Peter Vincent thinks people see what they want to (smokingmagician) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2013-06-23 13:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | peter vincent |
Who: Peter Vincent
What: Attempting to sort through the mess in his head
Where: Greaves Apartment Complex
When: Sunday morning, June 23, 2013
Warnings: Peter’s foul mouth, mentions of violence, graphic imagery, and heavy on the angst. Stupidly long because Peter’s head is full of all the fucked-up-ness right now.
Status: Closed, Narrative
He knew, from the objective scholar part of him’s viewpoint, that his behavior had not been his own. He... no, it, had been something else, a demon splintered off from Jerry, latching onto his mind and memories, infecting and twisting them into something wrong. The vampire that had called itself Peter, that had worn his body like a tailored suit, it was a separate entity from the true Peter. Peter Vincent was a human being; he’d had human parents, lived a human life with human vices and human loves. That thing had been a sick parody of the real person.
But he remembered everything as though it had been truly him. It kept getting all crossed up in his head. How many times had he explained what it was that made the vampires from his world so different? The human was dead, the body and mind used as a vehicle for that demonic thing. But experiencing such a thing himself... it was so difficult to believe that when, going by his own memory of everything that the vampire him had done, it felt like that monster had been him. Before, in Vegas, he’s only had that genuine evil brush past; it hadn’t had a chance to take root and take over. But here?
He could recall every moment of the vampire’s two weeks and three days of existence. Every vicious little dig at his friends and flash of unholy rage, every time the teeth and claws had come out, every single person he’d made into a victim. He remembered feeding on Castiel like a mindless animal, drunk on the exquisite taste of not-quite-human, not-quite-angelic blood. He remembered the frightened sounds Allison made when he attacked her, and the smell of Scott’s rage as he pursued Peter after. He remembered the proud defiance in Marguerite’s eyes before he nearly killed her, leaving her on the pavement to bleed out. He remembered the pain and betrayal in Amy’s face as he laughed at the horrible things Jerry had done to her. He remembered Ginger’s tears, the sweet taste of her blood, seeing the light dim in her eyes as she lost hope and faith. And he remembered the malevolent pleasure he’d taken in each and every moment of it. Every detail was locked into his memory as though they’d only just happened.
What made it worse was that even if the vampire wasn’t truly him, it was still his fault. It was Peter who had enabled that monster to come into existence. He’d been so overwhelmed by grief and panic and paranoia, so terrified for Cas... Peter had always been ruled by his fears; he could not handle them, couldn’t work past them. He kept trying, but went about it in all the wrong ways - rushing out head on to “face his fears” only seemed to make things worse, to bring about more pain and destruction, and to exacerbate those fears even further. This was twice now, once with Maleficent, once with Jerry, that his stupidity had nearly gotten everyone in Lawrence killed. All because he couldn’t keep a fucking handle on his fears.
Peter had seen, before he changed back, the things some people were saying. The level of anger towards the things he’d done, or almost done. They were right to be so furious with him, to demand retribution. He was furious with himself. Peter felt sick to think of all the people he’d hurt, the ways he could’ve hurt them further. This had been exactly why he so feared being turned, why he’d asked Wesley all those months ago to just kill him if it ever happened. He would rather they had just staked him. Better to die than to see all this pain and misery at his hands.
In the time since he’d been changed back though, he’d been mostly left alone, in one of the empty flats at Piffy’s place. Spike kept checking in periodically, and Rose had come by. Peter couldn’t determine if their presence had been a comfort or not. He didn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness or kindness. Before he’d even changed back, Cas had messaged him, and had forgiven him. His vampire self hadn’t liked that at all. Peter still couldn’t imagine why Cas would have - or could have - forgiven him so easily.
He didn’t know what anyone was saying now, if they were messaging him, or talking about how to deal with him. He couldn’t pull himself together enough to go look at the boards. Hell, he could hardly bring himself to so much as look at anyone in person, couldn’t meet their eyes. He could hardly speak even, except for moments when the guilt and horror wracked up so much that he found himself babbling, sobbing, trying to apologize.
He kept flashing back at times, scents and tastes of blood filling his mouth and nose, body-memories of moving teeth, of claws extending and limbs moving past human capability. He had some vague recollection of a dazed conversation with Spike at some point, talking about wanting to take out the fangs, begging Spike to not let him hurt anyone else.
He probably sounded like a fucking lunatic. People had been telling him that for years, and for a long while he’d nearly believed them. Maybe he’d really finally snapped. Or maybe he had been one all along - vampires and alternate worlds, magic and fictional people being real, all the conflicting emotions and troubles and fears in his head... every time people told him something wasn’t real it turned out the opposite. He didn’t know what that said of his mental state. Maybe he really was fucking crazy. He didn’t know what to believe anymore, but regardless of whether it was real or not, it was still tormenting him.
There was just... far too much going on in his head. He didn’t know what to do now, didn’t know how to fix any of this or if fixing anything was even possible. Right now, he just wanted to go home. Not to Vegas. Vegas had never been home. He wanted to be in his flat at the complex, and he wanted Andrew to be there with him. He wanted that comfort, wanted to take shelter from all the horrible mess of the past month. He missed Andrew so much it was almost nearer to driving him mad than all the memories of that evil thing plaguing him. Harder still... he felt he didn’t deserve it. Maybe Andrew had been taken to spare him having to deal with this, to spare him any tie to the monster Peter was to become. He dreaded the thought of what he, as a vampire, might have done to Andrew had he been here.
He didn’t even know if Andrew would have been able to stand by him, after all the things he’d done. Peter didn’t deserve him, he never really had. But he’d wanted it so badly, he’d tried to pretend for a while. It was different now. He wanted Andrew, but Andrew was gone. He wanted to go home, to the flat he’d shared with Andrew... but he didn’t have the right. Surely he would no longer be welcome at the complex. He couldn’t bring himself to ask, couldn’t face them. It was just another mark of his own cowardice, really.
He didn’t know anymore, who he hated more - himself or Jerry. He couldn’t tell how much was his own failure and how much was Jerry’s impact. But either way, it didn’t matter. In the end, it all came down to this; Jerry had been right - he owned Peter. He always had, from the moment he’d set foot in the Vincent household so many years ago. Even with him dead and gone, Peter couldn’t break out of the hold that monster had on him. Maybe he never would.