Tommy's Guide to Owning a Pet Army

A Dream

TW: Suicidal thoughts, depression, panic attacks 

Tommy hated dreams, despised them, even.

They were never good, never warm and sunny. They were always dark and full of horror, like someone had rewritten their deaths and put it into his head.

There may have been a time when he actually had nice dreams, dreams full of sunsets and beautiful fields.

But those dreams died when he and Wilbur were exiled. He hadn't had time to daydream, only working grueling hours to plan a rebellion with his mentally unstable brother and war-hungry old friend(?).

But now, he was dreaming. Dreaming of better times, times where he was happy. It was better before he found Wilbur, before he found the DreamSMP. He was just living his life in the forest, no rules or attachments to keep him down. He was happy back then, he was sure of it.

The only thing that he liked about dreams was he could see in them. His scars were healed, and he could peel off the bandages that lay on his face and bask in the array of colors suddenly apparent in his vision.

He was high in the sky, with beautiful wings that were like the color of peacock wings taking him through the air. He was diving into the clouds, doing flips and somersaults, slicing through the air as the wind blew on his face.

Wilbur had always said he was like a peacock, prideful of himself and good at flaunting himself and others off. Now he was more like a peacock that had its feathers plucked, humiliated and sad-looking, it's only pride stripped away which left it useless, ugly to look at.

He was falling now, his wings disappearing as he screamed all the way down, until he was shrouded in darkness. He could see nothing, feel nothing. He was falling eternally, it seemed.

The dark void felt like home. It felt familiar.

He had been living like this for almost two years. He lost his sight, he would never be able to see again. He deserved it, really.

Nobody liked him. Everyone hated him. Why shouldn't they? He was such a jackass to everyone he met, always insulting them and yelling, always so loud. But that

Just what he's like. It's his personality, he can't change that. He had thought.

He was silent now, unhealthily silent. He only ever made noise to coo at his animals or curse quietly whenever he hurt himself or ran into something. He would flinch at random noises and start to disassociate whenever he smelled gunpowder or touched diamond or netherite.

Hell, even digging three or more blocks down made him have a panic attack. It had taken over a month just to dig the spring for his animals to use. His breath would start to get faster if he even touched a shovel.

His personality was the reason he was exiled, he was the reason nobody like him. But if they just looked past the bad parts of him, they may have seen the good.

The unstaggering loyalty, the silent listening when people talked to him. He couldn't help himself if he was just naturally loud. But he could. He really could.

If he had quieted down a little bit, would none of this have happened? If he had listened to people telling him to shut up, would he still have his sight?

He remembered one of the last things he had seen before all hell had broken loose, almost two years ago. Niki had come to visit him.

He had been ecstatic, of course. He loved Niki. She was like a big sister to him. She had taught him how to bake, how to sew. He loved her so much.

But she did not, it seemed. She had looked at him with such disappointment, such disgust and fury that he had cried himself to sleep, wanting to forget the look on her face when she had told him about Doomsday, and how it was all his fault.