Peter "so fucking done" Pettigrew (somanyregrets) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-07-30 18:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1980-07] july, peter pettigrew |
WHO: Peter Pettigrew
WHAT: Reflections
WHERE: The Rehabilitation Centre
WHEN: July 30th
RATING: PG
STATUS: Narrative; Complete
Some days were longer than others. This one seemed to be one of the longest of them all. His thoughts had been calmed for a time, finding it so much easier to contemplate on matters that were outside of the realm of his control with a content detachment instead of a strict neurotic concern. That neurotic concern may not have returned full force, but he wasn't as assured in his decision as he had been before. Now, there was a nagging echo of doubt in the back of his mind that left him wondering whether he had really done the right thing. Sure, there was always the question of what choice he had had in the end. If he hadn't given them what they had wanted, Peter was sure that the persuasion would have been stepped up far beyond what he would have been able to take. As it was, he had been content in his solitude, left alone the majority of the time and drawn out only to offer up the information that he could. Only ever what they asked for. Beyond that, he didn't know what he could give them. There was nothing of consequence that he thought that he knew. A few names, a couple addresses, nothing important, nothing of value. Nothing that would get him out of here. As his head lulled back, connecting with the wall, Peter tipped his eyes upwards, a silent prayer crossing his lips. Religious, he wasn't. But there was so little that anyone had left to lose, on either side. So much blood that had been spilled over ideologies: neither of which were perfect, neither of which were realistic. And both sides were left grasping at straws, sticking bandaids over bullet holes and hoping they would hold. There was little information that Peter could glean from what he could see on the journals. So little was left public anymore. And what was... Peter wasn't sure what to think when Carlotta Pinkstone sounded like a breath of fresh air. But then again, it was what had prompted this dilemma, what had promoted his mind that start turning again, and what had left him feeling almost as addled as he had several months ago. Only now, there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could say. And nowhere that he could muse his thoughts except in his own mind. Because as safe as they were up there, he dare not write them down. |