((Dark one for sure, completely canonical flashback to Wil a couple of years before the book starts. Felt like writing something venty and decided to incorporate that with some other stuff into a oneshot of sorts. You know, figured I'd give y'all a lil somethin))
((Warnings: ed, as well as physical effects of ed. Smoking, referenced abuse, unhealthy relationships, suicide(?), death thoughts, insensitive comments/jokes, past tense body comments, implied hospitalization, depression, general angst/sad times))
((Please don't trigger yourself. If you can read this, enjoy the chapter, dear degenerate))
Wilbur put out his cigarette against the desk, tossing it into the bin by his table. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the wood, staring down at the page and wondering where to start. It's cold. Stupid hands, half numb. He pushed it out of his mind, this was more important right now. He willed himself to just focus, focus, focus.
An open letter, of sorts, to every friend I've made these past few years.
Good a start as any, he figured. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he couldn't bring himself to before... But this was different. By the time they read this, their reactions wouldn't affect him. He wouldn't see that part, after all.
It wasn't intentional, per se, this slow-burn suicide he'd seemed to have resigned himself to, but it wasn't something he was particularly fighting, either. He didn't want to die, but he wasn't truly living, either. He bit the inside of his cheek as he considered what to put down next; how he could get everything down into words.
I'm not sorry to have met any of you, not truly. You've been amazing, and I wouldn't trade you for the world. I am, however, terribly sorry to have met you when I did. I wish I'd met you as someone else, someone stronger, rather than as someone already losing myself. Maybe then, things could've been different.
He exhaled softly, some excuse for a laugh, before sighing. He felt stupid just writing this, and it was already coming across in a way he found reminiscent to all those stupid tumblr quotes likely written by kids under the age of 14 that he used to scroll past. He erased the last line, trying to see if he could come up with anything better.
You deserve better than this person who I've become. I'm sorry that I've pushed you away, I'm sorry that I haven't checked in, I'm sorry for lying to all of you, and more than anything I'm sorry for letting you all down like this. I know you wanted better for me.
It's no one's fault but my own. I chose this, I've lived this, and even when I'd nearly broken free I fell right back into this
He paused, trying to think of a fitting metaphor. A fitting word. Anything. He groaned, dropping his head to the desk in frustration. He couldn't even do this anymore, couldn't even write, couldn't access those parts of his brain. The one thing he'd always, always loved, stolen from him by this... this...
...this disease, the moment I was given the chance. I know I'm terrible for this, despicable, and I'm sorry for doing this to you, but I can't stop. I think I might hate myself more than I love you.
He stared at the words blankly for a moment, as if he hadn't even processed them himself yet. I hate myself more than I love you.
He repeated it again, in his head, and felt a pressure building up in his chest. He reread over everything he'd written, once, twice, a total of nine times, and then, for the first time in months, he cried.
It wasn't like it used to be, not matched with sharp breaths, or panic. It was quiet, remorseful, regretful, but not frantic.
He cried for Phil and Kristin, knowing how much he was betraying all of the hope they'd placed in him. Cried for Cole, and for not being able to do what she'd done, not being able to save himself no matter how much she had tried to help. He cried for how much of a fool he felt he'd become, and for ever letting himself get this far. For all the times he'd let people use him, for how desperate he'd become to find anything or anyone who could make him for just a moment feel less repulsive.
He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rocking slowly in his shitty desk chair, blurry vision unfocused as he let himself truly think about himself again. Not about how he looked, or how much he felt he should lose, not about his body or ways he could change it. Himself.
And he cried for the person he'd let himself lose.
For the toddler whose drawings had decorated the fridge years after he forgot having made them. For the ten year old who'd re-watched the first Harry Potter movie more times than he could ever hope to count, until he'd memorized every line. For the Wilbur who'd told his parents he wanted to become an author, who'd filled notebook after notebook with (admittedly shitty) stories and been so proud. For the teenager who'd finally managed to work up the guts to ask out the girl he'd been crushing on for weeks, only for her to move schools a few weeks after they started dating.
For the kid whose body had changed when he wasn't expecting it, who'd been met with jokes and snarky remarks from family and friends rather than support and reassurance. He wished he could take it all back, everything he'd done, everything he'd been through. He wished he could save that kid. Wished he could somehow save him from every one of the jabs about how 'hard to imagine you used to be the skinny one, look at you now,' and 'someone's put on weight.'
Wished he could take back everything that came after, every one of the comments about how 'all that really went to height, eh?' or 'is that all you're eating? No wonder you look like that, eating like some anorexic chick.'
He cried for what he'd done to that lonely kid who just wanted to feel loved. For letting himself become reliant on this mental illness and for fostering a nicotine addiction he should have never let happen.
He hated himself for it, but he couldn't bring himself to hate that kid, the one he knew that somehow, somewhere, still lived inside of him. He wanted him back. Wanted himself back.
He picked up the page, shoving it deep into his desk drawer. He took a deep breath and huffed it out, wiping his eyes and sniffing as he tried to compose himself. He looked over to his phone, sitting on the edge of his desk. Biting his lip, he picked it up and unlocked it, opening up his messages with Phil. He scrolled through for a moment, cringing at every lie he'd sent, and almost relented to what he'd become.
But then he thought about how disappointed he would have been, at 15, to learn that he never shared his songs with the world like he'd dreamt he someday might. To see that he'd never traveled outside of the UK, swam in a lake at night, watched the stars out in a forest where no other lights could reach, or watched the sun rise over the hills with someone he loved.
He thought about how crushed 17 year old Wilbur would be to learn that he never managed to love himself, and called Phil to tell him he needed to go to inpatient.
((Vote if you cried /j))
((On a serious note, living with this kind of stuff is horrendous and something no one deserves. It isn't quirky, or aesthetic, and not something that should be romanticized, and I try to avoid doing so. If you're struggling, please reach out. Things can get better, and even though it might feel like it, I promise that your mental illness does not define you. It might not be today, or tomorrow, or the next day, but things are going to be ok. Hang in there <3))
((RECAP: Wilbur writes a letter apologizing to the people he loves, both for not being able to overcome his disorder, and the fact that it is killing him slowly. It's a goodbye of sorts. This comes from his most major relapse, a couple years before the current events of the book. He realizes partly through that he doesn't want to live like this, he misses the person he lost in himself, and calls Phil to force him into treatment))
This is a note you don't gotta read, just about where I've been:
When I first posted the last note, I didn't intend to drop out of writing for a month. I thought it'd be a couple days, to be honest. I think that recognizing, accepting, and listening to my burnout really let everything sink in and crash down. Writing has been hard, but I can tell you that I am working on chapter 35, as well as doing a lot of planning for foreshadowing, the sequel, hints at different characters past/present experiences, etc.
I wish I could tell you I'm doing better on a personal level than I was when I posted that, but that wouldn't be honest. I am, however, starting to use writing for coping and because I like it again, rather than forcing myself, so that's nice at least.
Care for yourself best you can, dear degenerates, for the person you have been, are, and will be.
And... go drink some water, you goons <3