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Teens & Young Adult Sad Fiction

This story contains themes or mentions of suicide or self harm.

TW: Mentions of Suicide

"MY L'MANBERG, PHIL!" Wilbur shouted. He gestured towards the new crater in the Earth. A crater that he created. A crater filled with the ashes of buildings and dreams for the once bustling nation. "MY UNFINISHED SYMPHONY, FOREVER UNFINISHED!" Below the mountain where Wilbur and Phil stood, were the citizens of L'manberg. They watched in horror as the man they once trusted with their lives destroyed everything they'd ever come to love.

"Oh my god," Phil muttered. This was his first time visiting the place. Wilbur would talk endlessly about his nation and now that Phil was here, it was gone. Destroyed by the man who used to brag about it any chance he got.

"KILL ME, PHIL!" Wilbur shouted abruptly.

Now, he was faced with his father. A man with wings darker than the obsidian that built their Nether portals. A man who raised him and his twin brother from young boys to murderous men. The same man who used to destroy thousands of villages for fun. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

"I'm not doing that! You're my son!" Phil argued, yet he still held the sword in his shaking hands. He would have thrown the sword off the side by now if he didn't want to kill his son, but the sword stayed between the man's sturdy grasp.

"THEY ALL WANT YOU TO DO IT, PHIL!" Wilbur yelled, ignoring his father's comment. He knew they wanted it. He blew up their homes and lives! Why wouldn't they want him dead? He watched as Phil's eyes darted around the room. He was looking for a way to avoid the situation, but there was no avoiding what needed to be done.

"No! Wilbur, I'm not killing you!" Phil seemed firm in his decision. Wilbur would have to change that.

"KILL ME, PHIL! KILLZA! KILLZA! KILLZA!" Wilbur chanted. Death was all he wanted at this point. If he lived, he would have to deal with the consequences of his actions. He didn't want to do that! He was tired and all he wanted was the warmth of Hell to engulf him. Let those who lived through this event deal with his mess. He was done.

Wilbur stepped forward, putting his hand over his father's. They looked each other in the eyes. One filled with fear for what his son might do, the other, determination and delusions.

"Do it."

That was ages ago, however. Now Wilbur was stuck in a liminal space called limbo. A hell that was worse than what anyone had imagined. When Wilbur first died, he thought he'd see red and fire and Satan, but he appeared to be in the opposite. He was surrounded by the dull colors of the train platform he spawned in.

Instead of the laughter of demons and tears of the dead, there was silence. It wasn't complete silence, there were people there. They were made of some sort of smoke. Wilbur had come to the conclusion that these "people" were made of smog. Just another way to remind him of his life in London.

But he was dead now and never had to live there ever again. He never had to live again. Wilbur looked down at his palms. They were a ghastly grey. Wilbur knew he was dead, but it never fully registered to him that he was dead dead. He had his three strikes, and now he was out.

Death hurt more than Wilbur had expected it to. He missed his family. He missed his friends. He missed the early days of L'manberg. He even started to miss Pogtopia a little bit. He just missed being alive

Wilbur flinched as he felt pellets burning his hand. He looked down at his hand in confusion, but the confusion didn't last long. Wilbur had only one way to stay connected to the living and that was through Ghostbur. 

Ghostbur was a separate being from Wilbur. He had his own thoughts, his own body, personality, everything. He was connected to Ghostbur mentally. Wilbur could sometimes see what Ghostbur did, but it wasn't often. Just glimpses of what Wilbur didn't have. It made him jealous. It drove him up the wall. But, it made Wilbur happy knowing that his loved ones were safe and happy when Ghostbur was around. Something that he could not give when he was still alive. 

The burning came in little sporadic waves. He could hear the sound of rain and muffled voices. It seemed Wilbur would have to rely on his hearing to figure out what was going on this time. He heard sounds of sizzling as the voices became more clear.

"That was me touching the rain," A voice said. It was echoey like a distant memory.  

"I told you not to touch it!" another voice laughed. Wilbur recognized this voice instantly. It was Phil's. Another burn to his hand and the sound of sizzling in his ears. "I literally told you not to touch it!" The sizzling and burns increased with the sound of Ghostbur's giggles. 

"I'm touching it, Phil!" Ghostbur teased. More laughs and burning and sizzling. 

"You'll burn!" Phil jokingly yelled. Then it all faded. Wilbur was left with silence again. The burning of his hand had stopped. The voices of the smog people continued. The chugging of the train as it pulled into the station taunted him. 

Wilbur felt the tears well up in his eyes. He usually wasn’t one to cry, but he just couldn’t help it anymore. He missed his friends and his family so much. He pulled his legs up to his chest. He felt so small and sad. Like a child again. He wished his mother could hold him again. Comfort him like she used to do. But, she’s been gone since Wilbur was a teenager. He was told later on that his mother was a goddess. The goddess of death in fact. So why was she not there? Why had she not visited him yet? He had been there for years, yet she couldn’t mind paying her son a visit?

What if she forgot about him? It had been years and she was probably busy. Wilbur wouldn’t blame her if she forgot. He was starting to forget himself too. 

“Mum….,” he whimpered. “Where are you?” Wilbur lifted his head from his knees. He was searching for someone. Anyone at that point. He was so unbearably alone. He’d even prefer to be with Schlatt, the man partially responsible for his downfall. When he saw no one but the smog people roaming around, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, he lost it. No one was there with him. No one cared. He wished he had never died. 

Maybe then, Wilbur wouldn’t be so alone.

August 06, 2022 00:23

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