Title : The Redemption of Peter Wentz
Summary : All Pete wanted to do was regain control of his life. He is about to do something risky and incredibly stupid.
Author : crave_summerlin
Rating : R- for violence and language
Author's Notes : This is my first ever post to this community. It is in 3rd Person omniscent, but mainly focuses on what Pete is feeling. Think of it as a Quentin Tarantino film, jumping from scene to scene, though I don't have tarantino's talent. I try.
In the silence of the night, sirens blared into the distance. Iridescent glows of street lamps cast orange hues into the crevices that were vacant between buildings. The thick blanket of looming stratus clouds hung, their undersides scraped by the commercial towers and buildings. Air was thick with ozone, a scent of looming precipitation that was threatening to pour.
The silence sat as it usually did, as it had been for millenia, peaceful and stifling. Abruptly, it was shattered by shrill screams of agony. An isolated patch of urban industrial yards became disturbed with consistent cries of torture.
In a formerly condemned warehouse, lights poured forth from gaps left by drapes and window shades. Shadows paced behind the light. The screams continued their horrible song, and a faint thump of body against door echoed from its walls. A moment of peace and quiet followed. Alas, it was only a moment until the screams resumed in much of the same fashion.
Inside, the atmosphere was hellish, strained, and above all, complete and utter chaos. In the confines of the connected makeshift kitchen nook to the makeshift common living room, countless dishes were shattered amid shredded and scattered papers from various publications. Stuffing billowed from the innards of the ancient sofa and recliner. Likewise, the coffee table was left broken, split in two. In fact, the entire scene and through the hallway was much the same as an obvious path of destruction into a lone door at the end of the extended administrative hall. A long line of scratches from fingernails danced an ordered line to said door.
The hall was vacant, to the voice's dismay. All remaining souls aside from the prisoner sought refuge in the storage library, the most secure and reinforced area in the entire warehouse. They wandered around aimless and hopelessly in thought as one buried himself into jotting down notes from an oversized book.
The voice trapped in the room at the end of the hall evolved to threatening pleas. Agonizing screams poured from the cracks on the steel door.
Inside the room, a single, huddled figure dug bleeding fingernails into the finished surface of the bolted door. His white, lethal teeth were bared as he spoke earnestly to whoever was listening at this very minute. He bore a black mane of groomed hair, unchanging and tangled from a fit of frustration, and his usual hazel, kind eyes were bottomless pits of black hunger and malevalence.
"Please, Patrick, let me out!" he pleaded.
His forehead met with the cold, metal surface, not much different from his own, and let out a drawn out growl before completely exploding into a storm of fury; clawing and throwing himself at the door.
He turned slowly, letting his back slide down the door until he remained as a crumpled mess on the carpet. Pete's breathing was labored and heavy as it whistled past his teeth. He wanted to cry, burying his fists into stray wads of raven hair. So badly did he want to cry that his chest heaved with dry sobs. He slammed his head against the wall several times more with frustration. He needed to get himself together. As he shifted to rationality at a snail's pace, Pete's mind started to clear. The guilt crashed down tenfold. He despised himself yet again. He brought his knees up to his chin, burying his face away from what he considered himself too monstrous to be a part of. Rocking took hold of him paired with a sort of mantra he recited to himself.
"You won't kill. You won't kill. You won't kill. You won't kill."
He remained this way for almost three hours. Yet the bloodlust raged on. Gnawing, clawing, and burning away at his throat.
Pete knew he was slipping. He was slowly losing himself to the thirst. Every day, every hour became more difficult to maintain self-restraint. What worried Pete most, above anything, was that every evening when he awoke, there was a period when he forgot everything: his childhood, family, friends, morals, everything but the prevading thirst. What terrified him so about this was the fact that each time he rose from that makeshift coffin in the floor, these episodes would last longer and longer. Not only was he losing to the thirst, but also to himself, to what he was.
The mantra went on. In his prison, the walls were bare, save for outlines of where tape used to be. A dresser sat idly opposite him beneath the window. Restraints lay crumpled on the floor, mere inches from Pete's half-worn shoes. Their chains and padded cuffs disappeared into the concrete wall. Pete began to slowly realize how lenient Patrick had been toward his recent actions.
Four hours, thirty-five minutes, and seventeen seconds ago, Pete had completely lost it. He refuses to confess, even to himself, that he was fully aware and concious, driven by the bloodlust that he had let build the past two weeks. It was all he could focus on. The only truth he will reveal is that he does not remember tackling Joe to the ground and attaching himself to him at the neck. The scene replays in this head, over and over. Despite the mantra, all he can think about is killing, how he would love to do it again. Pete wants that sweet relief and satisfaction. The monster is tightening its grip on him.
Footsteps near the door, getting louder with each step closer. A knock follows paired with a voice. It is Andy Hurley, the voice of reason.
"Pete, are you alive?" The door creaks open slightly with a screech into the silence. Pete's mantra has faded into breathing again, his jaw set. His body bars the door from opening a centimeter more than the sliver it is now.
"Barely." he growls is response. Andy shoves the door again against Pete's dead weight and enters the room, kneeling before him. His inquisitive eyes are peering behind thick lenses, and Pete averts his, not help noticing the probing stares of Andy's. His mane of blonde hair is tied back with a rubber band, falling loosely onto his shoulder blades.
"You haven't been taking your subsitute." The statement was lashing. There was no hinting to question in it, just a blunt remark.
Pete shook his head, slowly and silently. Andy sighed. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Pete. Man, I know you hate yourself for it, but you need to feed, and you need to take that subsitute. You must drink it so that shit like tonight won't happen again."
"I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want to kill him." Pete's voice shook with regret.
"You very nearly did." There was a brief window of quiet between them as Andy put his hands gingerly onto Pete's folded forearms.
He flinched at the contact, and recoiled further into the door. He wanted to ignore the inviting pulse, the beckoning aroma of Andy that was well within reach. Pete ran his tongue over his teeth as his breath quickened. Sensing this, Andy backed off but stood his ground, letting go of him.
"Why won't you take it, Pete?"
"It's like drinking air. It does nothing but fill, not satisfy." His voice was husky and coarse as he spoke. "But I don't want to kill. I can't."
"You can stay with your decision, but I can't stand seeing you like this." Andy spoke softy, getting to his feet. He pulled Pete up with him, heading out into the hall. Almost literally, he was carrying a corpse. "I'll go to the hospital in the morning and come back with some O positives for you."
"No, Andy, I can't--"
"They're donations, Pete, relax."
- Current Mood: nostalgic
- Current Music:More Than A Feeling- Boston