《𝐌𝐂𝐘𝐓 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬》

𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐃𝐨

Kind of like a vent, so don't be stupid.
Tw: neglect, shitty parenting, gore, mentions of suicidal thoughts, mention of cutting
Ship: nope
Request: no, please I'm begging give me some

In which Wilbur wants at least an ounce of attention.

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3rd person pov:

Most days Wilbur was fine. He could survive and live through whatever his mind put him up against. Meaning, he trained himself to ignore his emotions. Then slowly he adapted to ignoring his mental stability and his physical well-being.

He liked it like that, to him, he didn't have worries. At least it felt that way.

Wilbur was fast to find distractions that would completely erase any thoughts that would end in him.. for lack of a better word dead. Sure he wanted to fucking fade away from all existence, and yeah maybe he wanted to simply float in a void. But he had a brother. A brother had needed him to survive, he had to take care of his brother. That only played a part in neglecting his mental state.

But never would he blame it on the 8-year-old kid, that knows nothing more than being a kid.

Never would he put the blame on a kid that just wants to have a normal family. So he didn't, plain and simple. Weeks passed, and he started noticing things he passed away. His body was forcing him to realize what he's doing. He started noticing his hands shaking, randomly at that. Sometimes his fingers would tremble at the thought of facing the outside world, while sometimes he'd be doing school work when the vibration in his hands would hit him.

Wilbur started to notice the never-ending coldness in his chest, it stayed there until he engulfed himself in a distraction that was only worsening him.

He knew the feeling well, it was panic, anxiety, he would feel and hear his heart slamming against his chest. He became aware of extra hair falling into his hands as he gripped it in frustration. How he felt fear to be around his family. Everything slowly started to crumble in his world.

The man— the boy, for fucks sake he was 15. The boy would go deep into his head and make a fantasy land, where he and Tommy would lay in fields of flowers together. Eat and leave any stress of the world behind.

In that world, it never rained. It was never too hot or too cold, clouds lined the pastel blue skies perfectly. Like a painting in those museums that were never decorated to welcome guests. The trees had green leaves most of the year, but when fall began the leaves would flourish. To a stunning orange color, that was mixed with red. Creating a too perfect painting.

Wilbur knew damn well he'd kill to live in that world.

Yet he was forced to be ripped out of his dreamland every day, he would lose track of how long he'd been dreaming. Maybe it was only 10 minutes, or maybe it was 10 hours of him running around carefree in his mind. There was no real way to tell, Wilbur never knew what time it was anymore. Or what day.

For some damn reason, he felt more sensitive than any other day.

He felt like he could break down with a simple, "fuck off" from anybody. Maybe he did, but he wouldn't know. He convinced himself that he didn't know jackshit, that his existence was worth nothing.

So there he laid, on a bed way too small for his limbs. A blanket was thrown off to the side, tears that never seemed to stop ran down his oddly pale face. Wilbur isn't a pretty crier, and he knows this. So he'd be embarrassed if anyone saw him in this state, with snot running down his face. It almost went into his mouth if he didn't whip it away. He would silently scream into the air, screams that no one will ever be able to hear.

Wilbur promised himself that he wouldn't let people see him cry, or be vulnerable. A promise well kept, because his family never saw a tear stream down his face. They never saw him in pain.

He wanted to bash his head against something, an urge he never would have thought would happen. It was so strong, Wilbur wanted his skull to meet the drywall. For crimson blood to be splattered everywhere, maybe then his family would glance at him. He just wanted to know what he had to do, he would make lists of things that he could do to be maybe a loving glace.

A look only Technoblade the great could manage to get. Maybe he had to relapse into making thin lines against his thighs. Maybe he had to yank all his hair out. Maybe, just maybe he could start to decay in his room. And only maybe would his father knock on his door, no, barge in and yell at him. He wanted something.

So he'll give it to them, if they wanted to see Wilbur at his worst he'd gladly hand over his vulnerability. That's how desperate he was to get any kind of attention. Wilbur was willing to break his promise and let his family look down on him.

His back straightened out as he sat up, knees bright close to his chest he sighed. The never-ending river of salty tears still lining his jaw. He looked over to the wall next to him, it was a bland white color. Wilbur never thought of asking to decorate his room, he didn't want to waste Phil's money when it could be spent on Techno or even Tommy if he got lucky.

He chucked, the giggled at what has going to happen next. He felt like a passenger in his own body, no longer having control of his head bashed against the wall. A loud sound emitted from his action, he heard no panic from outside. So he continued to beat his head into the wall that he was scared to paint over.

It took so much time and pain to get blood to smear onto the hard surface, but he managed. Wilbur no longer felt any sanity in him, sure it hurt like fucking hell but he was a step closer to getting a sad look from Phil.

Soon enough harsh smacking came from the outside of his door, "Wilbur can you keep it down?!" Wilbur immediately recognized that voice as Phil's.

That's when he gave up.

All hope he had was drained from every last inch of his body, his head was angry at him. Pounding and screaming at him in pain, maybe he could sleep it off. Maybe he'd wake up and deal with it later.

Maybe.

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Pog

Hello, been a while! How are you? I've got like 4 more chapters to finish and publish, so expect those one day lmao.

Welp, I gotta go. Thank you for reading, and as always take care!
(1175)

—Wrong