peter

snippet about my ocs. originally written in october 2022. it's not that good but i also don't totally hate it.

violence, death, homicide, bodily trauma

peter didn't like to think about death too much. though on the occasions that he did, he usually imagined himself old and graying in a hospital bed as friends and family surrounded him and said their goodbyes.

but instead he laid shivering, baby-like on dirt and sand, curling inward, and clutching at his neck almost as if it is he who is strangling himself. as if this death was of his own creation.

creation, he thought, bitterly, in between hacking up wine-red and trying to focus, focus, focus his vision - made difficult with delirium and shock. at the very least, peter hoped to see who it was that attacked him, robbing him of a life much too early. hell, he wasn't yet seventeen.
god giveth and god taketh away, indeed.

no… no, that wasn't right. it was not god that stabbed him thrice in the neck. the last thrust was especially haunting, blade twisted and forced deep enough to reach his spine. that sickening crackle of steel hitting bone and ligament still lingered in his ears. his blood left as quickly as the knife had been pulled, and, by the time he hit the ground, so much of him had already spilled out and over. the pooling of sticky iron red lapped at his cheek and stained his dirty blond hair.

yet his eyes betrayed him, vision swimming with hard tears, flashing colors and shapes. not that sight would have been much help. whoever the offender was, they were fully clad in heavy black attire, with the cliché balaclava to boot.

his sense of time felt strange. the pain had, at this point, already peaked then subsided. numbness crawled through his nerves and a strange drowsiness took hold of him. he hazily speculated about the events that might occur after his final breath; who would be the one to find him? he felt sad for his mother. and the beginnings of a prayer echoed in his mind as he felt his consciousness slowly tear itself from his body. i go to you, lord; into your hands i commit my spirit…

and in between the fading of light and muffled death rattles, he welcomed the phantom sensation of cold hands reaching out and scooping him up to cradle him like a child.

a sweet embrace of death.

“do you remember your last moments?”

suffering unlike any other.

“… not really.”

peter hated lying. not as a result of a self-righteous ego nor of moral or religious obligation, but rather the fact that people could always tell that he was lying. a quick, yet obvious glance to the left. a slight quirk in his expression. the hint of a wince flashing across his face before his nerves half-heartedly steeled and he tried a blank expression.

he was sitting with elias - his confidant, mentor, and friend. well, the term 'friend' was rather tentative. the older boy was a bit strange, unreadable in every aspect. the emotions he'd show were always assumed placidity or contentment and he never seemed to be angry. sad or disappointed sometimes, yes, but never, ever angry. he was always a bit too patient with peter in a way that made the latter uneasy, as if he could burst into a raging fury at any moment. and his overt friendliness - peter was unsure if it was genuine or not. sometimes, it obviously was. other times, peter thought it was a facade of some sort, and it may as well have been given that they were both devils. though the more time they spent together, the more he believed that elias truly cared. even if he sometimes felt belittled.

“oh, peter,” elias replied, voice saturated with so much pity that it made peter's stomach churn, “forgive me for bringing up a sensitive subject.”

and another thing. elias was too perceptive to be fooled. granted, peter's half-hearted attempt at fibbing said more than enough. but even if peter had been the expert of experts at hiding his emotions, elias likely would have picked up on the farce anyway. barring the indiscretion in elias's comment, peter wondered why he even bothered with deception. was he ashamed of his death? he furrowed his brows and faced the other boy with burning cheeks.

“i'm sorry for lying.”

at this, elias only shook his head and offered his own sympathetic smile in return, then reached up to ruffle peter's hair and pull him into a hug. genuine as it was.

peter asked, “do you remember yours?”

there was a deliberate pause. peter almost apologized before elias spoke again.

“i don't.”

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