live again? To be revived? Don’t you want to-to say everything you didn’t get the chance to say? To see my - to see Fundy again… To see Phil again? You said- you said it yourself! You said ‘I’ll see you soon’!” His voice is more of a whine and plead. He wants to believe that Wilbur is stronger than this, that Alivebur is more than he is.
No, he knows that he is. Why else would everyone fear him?
There is a stunning silence that only serves to thicken the air between the two.
After a while, Wilbur speaks. “I don’t think I owe you much in the way of answers,” he starts, leaning against a pole. “To be frank with you, Ghostbur, I don’t think you’ll even remember this conversation. What’s the use in answering if you’re not going to remember these questions?”
“I don’t… That’s alright.” He digs in his pockets for blue. His ever-stained hands desperately search for the feeling of sadness being sucked from him, but it all evaporates here, between his fingers. He wishes Friend were here, he wishes that he could grab some sort of hold on what makes him feel grounded. He wishes the sadness to go away yet it still threatens his very being.
He will forget soon. Wilbur sees this as a luxury.
Bitterness twists his stomach.
“Oh, of course. It’s all alright to you, eh? Are you gonna offer some blue, hm? Are you going to tell me to calm down, to look on the brighter side? Let me tell you my ghastly friend, there is no side brighter than the one lit by fire. There is no side greater than the grand explosion of chaos. Your ventures here are fruitless, Ghostbur.” He steps closer. Ghostbur steps back. “I understand where you’re coming from, mate. I really do. It’s quite funny actually, that you want to let on this… This little-little harmless ghost that just wants everyone to be happy -- I’ve seen what you’re capable of. With that conversation with ConnorEatsPants. You are a shell. There is nothing behind your eyes but a futile and pointless attempt to be something you cannot attain. You are nothing but a sad display of what I am not. You’re not just a mockery of death, you’re a mockery of life. A doll. And you have the audacity to enter here, to pull me out from my game of bloody competitive solitaire with Mexican Dream to… What? Ask questions? To embark on a journey you’ll never remember?” He looks to the side, and then back to Ghostbur.
This conversation reminds him of one he had a long time ago. One with a man now building his own country.
But no, Big Q said he wouldn't make the same mistakes, didn't he?
The former failure pinches the bridge of his nose as if to sate something that doesn't exist. Annoyance still does, but the headache he would've had is thankfully nonexistent due to not having a corporeal form. “Why don’t you go back, hm? Go talk to Tommy, continue being the man we both know you aren’t. Give out some blue. Forget a bit - forget a lot, it doesn’t matter much to me.”
Ghostbur looks at Alivebur.
He says nothing. He trembles and falls back. The husk gets pulled back to the land of the living, yet… He feels different.
For the first time, the words Alivebur have said have stuck with him.
…
It comes back in bits and pieces. Dots begin to connect. He can't forget.
He can't forget. No matter how much he desperately tries.
It's painful. It can't help but gnaw at his mind. While he tries to keep his normal appearances his forgetfulness clashes with things he's learning for what seems to be the first time. He feels a tug towards a place he swore not to go to. A place where he feels needed.
Is this what it’s like? To remember?