Chapter Text
OHANA
> #general
WilburSoot: um
does anyone know what i was doing from like yesterday afternoon until this morning
Technoblade: yes
friend was here
he said you got stressed out over schoolwork or something?
WilburSoot: yeah i was staring at my biology paper
was on the verge of giving up
then i just don’t remember so
BIG TOMMY: biology sucks confirmed
thank god i don’t take that science
WilburSoot: yeah lucky you
Technoblade: well i took friend out actually
WilburSoot: WHAT
since when were u gay techno
Technoblade: BRUH
BIG TOMMY: LMAOOOOOOO
Technoblade: i took him to see a movie
WilburSoot: solid first date
Technoblade: with charlie, jack, and floris
WilburSoot: oh
fivesome??? damn
BIG TOMMY: ok but u do realise friend is like
young right
WilburSoot: shit ur right
wait i promise im not a creep :sob:
BIG TOMMY: he’s like 10 bro :skull:
WilburSoot: oh my god STOP
I MADE A MISTAKE
OK??
now stfu
Technoblade: what is this conversation honestly
WilburSoot: idk i just wanted to know wtf i was doing yesterday evening
Technoblade: well i took friend to see the httyd live action
jack, charlie, and floris were there too
WilburSoot: ic
this might not surprise you but i don’t remember seeing that movie at all
so im gonna have to buy another ticket just to watch the damn thing
BIG TOMMY: or just like
dont watch it in the cinema
pirate it online
WilburSoot: :skull:
fair point tommy
Ph1LzA: How are you feeling today, Will?
WilburSoot: im alright phil thanks
Ph1LzA: You sure?
You’re usually really disoriented and upset when you wake up with no memory of the previous day
WilburSoot: yeah i used to be like that
now,,, idk
i don’t feel so bad anymore
i guess i’ve just accepted it
it’s a part of life or some shit atp
Ph1LzA: Okay, I’m glad.
But you know you have therapy today, right?
Don’t forget.
WilburSoot: yeah i know
don’t worry phil i won’t forget
btw techno was the movie good
Technoblade: it was not bad
though imo toothless looks a bit weird
i think his eyes aren’t big enough
oh wait
--------
CAN WE BLOW UP THE SCHOOL
> #general
Technoblade: @Ranboo movie was pretty good
Ranboo: damn alr?? thanks techno
will prob watch it sometime
if i can catch a break
Slimecicle: gonna be honest with u ranboo
with whiteleaf?
unlikely
Ranboo: fuck ur right
guess i will just never watch the httyd live action :pensive:
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OHANA
> #general
Technoblade: ranboo said he wanted to know if it was good or not after we watched it
WilburSoot: how did friend like it
it was his first time in a cinema right?
Technoblade: he didn’t like the darkness at first
but when the movie started it was like bro was in a trance
you should’ve seen his eyes they were so big and round
WilburSoot: lol
Technoblade: he gushed about it after we left
he wants to go back if he can
WilburSoot: tell u what techno
if he's ever here again u have my permission to take him wherever
Technoblade: damn
WilburSoot: let him see the world
or some shit idk
Technoblade: thanks wilbur
WilburSoot: np
anyway im gonna go get ready for therapy
cya losers
BIG TOMMY: HEY
WHO ARE U CALLING A LOSER
WilburSoot: you
loser
BIG TOMMY: :angry:
--------
Ghost came to on a bench. He blinked as his vision came into focus, struggling against the wave of lethargy that still clung to him even as he began to ground himself in reality. His hands felt cold and numb. They always were cold and numb, a sad reminder of the freezing ocean and how she’d died, right there, out of his reach. It was a sensation he couldn’t run from. It would always be there so long as he was, dogging his footsteps like a shadow. It was a numbness so prolonged and enduring that he’d almost grown numb to it itself.
But right now the numbness was the least of his worries. Ghost looked around, confused and disoriented, trying to figure out where he was. He was on a bench outside a bustling mall. Ghost briefly recognised it as the same one that was situated near Whiteleaf, the one that Wilbur frequented.
To make matters worse, it was raining. It was raining, and even though Ghost was sheltered from the downpour by the hanging glass ledge of the mall that provided cover for an area around the entrance, that same shelter did not extend to the rest of the world, and the rest of the world was wet. Ghost hated wet. He hated every part of it - the look of it, the scent of it, the feeling of it. Petrichor, though appealing and soothing to the majority of the population, had never sat right with Ghost. It brought him an indescribable discomfort that made him want to curl up and disappear. And right now, the air was rife with it.
So Ghost was stuck. He didn’t want to venture out into the rain - he realised he’d rather sit here until the end of time than do that. Simultaneously, however, he recognised that he should probably make a move. He couldn’t stay stuck here forever. So, with perhaps the most reluctance he’d ever done anything with, Ghost turned, opened the messenger bag he was carrying, and rummaged around for an umbrella.
He couldn’t find one. All that was inside the bag was a notebook, a jacket, and a small bottle of water. Defeated, Ghost slumped back against the back of the bench. Now what? It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to get out of his situation. He’d looked for an umbrella, but whoever had left the dorm today apparently hadn’t thought to pack one. Perhaps it had been sunny when they were here.
The rain continued pouring down with zero signs of stopping, and all Ghost could do was stare helplessly at the way it pattered the glass ceiling above him. The downpour was torrential. It was one of those kinds that would probably get you wet even with an umbrella above your head, and Ghost shuddered at the thought. He shuddered at the thought of all kinds of water, and if he absolutely had to take a shower, he always made sure it was as warm (and brief) as it could possibly be. But this was not just a shower - this was a storm so loud and so heavy that the very sounds and scents it generated scared Ghost.
So, despite all his efforts, there was really no way for Ghost to leave. And just as he was about to give up and accept his fate of waiting out the rain on the bench, something hard and firm pressed into his thigh. Ghost glanced down, hand going to the pocket in his pants. It was his phone.
Of course, he thought, feeling stupid. He could call Phil to pick him up.
So Ghost dialed Phil’s number and listened as it rang.
“Will?” Phil said, when he picked up.
“Phil, I’m stuck outside the shopping mall. It’s raining and I don’t have an umbrella.”
Phil paused. Then he said, “Who’s this right now?”
“It’s Ghost, Phil.”
“Ghost, you’re supposed to have therapy in about five minutes.”
Ghost blinked.
“Yeah, I thought it wasn’t Wilbur,” said Phil. “Wilbur would’ve known that there was therapy.”
Ghost didn’t answer. He pulled the phone away from his ear, checking the date. August 10, 2:56 pm. Oh. It was a Sunday. And Sunday was therapy day. Ghost at least knew that much about Wilbur’s schedule.
“-ost? Ghost?” Phil was saying, as Ghost put the phone back. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, Phil,” he replied.
“Do you know how to get to the clinic from the entrance of the mall?”
“Yes, Phil. I’ll go right now.”
“Alright. You text me if you need any help getting back to the dorms later.”
“Okay,” said Ghost. “Bye, Phil.”
The hand holding the phone dropped back into his lap before Ghost stood, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. Then he stepped into the mall, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. For once in his life, he knew exactly where to go.
--------
It took Dr. Lee about five minutes to realise that her client was different today. It wasn’t a new record or anything, but she’d definitely gotten better at it. He was quiet, and so was Wilbur - but that quietness was off , somehow. It had a sense of subduedness that Wilbur’s quiet did not have. Wilbur was quiet in a socially anxious, neurotic way. Whoever this was acted like they’d been silenced by something, like they’d had the tendency to talk conditioned right out of them. And there was only one alter of Wilbur’s that fit that bill.
“Good afternoon, Ghost,” she said, offering him an empathetic smile.
Ghost was chewing on his bottom lip. “Hi,” he said softly.
Dr. Lee suspected that was the best he could do. But it was enough. Her office was soundproof, making the interior quiet and serene. Ghost was more than audible, even at that volume. In fact, she suspected that speaking at all was a big step for him, and she was glad that he was even willing to try.
“How are you today?” she asked him.
“It’s raining,” he said, in a displeased tone. “I don’t like rain.”
“Well, you don’t like water at all, do you?”
“No,” Ghost said.
Dr. Lee nodded. “Do you want to talk about that today? I mean,” she said hurriedly, as he shot her a look of alarm, “only if you want to. If you don’t, we can talk about other things.”
“Happier things,” Ghost murmured. But then he shook his head. “I get upset at the rain. I get upset about taking showers. I get upset when I’m cold. I want to talk about that. I don’t want to be upset at those things anymore.”
“Well,” said Dr. Lee, “those are all responses to trauma. And unlearning trauma responses takes time. They don’t go away overnight. You need to be patient with yourself.”
Ghost remained silent, as if silence was his way of disagreeing.
It took a lot of effort and work to counter responses to trauma, Dr. Lee knew. Ghost wasn’t the only client she was working with that had trauma. She’d seen first-hand so many times before how her clients had struggled with trauma and the ways it changed their behaviour, the ways it would alter their lives in ways they never wished for it to be altered. Often, it meant that they would have trouble carrying out day-to-day tasks, such as studying, working, or taking care of themselves. She’d once worked with a cigarette addict that had picked up the habit from his own father who had been so depressed that he could barely function, barely keep himself fed and housed. It had taken years of therapy for him to see improvement, for him to unlearn the learned helplessness that had been cultivated in him by his upbringing. Unlearning trauma responses was not just a matter of wanting to improve, but also being in the right place to be able to make those improvements. You couldn’t ask someone deeply depressed to just spring out of bed and clean their entire house. The goals had to be tailored to where the client was now. Meeting them where they were at was an essential part of her job, and Dr. Lee knew that Ghost was the same.
So she asked, “What are you ready to tell me, Ghost?”
Ghost fidgeted in place. “I-” he cut off and swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor.
She tried to emanate as much encouragement as she could muster. Dr. Lee knew that this was hard for him, immensely so. She wanted to seem as supportive as possible. She wanted him to know that this was a safe space, that he wouldn’t be judged for his words here.
“I just feel numb thinking about it,” he finally whispered, head bowed as if in defeat.
Dr. Lee rolled her chair closer. “What’s ‘it’?”
Ghost quivered. Dr. Lee was watching her client with utmost attention, ready to pull back on the prodding if he seemed like he couldn’t tolerate it. But she thought that a little pushing would be good for Ghost. She had the suspicion that Ghost was being held back by a stagnancy, a stagnancy that he himself had come to dislike. If he’d wanted to remain stagnant, he wouldn’t have told her that he wanted to talk about water. He wouldn’t have proposed that he had trauma responses he wanted to unlearn.
But Ghost tolerated her push. “About almost drowning,” he said, in a wobbly voice. “About… about her drowning.”
His voice broke immediately after that, but as Dr. Lee remained silent for a period of time, simply observing him, Ghost didn’t shatter. It was the first time he’d talked about the death of Wilbur’s mother without bursting into tears, and that in and of itself was a massive improvement. She felt a sense of pride for him as he sniffled, drawing his shoulders in.
“You nearly died,” she said gently. “It’s normal to feel bad thinking about such things.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Ghost said. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t know,” said Ghost petulantly, as if he was consternated by Dr. Lee’s questioning or his own confusion or both.
“So the whole thing is perplexing to you.”
Ghost nodded.
Dr. Lee hummed thoughtfully. “Do you feel sad about it, or just numb?”
“Both, I guess.”
“And why do you think you feel sad?”
“I couldn’t save her,” said Ghost, in an incredibly small voice. It was so small that it was barely audible even in the silence of her office. “She died because of me.”
“You were… how old were you when it happened?”
“Wilbur was five.”
“You were five.” Dr. Lee clasped her fingers together to make her point. “You were so young. How were you supposed to save her?”
“I don’t know!” Ghost cried. He’d begun wringing his hands. “I don’t know, but I know I was with her, and I should’ve done something-”
“What could you have done? You were five. Some children don’t even know how to dress themselves at that age. How to tie shoelaces, how to communicate properly. How were you supposed to save a drowning adult?”
“I should’ve done something,” Ghost whimpered. He was hunched over and his shoulders were turned inwards in a way that made him look so tiny. “I should’ve done something.”
“Could you even swim properly on your own at that age?”
His ears had reddened by this point. “No, but-”
“So there was nothing you could've done.”
Perhaps Dr. Lee had overstepped a little with that statement, because Ghost jerked his head up at it, and the look on his face was a visceral, broken one. It reminded Dr. Lee of staring at the pieces of shattered china. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
“Maybe I didn’t put it quite the way I should’ve,” murmured Dr. Lee. “What I meant to say is that it’s not your fault.”
Ghost stifled a sob, but Dr. Lee heard it anyway. “If I’d saved her,” he croaked, “then Wilbur’s father would never have started drinking. He’d never have beat Wilbur.”
Dr. Lee leant back into her chair and exhaled through her nose. Was that what was really killing Ghost? The what if s?
“You were five,” she said again, this time in a firmer, but still kind, tone. “The burden of saving the life of an adult was not yours to bear.”
Ghost swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“You were supposed to be loved and protected as a child,” said Dr. Lee. “That was your job. To be held and taken care of. It wasn’t your job to be the saviour, to be some sort of heroic rescuer. You shouldn’t ever be responsible for an adult when you’re a child, and especially not at that age.”
Ghost said nothing. She watched as tears slid silently down his cheeks.
“What happened to your mother was a freak accident,” Dr. Lee told him. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Not your mother’s, and definitely not yours.”
“But,” Ghost said, hiccupping through tears, “if she were still here, we’d be a happy family.”
“Maybe you feel like her death caused Wilbur’s family situation to spiral,” said Dr. Lee. “And maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that what happened was out of your control.”
Ghost trembled.
At this point Dr. Lee moved to sit on the beanbag next to him. “You couldn’t have saved her. And that’s okay. You were five. It’s not your fault.”
For a long while, Ghost fell silent. But then, emerging from him like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon - tentatively, delicately - “Can you say that again?”
“You couldn’t have saved-”
“No,” Ghost interrupted. “Not that. The… The…”
Dr. Lee furrowed her eyebrows momentarily, but then, all of a sudden, she understood what he was referring to.
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
Ghost sniffled. “Again?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Again.”
“It’s not your fault.”
And Dr. Lee held Ghost as he finally broke down sobbing.