Peter Hale is basically satan in a v-neck. (notfireproof) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2014-11-28 16:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !open, peter hale, rose tyler |
Characters: Peter Hale + OTA.
Location: On the streets of Newport Beach.
Time: 28 November, middle of the night.
Warnings: Injuries, blood, (mild) panic.
Summary: Peter is struggling and is running in a panic.
Status: OPEN, complete.
Again, Peter was slipping. He had started losing sleep but that wasn’t an accident. No, he was basically killing himself trying to stay awake even though it never helped. Eventually he would collapse from exhaustion and he would still dream. Not a single thing could prevent him from dreaming, not meditation nor caffeine. Peter had missed Thanksgiving, more because he had started to lose track of days than an attempt to avoid his family. He always felt sick, he was exhausted and he was hounded by the sound of his own voice, seeing blood on his hands that he couldn’t wash off. All of this started to go downhill after Lydia was hospitalised. That night, he dreamed, over and over again of attacking her. All he heard was her screaming, he could feel the blood on his hands, could taste it on his tongue, even after waking up. Every night he dreamed of tearing into her skin, ripping it apart, rending it with his teeth and it made him sick to his stomach. It felt like he always had that horrible coppery taste on his tongue and he hasn't been able to eat in days without retching it all back up. After that, his dreams started spiralling faster, full of death after death all mixed in with his dreams about Lydia happening over and over until he was killed. Now, day after day, he woke up feeling as if he didn’t belong in this world, as if he wasn’t real. Everything seemed unreal now, like he didn’t belong. His entire body felt like it was gone and he sometimes wondered if people could see him. Times like that, he would bump into someone on the sidewalk to see if they would notice. As long as they looked at him, swore at him, Peter could be sure he here until the next wave came and crashed over him. In between those moments, he just felt numb. Everything hurt so much that he couldn't feel anything else. It was like this level of pain had become so constant that he was beginning to become used to it, if someone was able to become used to something like this. Following him, almost standing by his side, was this terrible guilt that was as heavy as a dying breath. That guilt was his constant companion, it whispered in his ear, it reminded him of things he couldn't forget. It blinded him like sun in his eyes. It felt as if it was trying to drag him down, to remind him that he was nothing more than a monster. Peter couldn't shake that feeling, couldn't escape from that guilt. Peter was running from it now, not metaphorically, not right now. Down the streets of Newport Beach, almost blind to the world around him, deaf to the voices of people, he was running, trying to get away from his blood-stained companion and the dark words that were boring holes in his skin, drilling into his heart and killing him slowly. He wanted to get away from the stench of death that plagued him, but he couldn't run fast enough to get away. His muscles started to ache, his breathing hurt, but he had to keep running. If he stopped, he was afraid of what would catch up with him. He was afraid if he stopped, he would fall asleep and once again, he'd be tormented. So he kept running, paying no attention to who he might have knocked into in his panic. |