Peter sat in his room, picking at the duvet cover. It was growing darker in the room and Peter was disturbed by the changing of the light, but he didn't seem to realise he could just flip the switch and flood the room with fake illumination. He just sat there and continued to pick while he thought about the things Thomas had said. He knew the truth now. Thomas had been avoiding him because he was hard to be around. It was hard to watch Peter become something he wasn't. Peter understood that on a basic level, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. Peter was scared. He wanted his friend. He didn't want to succumb to the tumour in his head alone. He wanted someone to hold his hand, but everyone was either too preoccupied, though legitimately so, or they didn't want to face the truth of what was happening. Just a few weeks ago Peter's prognosis had been good. And then he had had a major seizure in the bath which had changed everything. That vision, which had admittedly been of not much, had set everything in motion and now he was slipping and even Peter knew it. He knew he wasn't acting like himself. He also didn't quite remember what he was supposed to act like. It was all so frustrating and, thinking about it, Peter began to weep.
( Not right in the head... )
( Not right in the head... )