Work Text:
Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there.
Three times I drove the demon out,
Though on my brow was evil sweat. . . .
And yet I know beyond a doubt
He'll get me yet, he'll get me yet.
There is a fire burning inside of his ribcage. It burns and it engulfs, melting bone, scorching skin, charring organs. He lives and he breathes, and the fire grows, untamed, uncontrollable.
He screams to the heavens, and his throat tears and aches, a million words echoing out to the stars. The clouds grow thicker, and rain pours from the heavens, splattering onto his skin in a thousand kisses, but he does not feel anything at all. He is cold, somewhere deep inside, and his skin prickles with shivers, his body racked with tremors. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, ignoring the way the fabric sticks to his chest, damp and cool, and waits.
They drag him from the cliff with yells and protests, questions echoing through his mind.
“ Wilbur? ” they ask, afraid, and he hears the unspoken words.
Are you okay? Are you okay, okay okay-
He laughs, because he does not know. All he knows is the fire, and the emptiness.
They take him inside, bundle him in blankets and love, a hundred whispered reassurances that fall on deaf ears.
Tomorrow, he will return to them with laughter and a smile, a guitar cradled in gentle hands, the night before forgotten, but for now, he is empty, and he is burning.
They are scared, deep down, and he sees it in the eyes that rest on his wrists, his throat, like they are imagining something there, like they expect to see something flicker around his heart, a hand squeezing, squeezing, until there is no air in his lungs and the fire sputters out.
Don’t you see it? Is what he wants to scream. That I am burning, imploding, catastrophe?
His brother shows him a video, on youtube. A star dies before his eyes, immortalized in cartoonish art, and he is captivated, frozen, mind racing.
A million years of light, of fire, extinguished in a millisecond, atoms bound and torn apart, darkness creeping in as the star crumples in on itself.
He thinks he is like the stars, burning too bright, flying too high, like Icarus in his brother’s myths.
He tells him so, and his brother’s eyes are fearful.
No, he whispers. I won’t let it happen.
Wilbur laughs, hearty and yet broken.
It already has , is what he wants to whisper back. He says nothing at all.
It would be terrible to distress his brother, after all.
I know I'm mad, I ought to tell
The doctors, let them care for me,
Confine me in a padded cell
And never, never set me free;
But Oh how cruel that would be!
For I am young - and comely too . . .
Yet dim my demon I can see,
And there is but one thing to do.
“ You have to see someone ,” his father whispers, hat tipped over his eyes, but Wilbur can see the tears that shine there, the fear and the anguish. He feels remorse bitter on his tongue, but the fire burns brighter and he dismisses his father’s words in a second.
“ It will help ,” his father repeats a conversation they have had over and over, the words blending and blurring until all he can feel is the emptiness, until all he can see is the regret in his father’s eyes, the helplessness and he wants to ask-
Why do you care?
Why, why, why, why-
He thinks he is mad. Crazy, insane, like the people in the movies and the laughter that echoes through empty white corridors, the fists that pound against fortified glass and the eyes that roll back in hollowed heads, the unmarked flesh that bears a thousand invisible scars. He thinks he is broken, irreparable, and there is a solace in the knowledge, a peace in his destiny, and he goes to school with a smile on his face.
“ Wilbur? ” his friends whisper, but he is not Wilbur, he does not know who Wilbur is, he is everything and nothing and the void and the sun and he lives and he breathes but not for long, not for long.
He thinks it will be an adventure, like the boy sings in Peter Pan, to look into nothing and see hope reflected back, the walk into death returning home, in a way.
If they were scared before, they are horrified now.
He stands on a precipice, lets his feet dangle, watches rocks tumble to the water below, and his brother pulls him back, too young, too young to see, to feel, to know, but Wilbur cannot bring himself to care.
He stands on a building, the wind in his hair, his mouth, his lungs, and wonders how it would feel to choke on it, to let the fire that burns bright extinguish, to fade into the earth beneath the roots and the leaves, to be one with the soil and the rock and the molten fire that churns deep below.
He stands at an intersection, imaginary and physical, and watches as the world blurs before him, green yellow and red interchangeable, and if he steps out too quickly and the cars swerve and tires screech, well, that is for him and his brother to know, because his brother is the one to pull him back, a low voice in his ear, a calloused hand tight on his own.
Three times I beat the foul fiend back;
The fourth, I know he will prevail,
And so I'll seek the railway track
And lay my head upon the rail,
And sight the dark and distant train,
And hear its thunder louder roll,
Coming to crush my cursed brain . . .
Oh God, have mercy on my soul!
He stands in an empty railway station, and watches the ghosts of trains speed past, lights flickering on with the touch of a switch. His fingers linger on the guardrails, trace spirals in the metal and ponder the frost that clings to his skin, as cold as the emptiness inside.
He wonders if he will feel it; oblivion. Whether it will be cool, the darkness rising up to meet him, or as warm as the fire that licks at his insides.
He wonders whether they will care.
They tell him they do.
Why, why, why?
They are sleeping, now, at peace. Content in the knowledge that they will wake in the morning, that the world will keep spinning, the endless passage of time speeding on. He is merely a blip in the radar, in a way, not the explosion he longs for. He needs to be important, needs to leave in a burst of fire, a heart left shattered, a story unfinished, unsatisfied, unending, eternal.
He stands on the platform, the painted strip light as a feather’s touch against his toes, and watches, and waits.
Morning comes with a splash of colour, sunlight sprinkling across subway tiles, illuminating pillars and sending shadows dancing to where he stands, still.
For once, he is not tired, not empty.
The 5:00 train rolls in, perfectly on schedule, headlights blinking, driver yawning, tunnel full, and Wilbur opens his eyes.
He breathes in, once, twice, feels the exhilaration burn through his veins, the fire growing, consuming, until he is melting from the inside out.
The train comes closer, faster, faster, and Wilbur Soot takes a step forward and flies.
He sees them, in the second before dark. His fathers, his brother, the fear gone, replaced by the memory of a smile,
And then his hands meet the train and Wilbur Soot dies, at 1 past 5 o’clock in the morning, his family asleep, the world unknowing, his name forgotten.