Who: Pete and Kane What: Pete briefly meets his mother. Where: The 12th and 1st floor. When: The night of the hauntings. Warnings: None right now. Notes: *tear*
Pete was in limbo; somewhere between conscious and sleep and stretched out upon his sleeping bag. A hand kept his head propped up, albeit limply, and the redhead’s eyelids were slowly beginning to close. A large book lay atop his pillow, open to reveal a selection of John William Waterhouse paintings. The right page featured a striking rendition of Ophelia, flowers and skirts clutched in her hand as she stared hauntingly up at the reader.
He yawned and shook his head, trying to wake himself up. It had been a long day of unsuccessfully trying to collect things for his apartment, and at dusk he had wandered back to Bellum Letale, empty-handed and cold. The boy glanced down at the open book, looking at Ophelia. “Bad luck for you too, huh?” He muttered at the print, combing fingers through unwashed locks of hair. Pete pushed himself from his stomach to sit cross-legged, yawning. “S’pose I may as well go to bed,” he added, reaching out to take the book in his hands.
The book was shut and placed on the floor next to his sleeping bag, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Just as Pete was about to shed his trousers and climb into bed he saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, and instantly all thoughts of sleep were forgotten. “Huh?” He murmured, turning to where the movement came from.
It was the book. It had flipped back open to the Hamlet illustration, only the auburn-haired Ophelia was nowhere to be seen. Pete felt his stomach flip nervously, and he dropped down to his knees to study the book. “What…” he gasped, taking the heavy book and bringing it close.
“She isn’t there anymore,” said a woman’s voice, soft but deep, and Pete, startled and more than a little nervous by now, leapt up and practically flung the book across the room.
“Who’s there?” He asked loudly, searching the empty room, and for a moment there was no one but Pete and his shadow. Then a sliver of light appeared in the corner, which gradually grew into the pale form of a woman. She was the spitting image of Waterhouse’s Ophelia, down to full heart-shaped lips that reminded Pete of his own. The only difference was the outfit she wore, a long-sleeved blouse and jeans instead of Ophelia’s layered gown.
“It’s been so long,” the woman said with a sad smile, and Pete felt the beating of his heart accelerate considerably.
“W-what?” Pete stammered, expression mirroring that of a deer in the headlights. His hands were shaking, and goose bumps arose on his skin.
“You wouldn’t recognize me,” the woman said with a melancholy shake of her head, but Pete’s jaw had already dropped in realization.
“No, I… you’re my…” Pete said, voice hoarse and cracking with each syllable he tried to pronounce. The woman raised her head to look at him, tucking long wavy hair behind her ear. Her full lips curved into the slightest trace of a smile, and she rushed forward to envelop Pete in her arms.
By now Pete’s entire body was wracked with tremors, and something that may have been a tear meandered down his cheek. His arms were around the woman’s, whose body was ice-cold but comforted him nonetheless. The boy felt a smooth thumb wipe away the evidence of his tears, and cold lips press against his forehead. “We love you very much, Peter,” the woman whispered, and Pete lifted his gaze to meet his mother’s. He was about to respond when her image began to fade away, and Pete tried to grab hold of her arm.
“No, no wait!” he shouted desperately as his mother’s figure continued to dissolve, and he continued to grasp frantically for what was no longer there. He reached for her in vain for minutes that felt like hours, until finally he gave up and rushed towards the open book. Ophelia stood in the foreground once more, but her expression was no longer one of sadness. Without hesitation Pete ripped the page out, slipping it under his sleeping bag before half-running out of his bedroom.
He had to tell someone. Maybe Gwen or Waverlie would still be awake. He didn’t want to wake either of their families, but this was important. He rushed out of his apartment and bolted down the hall, not realizing that he’d forgotten his shoes until he reached the elevator. Pete hastily turned back to retrieve his shoes, but when he tried to open his door he was greeted by another shock.
It wouldn’t open.
“Shit,” Pete hissed, gracelessly attempting to coax it open with a swift kick. When all he achieved was an aching foot, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He darted down the corridor and to the elevator, jabbing the button impatiently. Once the touchy contraption’s doors opened for him he dashed inside, pressing the button for floor eight. As the elevator started to descend he let out a shaky breath, leaning against the wall and trying to collect his thoughts.
When the elevator didn’t stop at floor eight, Pete went against his better judgment and kicked the elevator. Some time later, when it did stop on the first floor, Pete was sitting down and nursing his very sore right foot. The first floor would have to do; he wasn’t about to go back to the elevator, and climbing the eight flights of stairs to Gwen’s was didn’t appeal either. He’d wait until his foot felt a bit better.
Pete hobbled out into the hallway with a muttered curse word at the elevator, and looked around to see if anyone was there.