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“I’m going out,” Tommy huffed.
He had his skateboard in hand and tears burned the corners of his eyes. He’d looked in the mirror before coming downstairs, he made sure it didn’t look like he’d cried. He dried his eyelashes and everything. It was just a little too much thinking, something easily fixed by the distraction of the Logstedshire Tower. That’s what they all called the biggest hill in the area.
“It’s kind of late isn’t it?” Phil asked.
Tommy hoped he didn’t round the corner and see how little padding Tommy was wearing, how few layers. “It’s not dark yet.”
“Be home before dark. No tower.”
“Okay, thanks.”
No tower? Yeah right. The tower was the biggest thrill anyone could get around Logstedshire. It went for so long and some of the dips were so steep even Tommy got nervous going down them. What else was he going to do? Ride steadily down a straight road for a few hours? That’d be a shit distraction.
“I mean it, Tommy, no tower.”
“Yeah. I heard you.”
Tommy winced at his own sass. He didn’t mean to, Phil was generally super understanding and patient, he didn’t deserve Tommy’s attitude. He also didn’t want the man getting suspicious, Tommy’s sad sass was different from his mischievous sass. And when Phil realized Tommy was sad he was so unbearable. They all were, really, even his brothers who teased him every day coddled him when they knew he was sad.
Tommy ended up learning pretty quickly how to hide his emotions. He appreciated their concern but he really preferred to handle things on his own. He had to prove to himself he was enough on his own. Strong enough on his own. Independent. It felt better, he always thought there was more to be proud of when he got through something himself. Besides, the things he was dealing with sort of couldn’t be helped. Not in the way he wanted.
Tommy left the house. It was breezy but not cold enough to make him go back and get a jacket. He didn’t have to walk all that far anyway. Their house was at the top of the tower, the upper section of Logstedshire. He’d have to ride down and walk all the way back up. It might get dark before he can make it back home but if he was lucky Phil would be asleep and one of his brothers would be waiting up. They were less likely to be angry with him. And probably wouldn’t snitch on him.
As Tommy walked, the song “Dawn Chorus” played in his ears. It was fitting somehow, with everything going on. It had become his theme song of sorts. It was numb and peaceful but eerie if you thought about it too much. Sad if you listened too much. And—Tommy shouldn’t do this to himself—but it activated that “feeling”, the one that was tearing Tommy apart. The one that had him on edge all the time. The one that made him wonder if there actually were consequences to his actions.
It was a funky little feeling that made him so alone. When he started to question everything and everyone. He wondered if it was all real, because it all felt wrong. In a flash he would start to believe that nothing was what it seemed, something, was missing. He didn’t know what but it freaked him out.
The next song that played was “Falling for You” by BoyWithUke. This song boosted that feeling too, especially when the music started to glitch. Music was an outlet, some way to put his emotions into anything other than words. The music wasn’t something he made himself, but Tommy related and it felt like his all the same.
He looked this feeling up a while ago. Something called “derealization” and it really made sense. Google said it should go away, that it was normal to experience this a few times in your life. For Tommy it was every day. He always felt like that, he didn’t always register it though. If he wasn’t thinking about it, it didn’t hurt him as much.
And sometimes, it was comforting. Not feeling real. Because all of the things that hurt him weren’t real. They were dulled, pushed aside and drowned in thick syrup. They moved too slow, they suffocated and couldn’t reach him. Still there, but untouchable.
Other times it was so terrifying. Because if something was wrong and he was missing something, how would he ever figure it out? And what about the good parts? The rare good parts of living? He wanted those to be real. He was so grateful every time they did feel real. Like when Wilbur sang for him, or Phil hugged him, or when Techno ruffled his hair.
The next song that played was “July” by Noah Cyrus. Tommy didn’t necessarily relate to the lyrics but he liked the sound. The vibe. It was bittersweet and sad, still peaceful in that painful kind of way.
He reached his favourite spot to drop off and looked out of the decline. He slicked back his hair and shook it out. The air was crisp, tinted with the smell of prior rain. That was a smell he’d always loved, forever. Something that never changed, something he could hold onto. He stood there, letting it clean his lungs. A new song played: “Mind Over Matter” by Young The Giant.
Tommy set his board down and set a foot on it. He rolled it back and forth for a minute, still admiring the breeze and the scent of reality.
“And if the world don’t break.”
“I’ll be shaking it.”
Tommy took a last deep breath before propelling himself forward. His board dipped over the decline, rolling on its own and carrying Tommy along. His hair was pushed back, his eyelids fluttered in the wind before adjusting. He held his balance and kept his knees loose. The first part of the tower was slower. He enjoyed the peace of it but was so ready to pick up speed. He didn’t need to concentrate yet and his brain was getting to him now.
How long could he keep doing this? Pretending it would all fall into place someday. He was waiting for it all to make sense, to fix itself. It never would, would it? He had to do something about it but he didn't know what. He didn’t want to try and get help, that would require being honest, and being honest would get him put under watch or in a mental hospital. Some shit fucking scary things go through his head. He didn’t want his family to know how his brain worked.
“Oh yeah, fun fact, I don't even believe that you’re real,” Tommy mocked.
If he explained that nothing felt worth it because nothing was real, that would be pretty concerning. If he said that consequences weren’t real because nothing mattered, that would be pretty concerning. If he said he did some pretty reckless things—riding the tower for example—as a distraction, as a way to feel a little alive, that would be pretty concerning.
“Alone Sometimes” by the Mowgli’s came on. Now that one, Tommy related to. Prime, it was taking so much effort to be around people. He didn't leave his room anymore. He didn’t hang out with Tubbo and Ranboo. He was too scared he’d make a happy memory, only to feel like it never happened, like it wasn’t real or didn’t matter. It was easier to be alone.
“Well I’m not here cuz I wanna be here I just don’t know anything else…”
The wind picked up as Tommy flew down a slightly steeper dip. His shirt fluttered over his chest and his hair jumped around.
“Man it feels good to be alone sometimes, God I gotta say those are my favourite nights.”
Tommy smiled but melancholy twisted it into a sneer.
“When no one’s around and I’m still speaking my mind.”
Tommy pushed his board faster and faster.
What if he crashed right now? Would it matter in the end? If he got hurt at least there was that distraction. If he died maybe he’d wake up.
Huh.
Maybe he’d wake up.
“Man it feels good to be alone sometimes.”
Tommy kicked himself faster. There was a curve coming up but he’d already gone around it thousands of times in his life. He flies around it with ease.
The next song that came on was “Haunt Me (x3)” by Teen Suicide. Unfortunate timing considering the things running through Tommy’s head. This was another one of those songs that amplified the feeling of surreality. Maybe he should have turned it off. Maybe he should have grounded himself. He didn't. Reckless. Self destructive.
It felt good to do bad things for yourself sometimes. Maybe because it was another form of adrenaline rush. Knowing you weren’t supposed to do that, knowing you were supposed to take care of yourself and choosing not to. It also felt like choosing not to conform with the universe.
“Yeah, bitch, take that. I don’t do what my instincts tell me to.”
For instance, slowing down. He was going faster than he ever had on the tower. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone go that fast down the tower. The first big dip was coming up too. Still, he didn’t slow.
The next song was “To Build A Home” by The Cinematic Orchestra. It was perfect, like a movie, because as Tommy picked up speed so did the song. He slid down the first major dip, concentrating on not fucking dying, and forgetting his worries for a while. He tasted the wind and thanked it for the company.
The dip wasn’t long and it evened out to be straight again as the song started to slow once more. He surfed on the concrete, swaying from side to side. “In My Head” by Bedroom came on. He would get through that song and maybe half of another before the biggest, and final dip. He was still speeding down the road faster than he ever thought he’d dare, and he was so glad it wasn’t a busy road.
The sky was clear and the first rays of orange started to spill into the sky. There were no clouds to colour, which was the best part of a sunset if you asked Tommy. But that stars would be out in not too long, they were nice to observe on the walk back up. They were hard to see most of the time unless you went way out into the woods or fields where the city lights didn’t obstruct them.
Tommy saw the final dip ahead, the song had changed yet like he thought it would. What a fucking record. There was one curve in the road before the dip and Tommy was cruising around it with a triumphant laugh. He was wearing a helmet but he feared for his poor, bare knees and palms.
His middle name was danger though, he knew what he was doing when he left his pads and gloves on his bed.
The curve evened out and there was only a split second of peace before the moment of truth. The minute of life or death.
Tommy’s board soared over the start of the dip, it left the pavement and it fucking stayed in the air. Tommy wasn’t ready for the force of it hitting again, he wobbled and tilted. The board shook under him. He yelped. Then he screamed as one foot slid off. The board shot out from under him and rocketed down the hill.
Tommy slammed into the hard concrete, cracking his head against it, bouncing and sliding downward until he started to roll. He clawed and scrambled to stop himself, to slow the momentum. He ended up sliding to a halt on his stomach, face scraping against the ground. The breath was stolen from his chest and he heaved, lifting his head. There was plastic from his helmet—that fucking cracked—in front of his face. He gasped and pushed himself up.
Tommy yelped at the sting of his palms and let himself fall back down. He, with great effort, brought them in front of him to look and grimaced at the rocks and blood coating them. He started to feel throbbing in his knees, down his right leg and at the tip of his right elbow. Prime, his ankle hurt. Really fucking bad.
He rolled to his left side, but that hurt too. He looked behind himself and down the hill. His board was still rolling. He also saw multiple trails of blood leaking from his knees and spots of it dotting a long line of raw flesh on his leg. He rolled onto his back and sat up. There was no immediate dizziness which meant that the helmet—hopefully—did its job.
Tommy lightly bunched his hands into fists and pushed himself up with the sides of his hands. Except upon putting weight on his left ankle he whimpered.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He pulled down his sock and already he could see different shades of purple marbling over the skin there. Tommy looked up the hill at how far he had to get. Fuck that, he was calling… oh fuck.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His very cracked, very broken phone. He pressed the power button, just in case. It did not turn on. Fresh tears started to obscure his vision. Instead of moving out of the road, he sat there and let the tears fall. He sat in the middle of the steep road and counted the new holes in his clothes and scrapes on his skin.
Stop being a pussy. It’s not real anyways, right?
He didn’t believe his own words. Really, he was mocking his own logic.
After a recklessly long time of sitting in the road, Tommy cautiously got to one foot and balanced. He hopped over to the side of the road. The way he saw it, there were two options. One, he waited until someone got worried enough to come get him. Or two, he hobbled his way up the hill and back home. Maybe if he tried way two he could hide his injuries for the night and deal with it all tomorrow.
Yeah. That sounded healthy.
He looked for a large and girthy stick. He was going to use it like a cane if he needed to. He found that he was still trying to catch his breath. His elbow might have been out of place—could that even happen? And blood was still dripping from way too many places.
Once he found his stick he began his trek, mourning for the board he was leaving behind. Tubbo’s house was down there, maybe he’d get it before someone stole it off the street. And fuck, now his music was gone and he was left alone with his thoughts and pain.
Phil was gonna be so pissed.
Prime, why is he like this? Why can’t Tommy be satisfied, ever, with what he had? He always needed time or space or a walk or a ride on his board. He was always sad or angry or just plain tired. His life was great, perfect even. His family loved him, rarely raised their voices, and were patient with him. His house was nice, they were relatively wealthy, he had good friends, he even had good grades. So why was he so unhappy all of the fucking time?
He told himself it was weakness. Techno and Wilbur had both been through way more than Tommy ever had and they talked openly—for the most part—about their health. They both agreed that things were getting better, that stuff was shit but they were dealing with it. So why couldn’t Tommy? There was nothing to deal with.
Sure there was the pressure of getting older. He’d have to work soon and start learning to drive and he'd have to figure out what to do after school. And maybe he didn’t feel real, ever, and it was scary and it made him question everyone and feel super lonely. And maybe he had trouble sleeping at night and a dangerous addiction to caffeine. And maybe he liked getting a little banged up—generally not broken ankles and dislocated elbows—as a reminder he was real and as a distraction. And maybe he’d considered running away just to get away from everything. And… and… it was all stupid.
The tears fell faster and harder, they started to weigh more the further up the hill Tommy went. He stopped every few minutes, unable to breathe, unable to take another step forward. The sun was in the late stages of setting, the best stages, and Tommy couldn’t enjoy it. He couldn’t see it through his pathetic sadness.
It was too much. How could it be too much? There was nothing wrong, nothing there, nothing to deal with or fix or handle. So how could nothing be too much? He sobbed but he kept marching on. He found a rhythm with the click of his makeshift cane on the pavement. He was going so fucking slow and it was making him even more anxious.
Tommy was stupid, he’d been stupid. What did he expect? He expected to probably get hurt, so why was he so surprised now? Stupid. Just plain reckless and stupid and pathetic. He’d be sore tomorrow too. That’s what he wanted was it not? Distraction, distraction, distraction. So why was he so disappointed, disgusted even, by what he’d just done.
Disobeyed Phil, put himself in this situation. He sobbed again, nearly falling as his knees weakened. Blood was dribbling down his face and neck. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.
It was completely dark out when Tommy was able to see the house. The lights were still on, which made Tommy cry more. He was wheezing for breath but he didn’t want to stop now. Not so close to feeling safe. He wanted to be within the walls of his house, even if he was about to be yelled at.
Tommy was in the driveway. He paused to catch his breath. It took him about five minutes to sound somewhat normal again. He started down the driveway. They were probably about to get in the car to come look for him. His heart squeezed at the thought. His family was too good for him.
Tommy leaned his stick against the house and took the door handle with a half-sigh-half-groan. He turned it and stepped—hopped—inside. He closed the door behind him and it took two seconds before the berating started.
“Thomas Craft!” Phil called from another room. “I was very clear, I trusted you to come home before dark.”
Tommy unclasped his helmet, threw it on the floor, and felt the tears rush back in full force. He didn’t want Phil to yell. He wanted a hug.
“So—rry,” he squeaked, Phil definitely didn’t hear him.
Phil’s footsteps were approaching and the tightness in Tommy's chest constricted so much he thought his lungs would pop like balloons. “You better have a good explanation, so help me prime.”
“Please,” Tommy said, only a bit louder but even less steady, “please don’t yell.”
“I wouldn’t be yelling if you had—”
Phil came around the corner and stared at Tommy from down the hall. It was as if his shoes were glued to the floor. He was shocked for too long, and Tommy couldn’t stand it anymore. Literally. He collapsed with a pained gasp, back slamming into the door behind him. More footsteps, a set from upstairs and one from another room started approaching. Phil was rushing toward him.
“Please don’t yell—” Tommy choked, “please—I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Shhh, it’s okay,” Phil was saying. His hands hovered over Tommy before they landed on his upper arms. “Techno, first aid kit!”
Techno came around the corner, the kit already in hand. Wilbur appeared at the top of the stairs and gasped when he saw Tommy. He came down the stairs two at a time and knelt next to them.
“Wil, help me get him up.”
Phil and Wil picked Tommy up together and he whined. Techno had the first aid kit opened and supplies strewn over the kitchen table. Tommy was placed on the couch in the living room.
He couldn’t stop crying. It was such a shit night. A shit night, shit idea, and he was a shit person, shit son. He sobbed, it was near a scream, and he dug his hands into his hair.
“No, no, don’t do that, Toms,” Wil said, gently grabbing his wrists and pulling them back down. Wil inspected his palms and winced at the blood all over his face. “You look like you got run over by a bus. Or three.”
Tommy wanted to laugh. He just cried. And cried. And cried.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Wil was saying. Techno was on the phone with someone and Phil was bringing a few things over. “You were so strong, being able to come home in this condition.”
It was only some scrapes. That wasn’t strong. Especially not when he was stupid enough to do it to himself.
He shook his head.
“You were. You are. You’re strong, Tommy,” Phil said. He had gauze, cloths, and antiseptic spray. He handed a cloth to Wil. “Just stay strong a little longer, okay?”
“M’ not five,” he mumbled, hissing as Phil and Wil cleaned off the scrapes.
“This is bad Tommy, you’re not weak for feeling pain,” Phil said, gently wiping at his face.
“Holy shit—” Wilbur gasped, “ankle.”
Phil looked at Tommy’s ankle and his eyes widened enough to scare Tommy more.
“Were you walking on that?!” He asked.
Tommy thumped his head back against the couch cushion. Techno came over in the middle of saying goodbye to whoever was on the phone.
“Does he need to go to the hospital?” Wil asked. “He should.”
Tommy could only shake his head, unable to get words past his blubbering.
“Tommy, mate, I need you to tell me if anything else hurts really bad. Just point if you have to.”
He shook his head. Everything that hurt consisted of scrapes, bruises, and his pride. The pain in his elbow died down, no dislocation.
“Okay. I think the ankle is just sprained. It looks pretty nasty though…”
“No hospital,” Tommy sputtered. Fuck, why can’t he just get a grip.
“Mate…”
“Dad,” Techno said, then he leaned in to whisper something to Phil.
After a moment of thought Phil nodded. “Okay. No hospital, but you’re resting and staying off of that ankle for as long as it takes to completely heal.”
Tommy nodded and Phil went back to gently wiping the blood on Tommy’s face. He pulled out his smashed phone while that was happening, just to add the cherry on top. When Phil saw it though, he didn’t care.
“Did you hit your head?” Techno asked.
“Yeah,” Tommy croaked, “cracked my helmet.”
“What?!” All three of them said in unison.
“Hospital,” Wil said.
“Let me see your eyes.” Phil carefully took Tommy’s chin and tilted it toward him. “Your pupils look alright right now. Any head pain? Dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
Phil nodded hesitantly. Techno took a seat on the couch next to Tommy. Wil was still kneeling and taking care of the gash-like scrape down Tommy’s leg. Techno took one of Tommy’s palms and started cleaning it off.
“I know,” he said when Tommy winced. “I know, kid.”
Most times Tommy would claim he wasn’t a kid. He would fuss about being fussed over. His cheeks would heat because all three of his family members were frantically reassuring him and tending to his wounds. Instead he was just tired. He struggled to keep his eyes open.
“We have to get the shoe off,” Wil said as he finished applying antiseptic cream. Techno used antiseptic spray on Tommy’s palm and moved onto the second one.
Wilbur gingerly took Tommy’s shoe in his hands and began untying the laces. As the shoe got more and more loose Tommy was reminded of just how shitty sprained ankles were.
“I’m sorry. Almost done.”
Phil finished cleaning the blood off of Tommy’s face and started applying the antiseptic too.
Then Wilbur started sliding the shoe off and Tommy couldn’t help but squirm. He whimpered as the show fully came off and was met with a chorus of “shhh” and “you’re okay”. Wilbur set the shoe aside and removed Tommy’s sock. Then he took off Tommy’s other shoe and went to the kitchen for a bag of frozen peas or corn.
Tommy’s crying had calmed down a bit. It dissolved into quiet hiccups and shaky breaths. When Techno finished cleaning Tommy’s palms he started to wrap them lightly. He pulled Tommy into his side. It was so warm. It was so so so warm and comfy. So the tears came again. Not as loud but as frequent as earlier.
Phil stuck a large-ish bandage on the worst of Tommy’s face scrape but left the rest open. Then he sat down on Tommy’s other side and started to run a hand through his hair. Tommy wouldn’t look at him. He couldn’t.
“Mate, I’m not going to yell at you. I don’t even think I can really be mad right now.”
“I’m sorry though. It was stupid. I was being stupid. I just—it was stupid.”
Wil came back with the ice and got silent permission to hold it to Tommy’s ankle. Tommy hissed again but Phil and Techno held him, and it helped a little.
“You wanna talk about it now? Or wait until tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Please.”
“Okay, let’s get you to bed then.
Tommy ended up being carried upstairs and dumped into Wil’s room, because Wilbur is a clingy fuck who didn’t want Tommy to be left alone. And maybe Tommy got sad again before he fell asleep, so maybe he snuggled into Wil, and maybe he cried again. Maybe. So the company might not have been a bad idea.
The next day Tommy told them a bit about his mental health. For the first time in years. He explained what he did, why he did it, and even how he felt while doing it. There was more crying and more ankle-icing.
Over the next week and half Tommy was carried everywhere. He wasn’t allowed out of the house and he wasn’t allowed to walk anywhere. He was extremely sore two days after the incident, and Tubbo did in fact find his board. Phil confiscated it for a month… but it didn’t get stolen!
All in all, a terrible experience but his family was, as always, patient with him and understanding. He appreciated them, as overprotective and overbearing as they were. Even Techno got kind of clingy for the next couple of weeks. He would pull Tommy into hugs, into his side on the couch, and randomly run a hand through Tommy’s hair. Wilbur was just straight up kidnapping Tommy to spend “quality time” together every chance he got. Quality time translates to: Tommy falling asleep on top of Wil, and Wil cooing at him like an idiot. Phil was a mix of the two of them, he was insistent that Tommy talk to him regularly and start seeing a therapist.
There were bad nights where Tommy would plainly say that he “didn’t want to do this anymore”. There were better nights when he agreed to keep trying. There were the best nights when he smiled and laughed and said he wanted to do better.
The Logstedshire Tower incident was quite the learning experience for Tommy.