Dy (no_savior) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-05-12 22:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | closed, narrative, peter petrelli (future) |
Who: future!Peter (mentions of Darla, by permission)
What: Just a little unwell
Where: Darla's Toychest
When: Currently
Rating: R
Status: complete
The world has become pain. Peter has no sense of time anymore. He doesn't know how long ago it was that his shoulders gave out from supporting the weight of his body, gently dislocating in two successive storms of agony. Both times, he'd been unable to keep from screaming. He hates the sounds issuing from his own throat, not because of the weakness it makes him feel, but because of the pleasure it brings his tormenter. Every vocalization of the private world Peter's pain has become brings forth another giggle of demented glee from Darla. Every giggle twists at his gut, horror in knowing that your pain brings another joy.
Sometimes, he thinks that he can hear voices. People calling to him. Nathan and Claire are at the forefront, the anxiety in their mental voices sharpening with every shout. He can hear them, deep in his mind, but the voices are faint. Try as he might, he cannot reach them. He wants to. He wants to be comforted by them, to be found and saved from this nightmare. He wants to push them away, to shut those voices out, because the faint hope they bring is too dangerous in this dark and twisted place. In the end, he can do neither, not with whatever is infecting his brain and body. The voices haunt him, and somewhere in that darkness, he can almost see Annie's eyes looking back at him.
There are times when the pain begins to fade. When the limit has been reached and his mind breaks away from the physical body. The first time, it took Darla three whole minutes to determine just what had happened, and shove a metal spike into his right eye. When it was removed an uncertain amount of time later, the sensations had sharpened again. The cycle starts anew. The next time, she is quick to kill, to pierce his brainstem and let the death and revivification bring this new world back into focus.
He is fed. Some paste-like substance of questional value and objectionable taste. Sips of water. Enough to keep him from starving or dehydrating. She feeds him herself, and after the first time, he hasn't spat the food back at her. When he did, she calmly broke his jaw and opened his stomach to insert a feeding tube. Now, Peter eats when he is told. He drinks when he is told. Even his rest is forced upon him, sleep and wake cycles enforced through her careful application of drugs, or through killing him and reviving him when she wants to continue playing.
There is no room for hope. There is pain, and there is obedience. Lack of one means the other. This is the world.