hi its a chapter

I'm lowkey almost at 900 followers which is wack, thanks besties

TW: aftermath of rape/abuse, panic/anxiety

Previously...

I want to tell him it's not his fault. Hell, if it wasn't for Dream, I would probably still be with Cole. Or possibly dead.

But I can't. No matter how much I want to, the words just don't find their way to me.

I'm sorry too, Dream.

George's P.O.V.

The next day, at exactly 8 am, Dream was back in my room, greeting me (somewhat) cheerfully. I couldn't bring myself to return his smile, however small it might be.

He took me home, quickly learning not to get too close. I could walk on my own fine, except for a slight limp that served as a strong reminder of what went down yesterday. Dream stayed a couple feet away from me the whole walk to the car, watching me limp my way there.

"Hey, Gogy, how ya doing?" Wilbur greeted, already sitting in the drivers seat. I didn't answer, just climbed into the back seat and laid down. Dream was in the passenger seat, watching me worriedly the whole drive.

When we finally arrived, I immediately noticed that this wasn't my house. Dream must've sensed my panic, because he quickly stepped in to explain.

"This is Wilbur's apartment, he's letting us stay here for a while," he frowned, gnawing at his lip. "Um... we figured that you probably wouldn't want to go home because it might remind you of... what happened."

Oh. Makes sense, I guess.

"Yeah, I have an extra room, you can stay in there, and Dream..." Wilbur trailed off, looking at the blond.

"I can sleep on the couch," he assured, shrugging. I followed them inside, being shown the guest room. I closed myself in there, laying on the bed and closing my eyes.

I wish I had my phone. Or my stuff. Or anything, really. I need something to distract me, I don't want to think about it.

I open my eye, glancing around the unfamiliar room. My gaze lands on a small portable radio sitting on a dresser.

Looks like I've found my distraction. Maybe music will help?

I grab the radio, fiddling with the controls for a minute (it's difficult, my hands are shaky). Finally, the sound comes out clearly, a soft song twisting its way into my brain. It's soothing, and I lay back down feeling calmer already.

The music is nice, a background distraction to focus my mind on. It's not perfect- it can't take away my physical pain. My body aches, sore all over. I was certainly covered in bruises, my skin a canvas for Cole to paint on.

Not anymore, I guess. However skeptical I am of that.

I don't know. I don't really want to be traumatized- who does?- but no matter how hard I try I just can't bring myself to forget about what happened. The doctors called it abuse- all they saw was some visible bruises and skittish behavior.

They didn't know the wound was more than skin deep. They didn't know the extent. They didn't know.

Which, I suppose, is better? Dream and Wilbur shouldn't have to deal with that. It's not their burden to bear. It's mine.

I'm brought back to reality by the radio, smooth guitar worming its way into my thoughts.

I like this a lot more than thinking. The guitar is calming, and I find my eyes closing peacefully, easily lulled into sleep's woolen arms.

Fuck you, Cole.

Besties I meant to post this last night but I was tired from prom so... yeah here it is now

Im in online class rn (haha I feel hungover except I didn't have alcohol, fuck this 🙃)