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When Wirt was fifteen, he and his little brother nearly died.
When Wirt was fifteen, he and his little brother nearly died because of him .
Yeah, maybe that fucked him up a little. But that’s how everyone would feel! He didn’t need to talk about it, and certainly not to Greg . Greg was five! He wouldn’t understand what had happened, he didn’t deserve to know he had nearly died because of his older brother ---
So. Yes, Wirt wasn’t okay. No one would be, after that. But that was fine. He didn’t need a therapist, he needed to push the memories down, down, down and never think about it again. He needed to move on.
He spun a lie about Greg’s frog eating a baby toy, hence its glow, and denied remembering anything about the Unknown. They were released from the hospital the next night in full health, and Wirt nodded apathetically to the suggestions of therapy and this and that, not really listening. When they got home, he told his mom, “I just wanna go to sleep.”
“Of course, honey,” Mom said. She gave him a nice, big, warm hug, and Wirt thought, I don’t deserve warmth.
He let the thought settle, fester. It was true, after all.
“Wirt, can ya tuck me into bed?” Greg asked, and Wirt really couldn’t say no to that.
Mom tucked Greg into bed, then Greg’s dad tucked him into bed, and then they left the two brothers alone. They took Greg’s frog with them, saying Greg’s dad was going to the pet shop to buy a tank.
“Why’d you fib back there?” Greg asked when it was just them two.
“They wouldn’t believe us,” Wirt answered honestly. “They’d think we’re crazy, and they’d keep us in the hospital. Besides, I---I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Greg frowned. “That’s stupid.”
Wirt winced. “I---I was just trying to---sorry. I love you.”
“I love you more ,” Greg grinned, and that was that. For now.
Wirt had preferred baths over showers for as long as he could remember, but he couldn’t remember when he started letting the water run cold.
He couldn’t remember when he started seeing how long he could hold his breath under the cold water.
He remembered that one time he passed out, and almost drowned again, and after that he was only allowed to take showers.
Wirt couldn’t remember when he started scratching his arms so hard they bled, just that Sara noticed and made him promise to start.
“My mom has trouble with self-harming sometimes,” Sara explained as she cleaned up his arms. “Please don’t start harming yourself, too. You’re scaring me.”
And Wirt felt guilty.
Wirt felt guilty a lot, recently. Before That Halloween, he was way too self-absorbed, though, so this was an improvement. Feeling guilty enough to want to die when he didn’t have a spare pencil for the person sitting beside him was better that snapping at them to leave him alone.
On Shabbat, Wirt usually lit the Shabbat candles. He accidentally burned his fingertips on the match, and then he wasn’t allowed to anymore.
Wirt started scratching himself again. It made him feel guilty for scaring Sara, and that made him want to scratch more.
Sara noticed that Wirt had started scratching himself again, and instead of telling him to stop herself, she told his mom.
His mom wanted to take Wirt to a therapist. Wirt refused.
Then Wirt cut himself with a penknife, and agreed that okay, maybe seeing a therapist would be okay. If not for him, then for Sara.
For Greg.
The therapist was nice.
Greg started asking where Wirt was going every week, and that made Wirt want to die. He said so to his therapist, and they started working on it.
College was when things really picked up with Sara. They went to the same college, were roommates, and suddenly their hang-out when all of their friends are hanging out dynamic became a Gosh, We’re In Love dynamic. Wirt wasn’t complaining.
Greg was.
“I miss you!!!” Greg sent in his letters, accompanied by drawings of frogs and forest animals and song lyrics they were working on. “Bundle up when it snows!!!”
Wirt wanted to leave college and fucking be there for Greg, he didn’t want to abandone them fucking again ---
Yeah. Starting college was hard. Sara had to keep a close eye on all sharp objects, and Wirt felt so, so guilty for that.
“I hate myself for what I did,” he sobbed one bad night, bandages wrapping his arms and legs, refusing to be touched.
“You were fifteen,” Sara said. “Your parents were divorced. Of course you were impulsive.”
“I’m sorry for forcing you to take care of me. I’m an adult now, I should be able to do it myself.”
Sara was quiet for a little while. “...I do feel a little bit overwhelmed,” she admitted, “ but I don’t regret helping you. And I’m afraid of what you’ll do if you’re left alone.”
That only made Wirt cry harder.
With things like That Halloween, there is a Before and an After.
In the After, Wirt always hurt.
But he’s getting better.