Your Ghost ? Sequel to Text Back

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As soon as the cool night air hit his face, that ball of dread filled up his stomach and weighed him down, making it hard to even blink.

There were candles alight with fire set around the yard in a circle, some red substance connecting them with lines and swirls.

It hit him.

Dream and Sapnap were going to revive him?

Why'd they stop?

George furrowed his brow, confusion and worry churning in his mind.

"It looks like it's going to rain. We better hurry up," Sapnap hummed, turning to look at Dream from where he was sitting on the ground next to a couple of tea candles whose flames had been snuffed.

"Hey George!" Sapnap waved, using his forefinger and thumb to extinguish another candle.

"Mhm. Hey Sapnap, can you grab that bucket for me?" Dream asked, not making any moves to help clean. Nor any move to acknowledge George's presence.

It was like he already knew the ghost was there.

The sinking feeling got worse.

"Sure!" Sapnap reached out towards a metal bucket that was leaning against the wall.

Time slowed down as he saw the pale fingers reach for the gun in Dream's back pocket.

It seemed like a lifetime before Sapnap noticed the weapon pointed between his eyes.

A lifetime more before Dream pulled the trigger.

The sickening bang of the gun firing into his best friend's skull resonated throughout the night, George sure that everyone around them heard it. That and the crack of his skull bursting open.

Thud.

Nick's body hit the ground, his head bending at a weird angle over the bucket's edge.

There was so much blood.

So, so much of his best friend that shouldn't be outside of him and it was just wrong and oh god it was so wrong what the fuck what the fuck what the fu

Smooth metal burned orange with the light of red splattered, faltering flickers of flames from candles meticulously placed on the ground.

Thoughts whirled around him like sheets forgotten in a tornado, each one flying past, each one impossible to grab ahold of.

A drop of blood slid down the barrel, and the trail it left moved in time with the tear rolling down George's cheek.

Dream's hand gripped the weapon tightly, his knuckles white with a tension George had never before seen.

The sirens grew louder and louder, almost covering up the chilling screams from a horrified neighbor who most likely just looked out their window down at the scene.

His finger slipped onto the trigger, shaking delicately. A feather landing on the surface tension from a pond couldn't match the gentle way he seemed to tease himself, pulling the trigger yet stopping before the bullet could fire.

Crashes and bangs of doors being kicked open echoed from inside the house as orderly shouting left blows on George's mind.

With a shaky hand, he brought the gun up to his temple. Something seemed to flash in his eyes, too quick to decipher but slow enough to know that anything that made him the person George had known for years was long dead.

The back door finally swung open, the wood splintering. It seemed like a beacon was pointed straight into the backyard, straight at him to show off the massacre he caused. Lights in every house in a mile radius seemed to glare at him, telling him the failure he could so clearly see.

"I had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this, but if I can't have heaven on earth with you then what's the point of not upgrading to the real thing?"

The red and blue lights flashed on the monster he had made, giving George Déjà vu to a night that seemed eons in the past and a moment that was still replaying behind his closed eyes. A smile, the glow of red, and those god awful empty green eyes that squeezed his soul, or what was left of it every time he searched for something familiar within them.

"Dream," he pleaded, begged, his cheeks slick with tears that never stopped coming once the dam broke. His lost love, his fallen angel turned Lucifer smiled not with joy, but with something unrecognizably inhuman.

"Let's go home George."

The sound of handcuffs snapping onto Dream's arms rang throughout George's head, mimicking the sound of the safety on the gun clicking out of place once more.

George blinked, and he was alone.

It shone in the glass, glowing like that fucking book in the now mostly burnt-out candlelight.

George picked it up, the cold settling into his bones and choking his thoughts until they turned blue with frostbite.

His best friend was smeared across the smooth metal under his hand.

No amount of soap would ever wash the dirty feeling from his skin.

Good thing the dead don't need to take showers, so he wouldn't scrub until his body was raw and his tears washed away the blood from the drain.

He echoed the movements burned into his vision like a funhouse mirror, his muscles screaming at him to stop and his head begging him to finish.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no one was left to listen.

The only thing he could say was the one word he never wanted to hear again anyways. Not because he hated it.

He had whispered it in moments where everything was burning and he felt like the world was nothing but flesh against his skin.

He had cried it when everything was too much and his mind only sought out one solution to make all of it go away.

He had loved it.

Now, there was nothing left but himself and the cold and the already rotting body under his feet and the tainted metal in his hand.

So, George closed his eyes an-

Click.