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Clack, clack, clack, clack.
It was freezing here. It was always like this. The tips of his fingers felt stiff with cold. He'd never felt cold when he'd still resided on the SMP, but the sensation crowded him constantly while he was here.
Clack, clack, clack, clack.
Ah. It's getting closer.
Wilbur, or rather, Ghostbur, as all of his prior friends had called him (and he much preferred to call himself), was situated cross-legged on a broad stone platform adjacent from a train track, and if he were to glance over the ledge, a long dark tunnel, spanning so far that he couldn't make anything out past the pool of pitch-black that was the opening to the canal.
The ground beneath him groaned and rumbled as the train approached to passing him, the sound reverberating off of the walls and inside of his eardrums like a cruel cacophony. It soared by, close enough for him to touch if he really wanted to. The empty carts were lit from the inside, but hauntingly empty. They burned a bright yellow light that reminded him far too much of the windows of a house.
There were traces of graffiti etched onto the side of the train carts, fossilizing what was left of humanity. How cruel. A tantalizing crumb of humanity held like a carrot on a stick, taunted him. It reminded him how alone he was here.
It's the same every single day. For years. The train passes by and I sit here. At a point, I thought I could get it to stop for me. Maybe it would pick me up and take me to a better place, but... Of course, it was useless.
The train passed by in a blur that blustered icy wind against his face, sweeping through his tousled dark hair. The presence of a long train, no packages, no people; he knew it should scare him. Or make him sad, or angry, or restless, or anything.
But Ghostbur felt nothing. He was a numb, empty shell of what he used to be. A butterfly cocoon long abandoned by the butterfly that had once blossomed inside. He'd been situated here in his own personal hell for countless years and he was long aware that he would never escape this place, so he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. Caring was much too painful.
He recalled trying to trudge through that tunnel once to see if it lead anywhere, but he walked for days on weary legs and it only seemed to get darker and darker, and so much colder. The train never even passed him while he'd been down there. There was no sign of anything, really.
When he'd finally given in and made the tread back after walking for days on end, it took him a matter of hours (or so it seemed) to get back to where he had been. In the freezing, desolate, smothering, and silent train station. So he'd long given up any shred of hope that there was even a sliver of a chance that he could get out of here.
Sitting there, an image materialized in front of his eyes, audio whirring and crackling through until it smoothed out and he could register the words.
"Ghostbur? Who's that?" An unfamiliar voice inquired before the image faded and it left him in solitude, like always.
Ghostbur, at some point, might've felt enthusiastic, or at the very least joyful, to hear someone, anyone, talking about him. (Which were few and far between nowadays). But the unfamiliar voice brought him nothing except an even deeper sense of numbness, and maybe a bit of what was left of dread, cutting him straight to the bone and leaking into his very being through the cracks. If he could even feel that anymore, that was.
He shivered and stared at the train still speeding by in front of him.
This one's longer than usual. That's the only thing that ever changes about this place, but it's still not enough.
After what could have been hours, days, or months - he couldn't bother to keep track of time anymore - the train finally disappeared into the tunnel and the rumbling sound, echoing and pounding in his head, faded along with it. Ghostbur let out a trembling sigh and buried his head in his knees.
I'm going to be forgotten in this place. I know I was never all that important to anyone's lives back there, especially not now that Wilbur is back but... I wish I could hear them talk about me more. It's the only thing keeping me sane in this place.
The dim lights above him flickered, and from somewhere, he could hear tiny drops of water dripping from a water-logged ceiling, hitting the ground and echoing out. The quiet here was absolutely suffocating.
A few years ago, he would've tried to scream for help - desperately bash his fists against unyielding walls until they bruised a deep purple - claw at supposed doors and walls until his fingernails were stubs on the tips of his fingers, sometimes to the point of bleeding if he'd been particularly desperate. He somewhat wished he could still feel that, but it never brought him anything except for even more torment on top of the copious amounts he had already been used to feeling. So it was probably better this way. Better to be numb. Better to not care, or try to get out. At least, that's what he told himself.
He remembered when Skeppy slew Friend shortly after Wilbur's revival. Skeppy had uttered his name.
"Is this Ghostbur's sheep?"
Through the monitor, he'd watched Skeppy slaughter Friend with his netherite sword in one fell swoop. He'd wished so deeply that Friend would magically appear with him once they had deceased. He wanted to see Friend just one more time. If he could even be afforded that, he'd be happy. He wanted to bury his hands and face in plush indigo wool and sob. He wanted to have someone who could take everything he was feeling and absorb it. That's what blue was for…
But of course, he was alone. Friend never showed up here. He didn't know why he even entertained the idea that Friend would, or had any hope at all that anything good could happen to him in this horrible place.
Clack, clack, clack, clack.
He didn't even bother to lift his head this time as another train started to make its way past him. He assumed he wouldn't be able to move even if he tried, paralyzed by agonizing numbness. He just sat there with his forehead pressed flush against his knees, shoulders trembling imperceptibly. Even as the same powerful wind blustered against him and urged him to move, he refused. He couldn't bear to look at it any longer. Every time that train passed, it just reminded him that he was stuck here and was never escaping.
"I wonder how Ghostbur's doing..."
Another voice crackled in, startling Ghostbur out of his stupor.
Phil...? An unfamiliar feeling, something akin to hope, sparked inside of him like the beginnings of a wildfire.
When nothing else could, Phil's voice caused the ghost to jolt from where his stiff body was curled on freezing cement and scramble toward the projector. He crouched in front of it with a credulous stare, eyes as wide as dinner plates. Against everything he knew to be true, he foolishly outstretched his arm, reaching toward the screen. He wanted to just reach through the screen and...
It's useless. Nothing is ever going to get me out of here. A voice in the back of his head told him.
He was immediately overwhelmed by a deep sense of numbness, sitting heavily in his stomach like a stone. It instantly snuffed the flame growing inside him when the screen began to fade away, taking Phil's voice with it. It left him in a sickening silence, all except for,
Clack, clack, clack.
The tail end of the train disappeared into the dark tunnel.
.
.
.