BLIND | DreamSMP

VI - The Tide Goes Out

Tubbo was wrenched into reality by a loud knock on the door, startling him out of the hellish memory and placing him back on the floor of his office, legs folded tightly under his still-trembling form, one hand clutching savagely at the other's wrist, burns exposed down to his elbows. The impatient knocking came again, and Tubbo cleared his dry throat, picking himself off the ground with shaky legs.

"Who's there?"

"It's Fundy. I've got a letter addressed to you, from Dream."

"Put it under the door." Tubbo hesitated a moment before adding a 'please'.

A cream envelope was slid underneath his door. Footsteps grew fainter from outside his office as Fundy walked away, likely heading home where he would down a few shots of whatever was in his liquor cabinet.

Tubbo, unsteady on his feet, sat down in his chair, ignoring the letter and resting his head on the desk with a quiet thump.

The nightmarish details of that day were carved into his mind, refusing to be erased by any amount of time. It had been nearly two months but those same images kept him up late into the night, invading his dreams when he did fall asleep, causing him to wake screaming, sweat and tears pouring down his face, mixing together into a saline cocktail of agony. The scenes still played out behind his eyes, vivid as the day they had happened.

It had been hours before Wilbur and Tommy returned to Pogtopia with the medicine. At first Tubbo had only been able to scream, overwhelmed by the absolute pain wracking his body. Niki tried to help, but beyond the basic first-aid kit she had stolen from Manberg there weren't any supplies in the dark cave and she was forced to wait for Wilbur's return, her only company Tubbo's tortured shrieks, too afraid to move or even touch him for fear of hurting him more.

Eventually Tubbo had stopped screaming; not because the hurt lessened, but because his voice was gone, reduced to a faint rasp.

Desperate, Niki had resorted to smashing open the glass case that housed some of their more precious resources-- Wilbur had the only key, and he wasn't there to unlock it-- and retrieved an almost empty bottle of gin, a few swallows of the clear alcohol sloshing in the antique brown bottle, disturbed by the sudden motion. Scared she might give him too much and affect him adversely, Niki poured a sparse amount into a blue ceramic mug and held it to Tubbo's lips, just enough to dull a portion of the excruciating pain that had reduced Tubbo to a quivering mass, unable to speak or move without crying out in torment. The first-aid kit included painkillers, but what Wilbur and Tommy had left to find was much stronger and Niki was worried that if she gave Tubbo the pills they would inhibit him from later taking whatever potent medication the boys had managed to weasel out of a dealer; the last thing they wanted was for Tubbo to die of an overdose.

When Wilbur and Tommy finally returned to Pogtopia they were carrying a small orange bottle, half-filled with white tablets. A printed white label running along the center of the bottle proclaimed it to be oxymorphone, and smaller text underneath the name of the drug showed each pill was worth ten-milligrams of the potent opioid, a line indented across the middle of each painkiller for dividing the pills into smaller five-milligram doses.

The painkiller had been given to Tubbo almost immediately to ease the constant burning and he had finally been able to sleep, collapsing in exhaustion on the cot and relishing in the reprieve from the excruciating pain.

Tubbo had asked Tommy after the matter why it had taken them so long to get back with the medicine. The slightly older boy had hung his head, shaggy blonde hair flopping over his eyes, concealing the burning shame covering his face, mumbling slightly as he explained.

"We-- Wilbur and I-- we went to Sam's place, and we waited and waited and waited and he finally showed up, but he only brought a little of the oxy-mor-whatever with him-- he wanted us to pay before he got the rest, and we paid for it and he left to go get the rest of it, but he was taking so long and I tried to convince Wilbur to let me go back with just what we had gotten but he said no, because I was supposed to stay with him incase he got hurt or Schlatt's men showed up because they were still looking for us, and finally Sam came back with the rest of the drugs, but then Wilbur took so long to pay, he was trying to bargain for a better price and Sam wouldn't sell for less than six-hundred, and Wilbur hadn't brought that much with him so he and Sam spent forever taking out pills from the bottle to lower the price and arguing more so that Wilbur got about two-thirds of the oxy-stuff for four-hundred dollars, and by the time we finished paying for the drugs and left it had been almost three hours and Wilbur wasn't walking fast enough-"

"Tommy!" Tubbo interrupted. "It's ok. I forgive you."

Tommy looked up; tears glistened at the corners of his watery blue eyes, and he sniffed a little as Tubbo hugged him, hesitating a moment before squeezing the shorter boy back.

They stayed in the position for a long time, neither willing to break the embrace even when Tommy's arms started to ache from holding Tubbo so tightly and Tubbo's bandages chaffed uncomfortably from the prolonged contact-- still, they held on, because neither wanted to let go.

Tubbo blinked tears away from his eyes; that had been before Tubbo was elected president and his loyalties became not just to his best friend, but to an entire nation of war-torn people. Things had changed.

The letter Fundy had shoved under his door earlier now drew Tubbo's attention, and he rose from his desk to pick it off the floor. The manila envelope looked official, and a red wax seal imprinted with two dots and a sinister curve revealed the sender, though no name was scrawled on the back.

Tubbo broke the seal and slid his thumb under the flap, lifting it from the envelope without tearing the paper, something he had practiced while opening the hundreds of letters sent to him by neighboring countries conducting diplomacy, paid workers providing receipts, and even angry citizens demanding he fix some abandoned building or lower property taxes.

A crisp white sheet of paper was folded neatly inside and Tubbo pulled it out, discarding the envelope carelessly on his desk next to the piles of other documents that weighed on the mahogany table. Unfolding the letter, he began to read Dream's tidy handwriting, stumbling occasionally over the words when the letters switched places or rotated.

Tubbo,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this.

I had planned to visit your friend Tommy in exile today, but when I arrived at his tent there wasn't any sign of him and there was no response when I called his name. Eventually, I discovered a note he had left inside one of his chests. I was shocked to find it was a suicide letter, informing me that he couldn't continue living the way he was, that it was too hard and he was tired of being alive and experiencing pain. At first I didn't believe what I had read, but a line of footprints leading down to the beach and into the ocean confirmed it. A thorough search of the surrounding area further convinced me of the truth, and I was forced to accept the sad reality.

It seems unbelievable-- you of all people know how energetic and cheerful Tommy was. The exile really took a toll on him. Please don't blame yourself for his death; you did what you thought was right at the time, and no one can fault you for that.

I'm still trying to find his body, but the ocean appears to have swallowed him up. Perhaps once I locate the body we can have a funeral. Until then, I'm trusting you to keep this terrible news to yourself. I know it's hard, but there's a potential security risk in releasing this information.

If you need support during these trying times, please feel welcome to write back to me. I'll be sure to help in every way I can.

My sincerest condolences,

Dream