Homocide Fifty || DNF

28. It All Comes Crashing Down

Play PP1 by Frakkur (mandatory)

George stands in-front of Wilbur, not daring to look into his eyes. He feels guilt wash over him and his heartbeat increase. He can't do this right now. He simply can't.

Everything is crashing. Wilbur knows Punz isn't Dream. Foolish and Dream are here, and he'll probably never get the real truth out of neither of them.

Wilbur isn't going to understand him. He's so stubborn, and George hates that. He's so observant as well. He's always the one that catches George zoning out. He's always the one to confront him about stuff George is too scared to confront himself about.

"We need to go and help Karl."

"Bad, Hannah and Quackity are there to help him. Now speak the fuck up."

"Wilbur, I just wanted the truth. I never meant to hurt you," George frowns, looking into the others eyes. The guilt he feels is immense and he wants to disappear. Be gone. Not deal with his own secretiveness. Be a normal person.

Wilbur scoffs. "That's why you've been zoning out, huh? Because you held such a big secret from me and the others? Why not just fucking tell us?" He roars, eyebrows pinching, fists clenching.

"Because— look, Wilbur, it's complicated, okay? It's none of your business," he blurts out, but he regrets it right as it escapes his mouth.

"None of my fucking business? What the fuck? I'm your assistant! I'm your friend! We've known each other for over a decade and you still tell me nothing," his voice breaks," I'm always here for you, you're supposed to be there for me. You're supposed to tell me when you're feeling down. That's what friends are for."

"I do, Wilbur."

"No, George! You're so secretive you never tell me anything," he struggles to complete the sentence without coming to a halt, "you've never told me how you're actually feeling. You've never told me—"

"Stop being on my ass all of the time! I'm not obligated to tell you everything that's going on in my life, including this," he steps forward. His whole body feels livid and it feels like he's about to burst.

"You never told me how you were feeling when your dad died. You isolated yourself in your room for weeks and didn't respond to my messages," his voice is monotone," you told me to go fuck myself and told me to never talk to you again. Do you see what I'm trying to say?"

George's whole body has stiffened up. His eyes become glossy and his face turns pale. Wilbur hates him.

He's officially lost him. He's lost himself.

"George?"

"You didn't have to bring that up, Wilbur," George tries to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. He hasn't cried since his dad died. He hasn't cried since he saw the look on his mothers face when she found out.

Sometimes holding on does more damage than letting go.

But George couldn't seem to grasp that. 14 year old George couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that his dad was dead. Out of his life. Just like that. Gone.

Gone because of some stupid fucking serial killer.

"No. I'm done with you and your mind-tricks. I don't feel pity for you just because I brought that up. We both know you became a detective because your dad got killed by a serial killer," he states. George can't believe what he's hearing his so called 'friend' say.

"We need to help Karl," is all George manages to say. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are red. He feels so vulnerable and small. He's never been outed like this. He's never been forced to tell someone how he's feeling.

Wilbur scoffs in disbelief. "Go fuck yourself, Davidson," he spits as George heads down the hallway. He's panicking. He's hyperventilating.

Oh god, he feels dizzy. His vision is blurry. How is he supposed to help Karl if he can barely help himself?

He heads to the bathroom. He puts his hands on the sink and looks at the ground. He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks absolutely ruined. Demolished. He hasn't felt a tear slip down his face yet, but he can feel them coming soon.

He puts a hand on his chest. Then through his hair. He pulls at it aggressively. He yells at himself, banging his hand onto the edge of the marble sink. He clenches both hands and punches the wall so hard it makes his knuckles bleed.

It's definitely an imaginary punching bag. He groans, hands through his hair again and a hand on his chest. His heart is beating out of his chest and it feels like his whole body is made out of magma.

He's convinced he's actually going to die. This is it.

Someone grabs him by the shoulders and drags him down the hallway. He's too out of his mind to think about who it could be. He's completely gone. He can't think, his mind is fuzzy and his vision is spinning.

"You're okay," a voice says, ambiguous and unclear. George barely makes out the words before he's standing again.

"I need to help Karl," he mumbles, trying to open his eyes and clear his vision by pulling on both his top and bottom eyelid.

"No. You need to stop thinking about everyone else for a second and focus on yourself, George," the voice says. He can't help but let a tear run down his left cheek.

One more.

Another one.

He cries quietly into the unknown persons arms. "I just want to be normal," he mutters.

He misses his dad, he does. He thinks about him almost every night before he goes to bed. That's probably why he doesn't get a lot of sleep.

It's his fault, it always is.

Bad asked him if he was okay. Karl as well. Even Sylvee, for gods sake! Wilbur has gotten mad at him two times now over the span of what, a month?

His life is a mess and he's the one causing the problems.

His only source of hope is Clay. George wishes so deeply that after this, he can call Clay and ask if he can come over. Cuddle in his bed. Hug him. Kiss him.

Wait.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

The hands trying to calm him down feel familiar.

Please no.

No.

"Clay?"

Clay is holding him.

Dream's mask is laying next to him.

George passes out.