Cigarette?

Time

I only am able to see others for about 4 months, then the moon sets in the overworld, and it happened. I was gripping the table in the restaurant, the words spinning. Schlatt happily went his way. But I can't be alone again.

It's like  a giant magnet holds me here. I can't hold out against it for long. But I don't have to. In concentration, I shut my eyes tightly and dig my fingers into the cheap wood, feeling splinters under my nails and cramps already forming in my fingers. The pulling stop,  and I open my eyes. And I'm back. I recognize the sideroom. My hands dig into a coffee table with magazines on it. I leapbackwards, flipping the table in my panic. No. Nonononono NO.

This cant- no. No. I- no. Please... I fling myself against the wall and claw at it. Please....Butt of cours,  it yields nothing but bloody fingers. I scream. For hours. Until my voice won't come out. And I cry. Until there's nothing left to shed. I pound on the wall, until I can no longer make a fist, and I'm weakly slapping the bloodied cement with my palm. Strangled choking sounds escape my throat. I'm alone. Again. That glimpse of hope was worse than just eternal loneliness. And of course I don't even get good company. The man who got me killed,  and an imbecile. Why am I here?

Even though Death, there's no escape. I still am stuck within my own consequences. Why did I do that? WHY? I- its all my fault. Not Schlatt. Not Phil. Not Techno. Or Quackity. Or anyone involved. It was me. Everything that went wrong was because I was there. It's not even Dreams fault! Helayd down one simple rule. He drew a line in the sand, and I charged an army over it. This is on me.

I fall to the ground, shaking, just wishing I was able to sleep. I wish I had water. And a bed. And a friend. And life.

And inspiration hits. I look for dye, or a pen. Nothing. But as I searched my hands started to seep. There was blue staining across them. I brushed my finger across the ground and smile at the smear of blue. I can't imagine how or why. But maybe something can go right for me here.

I go back, back to the foreboding platform covered in fog. I find a blank wall. And I write.

The best way to vent is to turn it to a song. And so I do

I think I've made my choice
I'm a deceased playing victim
Slip the fate slip the victory
I think I've made my choice
Sink secluded in hatred

Void the plans friends are making
I think I've found my voice
I'm a leech sucking blood bags
Taste defeat, it's a sandbag

And I write more. And more. Throwing in buts of fiction and writing rhythms in blue. Soon, the wall is covered. I pick and select what I want to keep and write my final draft on the wall across the tracks. Saline solution: I call it.

I wish I had a guitar. But that's OK, I suppose. I had a case on my back when I came here, but I guess I lost it because I can't find it now. I have plenty of time to find it, though. So I write songs. And I spill out my heart on the walls. And I wait. For 8 months to pass.

About halfway between then and the next full moon, I was writing another song. Most are mediocre at best, but I've had a few that are good. Enough for an album or two even. Not that it matters. Then, I looked up. Something was off. An echo in the cavern. Then a light, in the fog. I leap to my feet. A train?? I rush to the edge, dangerously so, if that were a concern of mine. The train pulls in swiftly, pulling my coat after its draft. It comes to a stop thirty meters away.

My heart leaps to my chest, and I run to catch up. The door opens, and I see ghostbur, clutching a guitar case and a small box.

"Wh- whats going on?" I ask shakily. He waves shyly.

"Hi! You're wilbur, right? You left your guitar. Dream wanted to keep it, but I thought you might be bored. So I brought it! And some books! A-and other things." He smiles at me. Wait, what? I'm frozen in shock. Of course I'm not leaving. He silently puts the box and case at my feet.

"Anything else you want? It's kind of gloomy here..." He says, peeking around me to the station. I note the blue dye dripping from his pockets and the stain on his fingers. Ah, that's where it comes from.

I can't manage to say anything and watch him back up, and the door begins to close and-

I put my foot in the door and am launched backwards. A sign comes to life above the door. One passenger at a time. Of course.

"F-food. And water, please. " I choke out, tears beginning to stream. I've hit yet another new low. He nods, and the door closes. After what felt like an hour, I bring myself to the present. My case contains my guitar, all my sheet music, my good quill, extra strings, a few picks, and other music basics. I can't withhold the grin as I lift it from its case carefully and strum it gently and aimlessly. It calms me.

I bring myself to put it away and get to the other package. A quarter stack of blue wool, 3 playing decks, an empty book, and an iron-on patch of  the l'manburg flag.

It hurts. But it helps. Why would he do that? Only one passenger...  When he comes back, I intend to leave. But I wait and wait, and he doesn't. And soon, the 8 months are up. Time to socialize. Maybe there's someone else to talk to this time. I shouldn't. But that's exactly what I hope for.

Maybe I really am the bad guy.