spongetastic: (Tired)
[personal profile] spongetastic
Technically, Peter died once before. But that had been a quick death. He didn't even really feel it happen. One moment his adrenaline was pumping as he faced Sylar, and the next he woke up in his own house after having a shard of glass pulled from the back of his head.

This was different. Power was growing inside his body-- had been for some time-- and try as he might he couldn't stop it. It was burning through his veins, seeping into his skin and pushing desperately for a way out. All of that suppressed energy was painful. He could feel the heat pulsating from his body. Peter lifted his hands and saw they were glowing threateningly.

"Nathan!" he gasped out. "Nathan, help me!" But Nathan had already abandoned him. The older man smiled his politician's smile at his brother.

"It's for the best, Pete," he said, and flew off.

"No!! Please... come back! Nathan! Claire!!" They were both gone. Claire had been taken away from him. For her own protection, Nathan claimed.

Peter started breathing harder and faster. It was finally hitting him that he was all alone. But not really. There were people all around him. Innocent New Yorkers having dinner, attending shows, riding in taxis... Mothers, brothers, sisters, children... He wanted to stop but his body was being ripped apart from the inside. He wasn't strong enough to hold it back.

He was aware that he was screaming, but it seemed distant. Bright light hit his eyes. He was convinced that the pain alone would be enough to kill him. He heard the explosion, felt the heat of it sting him. Pavement broke away in huge chunks and flew in every direction. Glass shattered and buildings were rocked. The dust and smoke were so thick. He was still in shock when something came flying out of nowhere and hit him in the face.

His face was ripped by something sharp. Peter yelped and instinctively slapped his hand over the wound. Hot blood met his hand. He could feel it run down his face, along the sides of his nose and down his cheeks. If there was anyone alive to see him they would think he was crying tears of blood.

Peter knew the wound could close up in an instant but he consciously willed it not to. All of this felt so unreal to him. He-- Peter Petrelli, gentle hospice nurse-- just exploded, yet here he stood alive... though he had no right to be. Peter needed this wound to remain.

Some things shouldn't be allowed to heal.

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Peter Petrelli

October 2013

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