George was back home, and he didn't have anything. When he died, he dropped all of his stuff, and he didn't care enough to go back for it. Anything that reminded him of that day would be enraging anyway. George knew what he had to do.
That day, his mind had been messed up. Tampered with. Like putting a giant magnet to a phone screen. He wasn't thinking straight. Every time he tried to recall anything about Dream or his past in general, his mind went fuzzy and the room started to sway. All he could think was kill. Kill Fundy. That's the only way to make Dream yours. Kill. Kill…
He whipped around in rage, glaring at the framed pictures of him and his friends that sat on his nightstand. "Fake… It's all fake!" he yelled, taking out a wooden ax from one of his chests and slamming it violently into the cluster of pictures, sending shards of glass and wood flying everywhere. Some of it flew at him, inflicting his pale face with small cuts dripping stark red blood.
He stepped back and chuckled. The feeling of pain was so far beyond him now that it was funny. After a quick glance down at the dismembered photos of his "friends", Gogy began to tear up the vacation home that he had worked so hard to build, setting the carpet on fire and punching the dirt wall until they crumbled in on themselves, pieces of earth falling into the searing fire.
He couldn't do anything else. For what seemed like hours, George punched the walls of his home until his knuckles were bruised and bloody to the point that he couldn't even see normal-colored skin anymore.
It was nearing nighttime then. George squeezed his eyes shut, his anger-prolonged fit finally fizzling out, leaving his entire body trembling in immense pain. He was hungry, and the blood from his knuckles was dripping down the walls and staining the floor, but he refused to eat and refused to patch up his injuries. Self-care wasn't something he cared about anymore.
If he starved to death, if he bled out until the world went dark, who would care? He certainly wouldn't. George was empty. Hopeless. He felt like the world hated him, like he had no reason to live anymore. "Damn…" he muttered, punching his bedframe once and glancing out one of his now-shattered windows.
Bright white stars flickered in the sky, painting the plush grass in a sinister light. It looked so… Scary. So… Evil. Different. In a twisted way, it was like him. Everything seemed so… Unfamiliar tonight. Was it because of the light of the moon or George's state of mind? All of a sudden the ground around him started to tremble and jolt, knocking him off balance.
Red, blurry lines that looked suspiciously like blood covered his line of vision, causing his surroundings to seem like they were trying to eat him alive. Everything on this godforsaken SMP seemed like it was out to get him.
George turned around to face his bed, tired of the feeling of dread that was filling up his chest while he looked outside. All of a sudden his eyelids started to droop and his body started to sway in exhaustion. Despite his efforts to keep stable, he couldn't stop himself from collapsing face-first into his bed, whose sheets now felt rough and unwelcoming, and blacking out.