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The rocks and rubble dug into Wilbur’s back, nothing like the once smooth walls that held messages of madness before the explosions.
The air was no longer stale of just dust and compacted air, now it was full of gunpowder, despair and thin oxygen hidden by particles of dirt from the fallen wall.
It was loud and all encompassing, no longer muffled fights of withers and shouting, now it was echoing and bellowing into his ear drums. Yet he couldn’t understand a word being said.
His vision wasn't much better, merely blurry images of pinks and reds, golden hair and white and red, green and brown, light yellows with dark greens and whites.
Wilbur could see the shades that surrounded him from his new sitting arrangement, his back against a crumbled wall and the sun out of reach making his cooling body ever so slightly colder, his blood providing the only warmth he’s felt in years since the war started.
Maybe even since the first war.
Maybe when Phil had left him on his own on one of his many ventures.
…
What a lonely thought to have in your final moments.
The fact that Wilbur’s own blood is the only thing that provides comfort in these last moments, these fleeting seconds of his worthless existence.
Everything that ever held warmth that had touched Wilbur always became colder when in contact with him for too long.
His cold tundra of affection giving hypothermia to whoever returned it, trying to provide warmth with wet sticks and soaking moss that would never light a flame, that would never truly fix the darkness that resided in Wilbur’s soul.
Wilbur shifted to look at the ceiling, something he did often in the coming weeks of this nation wide tragedy, looking at the ceiling in the dark trying to make out non existent shapes in silence with maddening thoughts as company.
But now that the wall was trashed sunlight peaked through onto the floor and bounce lighting hit the ceiling, and with Wilbur’s continuous blurring vision from blood loss and the tears leaking from his without his consent, he could play a new version of the game as he tried to ignore the looming threat if his heart starting to slow.
To ignore what he was leaving behind.
To ignore what bridges he had destroyed.
To ignore what would become of his family and those he’d like to think were his friends.
To ignore the devastation of his actions.
To ignore responsibility.
…
Ah, he was truly the worst of them all wasn't he?
Yes, yes, he was going to go down in history as the true thing he was that no one ever called him out for.
A selfish man with an even more selfish death.
Perhaps greedy even? For begging for his life to be over? For wanting more and more? For wanting to keep l’manberg? For wanting nothing more than to keep it the same in its thin veils of safety.
Maybe he was wrathful? His once comrades telling tales of his wild outbursts? Of how he’d shout and scream J’Schatts name like he was cursing God? How'd he throw potions in tantrums and scream in cheers for violence.
In the end he was probably just overall sinful.
There would be no pearly gates awaiting his arrival.
He wouldn’t see his mother, and if he did he knew her face would only be one absorbed in grief and disappointment.
There would probably be a version of some lonely hell waiting for him.
One suited for his personal suffering.
Wilbur blinked slower than before, his vision finally becoming indiscernible, he closed them.
He couldn’t open them anymore, it was… becoming much harder to breathe.
And then… there was nothing.