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The feeling of eyes on the back of your neck is never a pleasant one. Holes being bored into your skin, a cold prickling running up and down your spine, nausea rising in your throat, making it hard to breathe. Wilbur was all too familiar with that feeling. Someone watching .
Even when alone, back pressed to the wall, air rattling to his lungs, he couldn’t escape it. It was constant, and he had to live with that. He was lucky, it had plateaued once they had won the war; the small semblance of safety giving him the slightest relief from the ever growing paranoia.
Alone in his torch lit office, bent over paperwork late into the night, he could almost ignore the hair that rose on the back of his neck. The weight of his jacket was comforting, a barrier (too flimsy, easily torn away-) to protect him from the eyes and hands that reached for him. Wind shook the window panes, flickering the torches hooked to the walls. He was pulled out of his work, whipping around to desperately scan the wall behind him.
Nothing but shadows and dust. Shadows, that did not reach for him, did not wrap around his legs and twine up to his throat--
Deep breath. It was late, he should go to sleep. The walk back to his bedroom seemed like a daunting task, winding his way through the halls until he reached the small room that held his few belongings. No, no. He could stay here for the night.
The office was plenty comfortable (ignoring the crick in his back and neck that appeared upon the morning), he had fallen asleep at his desk enough times to know that. But- the thought of his back being exposed to the wall behind where he sat had a lump rising in his throat.
He glanced over to the bookshelf and small rug in the corner of the room. He could sleep there, back pressed against the rug (nothing could rise through the floor and wrap around him- no, no). WIlbur stood, rolling his shoulders and pointedly ignoring the feeling that rose as he did. The pressure between his shoulders, not the same as the comforting weight of his jacket, felt like fingers holding onto his spine.
Time to sleep. He crossed the office quickly, sitting down with his back to the shelf (there weren’t hands stretching out from between the books, no eyes on the spines) . He shrugged off the jacket, shivering at the loss, before laying down and draping the fabric over his torso. The feeling didn’t fade, but Wilbur fell asleep as he always did.
The darkness of the ravine didn’t help. No, in fact it was quite the opposite. Every shadow seemed to stretch and reach, and Wilbur swore he could feel hands ghosting over his wrists and ankles, could feel thousands of eyes boring into his back.
The crunching of gravel almost made his heart stop, before he remembered that he wasn’t alone in the ravine. Tommy was there, more subdued than usual (but that was to be expected, they had been driven from their home). Speaking of, the kid emerged from the darkness holding a stack of logs and dumped them next to the fire that Wilbur sat in front of.
“Here you go, bitch,” Tommy grinned, though it didn’t reach quite to his eyes.
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do this shit,” Tommy waved off Wilbur’s thanks, “and I’m a big man who doesn’t have a fuckin’ shoulder wound, so…” He trailed off, putting a couple logs onto the fire.
Wilbur pulled his coat tighter around himself. The weight of the double layered fabric didn’t feel as safe as he would have liked, but it was better than the one he had worn before the ravine. He tried to ignore the way that Tommy’s eyes were looking anywhere but him.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled, imaginary fingers digging further into his skin. He rolled his head back, cracking his neck and applying an almost uncomfortable amount of pressure. (There’s nothing there, it’s just Tommy and him down here, there’s nothing in the shadows) .
Down in the ravine, Wilbur had never felt more justified in his paranoia. They were quite literally being hunted, the eyes could be real this time-- who knew who they could actually trust. Spies around every corner.
“Alright, big man,” Tommy finally looked at Wilbur’s face, “I’m gonna hit-the-sack, as they say.”
“Sleep well, Tommy.” Wilbur didn’t look away from the fire.
“...You too, Wilbur.”
Wilbur pulled his hood tight to his neck. (Please, please-- stop watching).
You’d think being dead would offer respite-- but no. ‘Limbo’ seemed a lot like his worst nightmares realized. He was alone, apart from the shades that watched him (and the occasional visit from Schlatt, of all people). Wilbur could barely breathe.
He stared down at the game in front of him. Just place the cards. (There’s nothing behind you--) He glanced back, just the brick wall of the train station. Nothing there. Just place the cards.
(What the fuck, what the fuck--) There were hands grasping at his clothes, at his hair, his face-- Wilbur gasped, struggling to breathe past the lump in his throat. His eyes blinked open, watering at the brightness he found. He glanced at his limbs-- (nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing--) He was alone. Alone. So why didn’t it feel like it? A crunch of dirt beneath a boot. ( Not alone).
“Ohh, no…”
Wilbur stretched out a hand in an attempt to balance himself. Click . He glanced down, a fucking button.
“Oh.” He breathed out. The ghost (ha) of fingers ran over his body, digging into his skin.
“Oh no.” Tommy.
His gaze shifted, and Wilbur shivered at the feeling of fingers guiding his face. “Hello again.”
“You fuck… ”
Wilbur almost laughed at Tommy’s words, but choked on it before a sound could leave his throat.
“Is this,” He paused, “Is this real…?” (Please, please, please be real-- he couldn’t take the eyes of those damned shades for another moment--)
“Yeah, it’s real.”