(dream smp) haunted hand

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**TW; physical pain, descriptions of violence, trauma, manipulation, hyperventilation**

this is a representation of the characters in the dream smp, not who they are in real life. also this takes place while tommys exiled bc this lore moves way too goddamn fast for me to write a oneshit that encaptures current events

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hheBEtwKzzE

INSPIRED BY THIS ANIMATION!!! WATCH IT PLESAE GOD

He couldn't quite pinpoint where it had all gone downhill. 

Perhaps it had been when Wilbur was president. A walled-in asylum where wind ripped through his hair and his feet bounced off uncharred grass, safe in undashed hopes, secure in the bliss of ignorance. 

He had grown up with Wilbur's shouts of independence and of glory with no consequences. Wilbur bathed in a golden light, he walked in silver shadows. Tubbo watched and cheered, satisfied with safety, satisfied with security. He could remember a glint in Wilbur's eye even then. Perhaps Schlatt had had a point, somewhere in his restless tirades.

Perhaps it had been Schlatt. 

He could barely recall when Schlatt had first stumbled into the city. Flickering memories hazed with uncertainty, of a weathered old man who slapped him on the back with surprising strength and the richest of grins. Hobbling up to a podium. That booming voice, eager applause. 

Schlatt had been like a promise. Their eyes were drawn to him like a dream come true. Where Wilbur swore for safety and security, Schlatt lit excitement in them like a rabid flame, scorching their senses and setting their minds alight with the thought of something so new. Everything had seemed so surreal, until it all came crashing down with the fear in Tommy's scream as flaming arrows chased him away that September evening.

Tubbo had tried to flee that night. He remembers treading softly through the shadows, the rustle of leaves which gave him away, and the hand, like iron clamping down on his shoulder. He remembers the tight stench of alcohol from an old man's breath, the cool handle of a pickaxe as it was placed into his hand. 

Schlatt watched as Tubbo took down the walls that night. Tubbo watched, almost like a spectator to his own actions, as his safety and security was torn down with the unsteady thumps of an axe. 

Perhaps it had all gone downhill with Tubbo. 

Before, Tubbo had tried to keep these thoughts out of his mind.

Sometimes, on nights where the town feels far too quiet and Tubbo feels far too alone in its midst, he thinks about Schlatt. He thinks about the gleeful hoots and cheers the day of the festival, he remembers looking around at people he had known all his life, and he remembers the bright-eyed grins on their faces as they looked up at their president. 

Wilbur, wild-eyed and floundering hands, looking for all the world to Tubbo like a man who'd lost more than could keep him afloat. 

Tommy, sad eyes and uncertain smile, asking Tubbo whether he's happier now. 

Tubbo, entangled in ropes licked by flames, can feel the smoke curling through him like poison. He can see Wilbur and Tommy from here. Schlatt's hand is on his shoulder again. Schlatt's dead, isn't he? Schlatt should be gone, shouldn't he?

A sudden, flaring pain tugs through Tubbo's head, and he's on the floor. He's not sure whether it's part of the pain when he hears the rumbling laughter behind him. Perhaps it's just thunder. Perhaps, when the pain wrenches a scream from Tubbo's mouth, it's just the rain.