nails like god | georgebur

it's better than being alone

Wilbur retreats back onto the sofa. He sits and leans back, hand moving to the wooden stick on the side of the couch. He pulls it, his legs swiftly lifting as the leg-rest flips up. Wil lounges like a drunken father watching sports after work.

He hasn't been checking his phone often, but quickly, Wilbur loses himself in scrolling random apps and pages. Eventually, Wilbur lands on Spotify.

Music fills the room. Listening to music is really comforting to Wilbur. He loves how amazingly he can be described by lyrics. Wilbur can't explain how he's feeling without consulting some song first.

Wilbur's face relaxes, tense muscles releasing. His eyes are open, and he's staring at the wall behind the TV.

Suddenly, Wilbur is in a familiar place. It's like he's abandoned at sea, and he's sinking into the water. There's things down there, in the ocean, that are barely within vision. It scares Wilbur, not being able to see his surroundings. He's completely disconnected to the world.

The wall he's lost in goes dark, as if his eyes are closing. His pupils shift, dilating ever-so slightly. A metaphorical static numbs his ears, the world falling silent. Wilbur swears he is floating above his body, looking down at himself now.

George opens Wil's bedroom door, the creak it makes causes the shorter to wince. He peers over to Wilbur. George says his name lowly to get his attention.

Wilbur stays mostly still, aside from the tapping of his index on the back of his phone. George saunters to the couch, repeating, "Wilbur?"

George worries to himself. Wilbur's gone catatonic, hasn't he? George's face tightens at the panic. He reaches down, putting a weak hand on Wilbur's knee. "Wil?" He asks the air again.

Wilbur's eyes finally move, dancing around before landing on George's. His mouth goes agape for a few seconds, lips forming a small 'o'.

"Sorry," is the first faint word that falls from Wilbur's mouth. He pulls his phone up, turning off the distracting music.

He looks away from George and around the living room, everything blurry and unreal. George says something that Wilbur can't process.

"What?" Wilbur whispers. He knows he says it, but the way his own voice sounds in his head makes him unsure.

Wilbur isn't convinced this skin belongs to him, and the urge to dig into it and make sure he has bones is intensifying. How can he be sure there's bones in his hands? Wilbur cannot see them, he can't feel them. His body is numb,Wil notices.

George speaks up, which is unusual for him. He's never had to yell in his life, really, as much as he's wanted to. "Wilbur?"

Wil whips his head back up, facing George again. "Sorry?" He asks.

"Are you okay?" George calms his voice. The last thing he wanted to do was call the police or something drastic like that.

Wilbur hums. It comforts George a bit more, since he's used to Wilbur humming. "Not particularly."

"What was that?" George hesitantly sits down next to Wilbur, like the other was a ticking bomb he needed to watch carefully.

Wilbur thinks of an answer. His eyebrows furrow. "I get lost sometimes. In my head?"

"Oh," George's fingers twirl around each other. "That makes sense, I think."

Wilbur goes quiet. He's never really had someone get worried about him, the feeling is quite unfamiliar -- almost uncomfortable. Wil sits up, pushing the leg-rest back into the couch. He slumps forward, elbows on his knees.

George slouches down, his own knees raised and feet on the edge of the couch. He's coiled into himself. They're perfect opposites, nearly reversed images of each other. George speaks to Wilbur under his breath, "I'm glad you found your way out. Of your head, I mean."

Wilbur smiles feebly.