Chapter Text
Wilbur wakes up.
The sun has already awoken before him, but it does not glare. It sits outside the window, calmly watching him, not blasting his eyes with ultraviolet light. With this, Wilbur feels fear begin to rise in him. On the days that the sun was quiet, something bad always happened. Wilbur does not want to go. Days of regret, mourning, and guilt are still ahead of him.
Little does Wilbur know, forgiveness was never an alternative for revenge.
The bedside table is made of redwood. The drawers are shut tight, and the Polaroid photograph is no longer there. Wilbur is both glad and disappointed it is gone. Perhaps another day, he will look for it again. He already wishes to hold the white square of film in the palms of his hands. It is a memory snapshot riddled in physical form.
At the same time, Wilbur thinks maybe he does not want to remember.
Wilbur walks to his bedroom door frame and the sun follows his movements. His eyes are blurring, things seem distorted, but still Wilbur continues. He sneaks a glance inside the bathroom. He does not dare enter at the sight. The mirror appears broken, and Wilbur cannot see his reflection over the veil of dark condensation that paints the surface. A small handprint, already starting to fade, startles Wilbur. He is still being followed.
Wilbur inhales, each breath feeling like carbon monoxide burning his bronchi. Sometimes, there are days when Wilbur wished he was blind.
He makes his way into the kitchen. The curtains are gone and soon so will he. Sunlight seeps into the room, filling every crevice with its bright light. Everything is filled with turquoise, magenta, and brief flashes of white, and Wilbur thinks that this might be the end. But he shakes his head. He knows it is never the end. The child will follow him wherever he goes.
Wilbur does not want to eat. He can almost hear Phil nudging a porcelain plate his way filled with eggs and bacon, followed by a kind you should eat, mate. You don’t want to faint in the middle of class, do you? Techno would stay quiet throughout the duration of the meal, reading another new book he bought, and the child, the bundle of joy, would jump around erratically in the kitchen until he ate.
That is a time that is long gone. Phil and Techno left, grief settled in their hearts. Wilbur knows there is blame in there too, even if it is brushed off by reassuring smiles and tight hugs. Either way, they all left, and now he is stuck eating weeks-old food and drowning his mind in thoughts of the sun and mourning.
Wilbur isn’t crazy. He isn’t.
The boards nailed to the front door that keeps him in disagree. Wilbur cannot recall if it was he who nailed them there.
Quiet fills the house once more. Wilbur is glad. The giggles were figures of happiness; excited breaths coming out of the child’s mouth were something that reminded him of simpler times. Now, the giggles were a token of mocking. Wilbur sighs, and Wilbur thinks that he wants to decay.
He trudges towards the couch, his feet making soft thuds against the wooden floor. Wilbur pretends not to see the dark stains that decorate the wooden floor. It has always been there, but the face that peeks out from in between the floorboards is something foreign. When Wilbur blinks, it is gone. The gap is empty and dark once more.
Wilbur sits on the couch, and it scratches at the back of his neck, feeling like sharp nails inserting into his epidermis. He wishes he didn’t isolate himself, not talking to Niki and Dream and Techno for god knows how long, but it is way too late. Wilbur is now alone.
Wilbur fiddles with the buttons of the remote control, and the TV bursts to life. The TV does not show any of the channels. Instead the ominous black screen stares back at Wilbur’s coffee eyes, and words begin to flash before him.
Just let him go
Just let him go
Just let him go
Just let him go
Just let him go
JUST LET HIM GO
J̶̡̱̩͙̄̃̆̏̍͒Ú̷͙̺̱S̶̨̟̥̦͇̈Ţ̴͇͉̲̑̑͋̄̈́̏͛͐͝ ̴̜̯̦̼̪͓͕̂͆̃̾̈L̵͚̝̖̆̀̇̈́Ę̶̭̇̈́̃Ṯ̸͚͋̽͌̄́͂̈́ ̷̨̳̖͚̮̻͑̄M̴̛̼͓̤̎̅͌͗͜Ȇ̵̙̥̰̍̑̅̒̀͜͠ ̸̣̝͚͚̱̘͓̼̔̐͌̂͑͂̚͝ͅḠ̵̨̺̯̈́O̵͈̤̝̪̒͌
Wilbur does not want to. He could never bear it. He will shoulder it for as long as carbon dioxide turns into oxygen in his lungs. Wilbur has always been sentimental, and this is no different. The child is someone he holds dear, and he will never let him go.
Wilbur tries to sneak a look outside, but before he does so fully, he spots the child’s golden hair glaring at him with the sun, with a face so scarred and broken that vermillion blood still drips from the crescent smile carved into the boy’s cheeks. Wilbur abruptly jerks his head back up to the TV. It is turned off, and the words are gone.
Wilbur does not sleep in the couch. He gets up off of his seat, not noticing the dust that has settled in his shoulders. Time has always been strange in this town. Where reality is altered, so is time. Wilbur has long learned the consequences of abandoning things. They rot faster, and before long, they wither away, never to be seen again.
Only sometimes, the things that rot leave their souls behind.
Wilbur stops at the front of the basement door. It is adjacent to his open bedroom, the bed covers tossed about carelessly. How long has it been since he cleaned his bed?
The basement door is a siren’s call, pulling Wilbur forward towards it. He ignores the chorus of screams that erupt in his brain, telling him, NO DON’T GO IN DON’T GO IN DON’T GO IN.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key he didn’t even know was there. It is silver, rust clinging onto the edges. He hopes it still works. Wilbur inserts it into the keyhole, and it takes a couple of wiggling and maneuvering before he successfully unlocks the door. The door swings open, and he is met with a rather unsettling sight of concrete stairs going downwards, with brick walls surrounding it. Wilbur can see that the floor is also smooth concrete, but beyond that is a mystery.
He looks back to his bedroom door, wide open and inviting. The voices are telling him to stop, to go back into his room and sleep, but he shakes his head and trudges down the steps, the pitter-patter of dripping water distracting him from the whines of the voices. He continues onto the basement.
He sees the room he has seen many times in his dreams. The room is not grey any longer. The walls are brick and the floor is concrete. A shattered window lies on the side, fragments of glass scattered about. A trunk is shoved to the corner, and judging by the dust and cobwebs tied to it, it has been there for years. A row of shelves line up on his right, and to his left is a cardboard box taped shut. A small piece of paper sits on top of it.
Wilbur raises an eyebrow, and picks up the piece of paper. Messy handwriting is evident, but the yellowing covers most of the paper. Wilbur deciphers a tiny part of the message.
Wilbur,
I’m sorry. I don’t think I can stay here with you anymore. Not after Mum passed in this very same house.
There’re too much memories.
I’ll be moving in with Techno. Hopefully he doesn’t get annoyed by me easily.
- T
Wilbur’s breath hitches, and he crumples the piece of paper before throwing it to the side. Something in the shelves catches his eye, and Wilbur runs up to it, holding it up in his hands. It is a carbon copy of the Polaroid in his room, except this one is missing the scribbles of marker ink. Wilbur can clearly see the child with golden hair in the picture, posing in front of a willow tree and sitting on a red-and-white checkered blanket. The written description at the bottom is wide. Tommy’s Picnic.
Wilbur puts down the photograph, looking up at the new door ahead. He didn’t see it before. Has it always been there?
He hesitates before opening the door. The voices have now quieted down, leaving only a trail of murmured warnings. You’re not going to like what you see, you shouldn’t have done this…
Wilbur sees what they are talking about.
He now understands why they didn’t want him going down the basement.
A symphony plays from somewhere in the house, soft notes of the violin and piano mixing together in harmony. Wilbur stands inside a room of white, with only a single window to show him the giant willow tree outside. It is similar to the photo he had seen earlier. In front of it stands T̵̯͙̫͖̬̺̐̋̓͑͝ͅò̷̥͙̞̠̠̥͚̤̩̀͑͋͛͜m̸̝͍̗̈́͗̽͒̄̎́͘m̴̱̄͊͋ŷ̸̧̡̜̘̙̱̹̠̹̤͑̆͆́̀, smiling at him. It is genuine and sincere.
But Wilbur feels as if something is off.
“Are you T̵̯͙̫͖̬̺̐̋̓͑͝ͅò̷̥͙̞̠̠̥͚̤̩̀͑͋͛͜m̸̝͍̗̈́͗̽͒̄̎́͘m̴̱̄͊͋ŷ̸̧̡̜̘̙̱̹̠̹̤͑̆͆́̀?” Wilbur asks, and the name tastes strange on his tongue. It rolls off roughly, the consonants and vowels sounding quite unnatural. Tommy simply offers him the same gentle smile. Sunlight streams through the window, and for the first time, Wilbur welcomes it.
“No. I am not.” The child speaks, the grin still on his face. “But that’s okay.”
“At least you’re not alone anymore.”
Wilbur breathes easier. It feels as if a huge weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. He has his brother now. His baby brother, his reason for living, his euphoria. T̵̯͙̫͖̬̺̐̋̓͑͝ͅò̷̥͙̞̠̠̥͚̤̩̀͑͋͛͜m̸̝͍̗̈́͗̽͒̄̎́͘m̴̱̄͊͋ŷ̸̧̡̜̘̙̱̹̠̹̤͑̆͆́̀ never left him. It was foolish to think he did.
“Let’s go back to bed.” Wilbur says, and takes the child’s hand in his own. T̵̯͙̫͖̬̺̐̋̓͑͝ͅò̷̥͙̞̠̠̥͚̤̩̀͑͋͛͜m̸̝͍̗̈́͗̽͒̄̎́͘m̴̱̄͊͋ŷ̸̧̡̜̘̙̱̹̠̹̤͑̆͆́̀ follows obediently.
Wilbur sleeps that day comfortably in his bed, while Tommy’s dead body rests in the bed mounted to the wall.