Work Text:
WEMMBU:
He didn’t know what to do anymore.
Nothing felt real enough to say, talk about, or think of properly at all.
He’ll wake up with a heavy burden in his chest, his body. Himself. Everything feels tiring, his friends, his family, his hobbies. It’s his fault anyways. Maybe he’s just too much for anyone to understand and be with.
His perfect grades are slipping, way more than it should be. He’s starting to lose his passion over the things he loves. Music. Art. Science. Even the things that keep him happy are starting to break more and more until the interest and burning passion that once consumed him whole, now wasted in an empty void of suffering with wasted effort put into it without any point at all.
He stared into the ceiling of his room, eyes never shifting to strange sounds or the room he once filled with passion, joy, and colors.
He closed his eyes. Waking up to a field full of dark starry skies with strangely glowing Indigo Spires that were never allowed to glow that beautifully in the dark. It was beautiful, unique, interesting. Nothing he would ever be in his entire life.
Other flowers, besides the Indigo Spires that were seen, were strange sunflowers. They also glowed, much weaker though. It depicted him in some sort of way, the fact he would never be able to shine bright enough to feel appreciated by anyone or have any worth.
The bioluminescence of the flowers was complemented by the dark glowing skies deeply, as the tensity of his shoulders started to break and the heavy burden feeling he always carried felt much lighter than ever. He felt like a ghost exploring it’s own world, without any fear of being seen or restricted. It felt like something he’s never been able to experience, freedom. It’s a funny concept to him, because by means of freedom to him, he couldn’t find any meaning behind it in his own, perspective.
The cold atmosphere settled neatly as his eyes started scanning the strange field of flowers. The flowers’ glow would dim when he was near, and it would make him feel a wave of dread and wonder if he was just too much for anyone, even flowers to see.
He liked the comforting silence of being alone, in his own world. But some things aren’t ephemeral to last longer than you want them to.
As he walked further through the garden, a strange silhouette started to emerge from the comfortable darkness of his own, little world. Maybe it isn’t his garden. He knows he can’t have good things, even if he had them, it would be taken away quickly. Never had any time long enough for him to cherish it and feel happiness.
He walked closer, closer, and closer.
The mysterious figure started to look his way, and didn’t move at all. They had bright yellow hair, and a strange choice for clothes, like someone he knows. He stepped farther to process whoever is there, only to be faced with no answer.
Oh.
Its him.
It’s your fault, remember Wemmbu?
It’s your fault he’s gone <3
You don’t deserve to apologise.
It’s your fault
Your fault
Your fault
Your fault
Stop
Please end it
Stop
STOP
He woke up. Panting. He can’t breathe properly, or let his mind clear up enough to speak or think.
He can’t feel anything to convince himself that he’s even a real person anymore. He’s just a problem no one dares to fix. Just a bother that ruins people’s days.
He doesn’t deserve people who care. He never deserved the hugs, kindness, hospitality, love, and support they’ve given him. They refuse to take it back. Or give up on him fully. It’s annoying.
He feels stuck between the thought of ending it all or grow up more to see the world in a different perspective besides a problem. If he isn’t the problem in the first place.
Nothing feels new. It’s all just a cycle, a chore he can never fully finish. It’s annoying for him. Not that he can do anything about anyways.
He was drenched in cold sweat, trying to pull himself together.
Wake up, it’s a dream
This is why he barely sleeps unless he absolutely needs to.
He stood up, walking slowly as he struggled to get out of bed or do anything at all. He heads
to the upstairs bathroom, and looks at himself.
He feels weird, his face feels like his face is out of place and he can’t make it out in a proper way to express. His body in general is a mess. His long, luscious hair was extremely messy and his lively eyes were deducted to make a lifeless appearance that stayed unreadable. He hasn’t remember the last time his eyes didn’t look like the life out of it was drained. He can’t do anything about it anymore because his motivation for anything is less than the chance of getting struck by lightning at this point.
He stared into the mirror, his eyebags looked alot more noticable now and his once skinny, but strong build was turned into a body he couldn’t recognise as his anymore. Maybe his disordered eating did take a very large toll on him, probably. But it was never enough to convince him he isn’t fine.
He never was fine.
He can’t remember the last time he was fine.
He stepped out of the bathroom, visibly disoriented and looking like his hair was put through hell and back. He stared into the ticking clock infront of the kitchen, looking at it annoyingly, but never had the chance to remove it. As far as it annoyed him, he knows he can never remove it willingly. The strange comfort it gave him was enough to keep him alive for another day.
He checked the time, 12 in the night.
Shit, he should really go to sleep.
But he really can’t bring himself to do that right after he literally had a mental breakdown inside of his mind. He still hadn’t recovered form the fact that even after 8 years, he still appeared when he slept. He really can’t catch a break anytime, even when he just wants to sleep. Even sleeping is a problem he doesn’t want to face.
He always avoided his problems when it felt too much for him to handle. His parents, and even teachers started lecturing him because of it, and he really couldn’t care less though. He has many more important things to handle to face than that whatever they tell him.
He held his electric guitar, an instrument that has always been there for him even when things were terrible. It’s always felt so unique to him than the other instruments he had played. As much as his burning passion and admiration for the violin, the electric guitar always seemed different. It’s powerful sounds when played made him feel something burning inside him, not a passion. But an attachment to it that can never be forgotten, broken, or replicated once more. The sound when playing created a sensation that made him want more.
As much as he wanted to play more, he can’t.
He’s lost his interest in music and everything anyways theres really no point.
He stood up, and laid onto his bed, he really did not wan’t to actually sleep in the first place, but he knows if he skips another day of school, he would definitely get yelled at again. He didn’t want to dissapoint them even more than they already are at him.
He stared at the ceiling for a whole minute or two, until he closed his eyes and darkness started to swallow him whole, again. And it wasn’t the darkness that was comforting to him.
He really shouldn’t expect it to be comforting in the first place.
He really wishes this cycle would end, but Egg would really not want that to happen. Not of he’s there to care for him. Egg loves him too much to let go anytime. He wants to leave this earth, but he’ll always be there for him. Not that he’s complaining, though.
It feels nice to be loved without anyone shaming you for it.
It would be taken soon though, probably sooner than he could think. But for now, he’ll enjoy the small things that are left in his life that make him happy until it’s all gone.
My heart hangs in the air.