The Railroad

Chapter 29

His head was pounding. His heart was aching. His brain was wondering.

What the hell had happened?

He sat up on the uncomfortable cot to see white walls and fluorescent lights making the entire room unbearably bright. There was only one window: two feet by one foot and at the top corner of the room. Through it, George could see the dark sky above, a few stars sitting alone here and there.

He couldn't remember anything from the previous day, for the most part everything was a bleak haze. The last clear memory he had was leaving Karl's with Sapnap, Ranboo, and Dream.

Dream... Dream... Dream!

Wilbur, Dream, his father, Hannah, Boomer: it all came rushing back in. The flood gates of his memory storage burst, crushing the sensible emotions so only sadness and anger remained. Sadness for Wilbur, anger for his father and the people who he'd thought were his friends. He missed Dream. Where was he?

He remembered seeing them knock him out, but was he okay? What had they done to him? His father said he was going to take everything away from George, that couldn't mean... no, not Dream too. He couldn't lose Dream. Not after Wilbur. He couldn't be completely alone.

The brunet clumsily made his way over to the door, still woozy from the after effects of whatever drug they'd used on him, and pounded on it. He also tried to shout, but his voice was still so raw that he barely made any noise, so he stuck to the hitting. It didn't take very long for someone to attend to him, and George wasn't surprise to be greeted by Hannah.

She looked sad, almost regretful, and it sent George's head spiralling with rage. She pitied him, it was obvious. The one thing George hated more than his father was pity, especially when she was one of the biggest reasons he had anything to be pitied for.

"Let me out of here," George muttered, voice low.

"Sorry George, but your dad says you can't be left unsupervised until you get better."

"Get better? I'm fine."

"The fact that you believe that tells me that you are actually the opposite of better. You have to get these delusions out of your head or you can never go back to your normal life. We're all here for you, all your friends are here to see you through the recovery process."

"Friends? You guys killed the only person who had the right to be called that."

"You mean Wilbur? Honey, Wilbur's not real. He's a figment of your imagination: a coping mechanism."

"What? What are you talking about, Hannah?"

"I think it's better if you hear it from your father. Put these clothes on and knock on the door twice when you're done."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you have no other choice."

She slammed the door shut, leaving George alone with a change of clothes in his arms. What was she talking about? Delusions, Wilbur not being real? What the hell was going on. He needed to find Dream, which was the only reason he put on the clothes and tidied himself up.

The clothes were all white: white shoes, white pants, a white colored shirt. Perfect, clean, just what his father represented. Order, precision, the very reason Wilbur was dead. Tradition, exemplary, why George hated his life so much.

Just as he was about to leave the room, he looked to his jacket. Or Dream's jacket. He picked it up from the floor, refusing to let it be taken from him. There was something in the pocket: a small piece of paper. He pulled it out hurriedly, hoping that it was a letter from the owner. His eyes skimmed it over and over again, disappointed and confused at the message it held.