Cigarette?

Full moon

What makes a full moon special? All it means is there's a distinct lack of a shadow upon the surface of a glove far beyond our reach. Is it a coincidence? Or perhaps unrelated? Because I can't find a reasonable link between death and the moon. Then again, a personal hell for every individual in the world should be a stretch, and yet here I am.

Regardless of logic, the moon is full, and I'm allowed a temporary absence from the agony that is here. I find myself surprisingly calm as I walk through the mist, through various limbos, and finally to mexican dreams limbo. No one new yet. In due time, though. I can feel it; someone will be  coming.

Soon.

Rather boring greetings are exchanged, and we all sit around in silence. Eventually, MD starts babbling about mamacita, but I just tune him out. The sound of other people actually talking is soothing. As long as I'm not listening, that is. Shlatt is infuriating, and Mexican dream is obnoxious. I really hope the next person to die is someone enjoyable.

I pull out my cards and find that between all of us, we know 1 fane. Solitaire. Shlatt doesn't know go fish, slap Jack, poker, 21, uno, or any other games actually. Mexican dream knows even more than I do, though, and us especially fond of poker. Him and I play a few rounds of 21 and a game of uno. But there's a lot of games you can't play with just two people very well, so we play competitive solitaire for hours upon end.

Shlatt passes out and eventually has a heart attack and dies. But Mexican dream and I keep playing. I envy Shlatt. I haven't slept in... Well, a few months in the real world. Years here. Everything is so miserable. Who decided the afterlife has to be continuous torture? I finally managed to beat Mexican Dream, and we call that done for a while. He starts talking about his stupid girlfriend again, and I turn my attention to Shlatt, who recently returned and is drinking again.

"Whats new in the land of the living?" I ask him. He waits so long to respond I thought he was ignoring me, but then he puts his new empty bottle down and turns.

"Well, a lot, actually.  A bunch of morons tried to kill the *hic* pig warrior guy, and the brat is missing or something. And the hybrid kid and that little rebellious wannabe president are buddies now. Plus, I'm building a mansion and will probably be charging a million a night to stay in. It's coming along pretty nice. Thinking about pulling apart those nobody twins, ash and something. " He then slumps over and starts snoring. I want to hit him. Pig must mean technoblade. Brat, that's probably Tommy. Maybe the hybrid is Phil? Or techno again? And I'm assuming that want to be president is Tubbo. Twins. No clue. Some assume. Techno and I are twins, but really- wait, I don't have time for lore in death. I'm off track.

There's so much I'm missing. I want to be out there. You never fully grasp what you have until it's gone. And now it's gone. And I'm grasping at nothing.

Mexican Dream starts whistling, and I snap. I launch myself over his stupid tacky counter and knock him to the ground, pounding my fist into his stupid face again and again and again. I've never actually gotten into a real fist fight before. Weapons always have come into play when I fight. Or I run. Or I die. Often, some hybrid of the three. But this.... it's liberating. But wrong. I force myself off him. His entire face is red now, not just the 1/3rd side. I slump against the wall and cry. Why am I like this?

I can't even bring myself to apologize. Shlatt woke up, apparently because he's staring at me, too. I wipe away the burning tears and clutch at my sweater, my fingers tracing the sloppy stickes over the giant gash across it. K Remember the brief cold blade tearing through the fabric. Through me. And then I was on that train. Why.

Why can't I just be happy?

Soon, I have nothing left to cry. My tears are all gone, and I'm already dehydrated as it is. I'm shaking, and still, my companions do not move.

I wish I could fall asleep here. It's becoming too much to handle. I try to focus on slowing my breathing. I remember reading that will calm.you down. It's not working, though.

Shlatt finally steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. He offers me a cigarette, and I slap his hand away so hard the tin ends up across the shop. He huffs and walks off. I have told him a thousand times, no. I won't. The thought makes me want to puke. But the smell lingers everywhere, and I hate to think it is comforting, but I do. No. I won't. I can't. I stand up shakily and look at Mexican Dream. His eyes show fear, but also understanding. I think. I may just be hoping it. I walk. Past Shlatts limbo. Through mine. Past the dark cave. Into other limbos. There's more now. A vast black expanse with a red sky. A white castle.  A desert. Each with their own feeling of dread. I keep going until I find the flower field again. The rotting wooden bench sits atop a hill. T&T 4ever is carved into its back. This must be Tommy of tubbos. Besides lonely, it's peaceful. There's no breeze, and it feels as if time has stopped here. The sun doesn't move from its almost sunset position, and it's constantly dusk. It would get old. But it's nice. As if its for someone who really needs a break.

I sit on the bench and look at the sun, taking off my glasses and laying them on the bench. I can't sleep. But I can rest. I breathe in the fresh air and manage a smile, finally. I should really go apologize to Mexican Dream.

I stand up and turn to head back. I startle to see Shlatt and MD standing there.

"Guys, I was just heading back now, actually. I feel the need to-" I start but am cut off when a still bloody MD hugs me. Shlatt even gives a few awkward pats on the back.

"G-guys?" I leave the question unsaid. What's going on?

"Wilbur, kid, I'm sorry. But you're violent, and it's going to get someone hurt or worse. Ghosts can kill other ghosts. You're a liability. So we're locking your limbo." Shlatt says.

"What? What are you saying? Locking my limbo? What does that even mean??" I start hyperventilating. They just exchange a knowing glance with each other. Wait. Nononono no no NO. Please no. Can they even do this? They shouldn't. Right? RIGHT?

They each take an arm and begrudgingly pull me back to my limbo. Shlatt pulls my jacket off and uses it to tie me to one of the many posts. They both look around at my sloppy writing on the walls. Out of context, this probably just condemns me. Because it looks terrifying. They don't understand. I'm not insane!

"Please! You can't do this!" I beg, wishing to cry and finding again I can't. Neither faulter before leaving me behind. Cr*p, I left my glasses on the bench. Not that it matters. I can feel it something is off. Something I don't need perfect vision to confirm.

I pull on the sleeves holding me here and find myself unable to escape. Of course. Those *ssholes.

When I do get out, I'll make them with they were never born.

After hours, maybe even days, I hear it. And then see a bright light. And I smile.