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Aly was gone. Peter knew it was just for a little while. Thomas had gotten through to him the previous night. He knew Aly wasn't going to leave him for accidentally hurting her. He knew she didn't blame him. He also knew he blamed himself. Guilt had always been one of Peter's greatest vices. Guilt and alcohol, as the two had a terrible knack for going together. And now was no different. Peter was willing to fight for his family yes. He wasn't giving in. That wasn't what it was about. It was about forgetting.
There was a bottle hidden in the back of the cabinet in the kitchen where they stored the things they never used. The decorative red blender that hardly worked, but Aly had wanted it because it was pretty. The melted plastic strainer that Lydia had accidentally put in a bot of boiling water, and then called modern art when it had twisted into a shape resembling a mutant seashell. Peter pushed it all aside, odds and ends clattering against the wood, as if they were trying to resist moving after sitting still for so long. Peter's knees ached from kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, but he felt his hand hit the smooth glass of the whiskey bottle and he managed to extricate it from the junk without incident.
Peter stood and he set the bottle on the kitchen bench in front of him and he stared at it. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was failing himself and his family, and his friends, but for just a little peace...just a little? Deirdre was gone and Tasha was working and the house was empty save for MaryAnne and Angie and Peter couldn't spill his guts to them. They wouldn't understand.
The lid cracked as Peter twisted it off breaking through the metal seal. He didn't even bother with a glass. He just held the bottle to his lips with a trembling hand and tipped it backwards. The first wash of the burning liquid over his tongue felt like freedom. Like welcoming an old friend home after being separated for far too long. And Peter swallowed quickly so he could drink more. It was as if he couldn't drink it fast enough. He gulped desperately at the bottle, sputtering here and there when he remembered he needed to breathe. And then, when he had drained the bottle nearly halfway and his head was spinning quite pleasantly, he slammed the bottle back onto the bench to take a short break.
Peter's breath came short and sharp. Something was buzzing in the room somewhere...something other than him... He could hear it. It was like he could hear the electricity in the walls. Then his nostrils were assaulted by an almost overpowering smell. Like burning rubber. "Augh!" Peter gasped, covering his nose with his wrist. "Oh, fuck, gross!" Peter grabbed his bottle and he tried to stagger from the room, anything to get away from the smell. The buzzing was growing louder. Maybe the walls were screaming at him for giving in. The house was chastising him by smelling bad and sounding annoying.
The bottle was in Peter's hands and he took another swig from it as he made his way towards the door. His head felt light, and Peter was enjoying the feeling of drunkenness as it washed slowly over him, but then there was a wave of nausea and he stopped in his tracks. It wasn't just being drunk he was feeling. The sounds. The smells. His head. Oh good fuck..... "H...help!" Peter croaked out, but his voice was weak, almost like a whisper. Someone had to come. He had to get someone's attention. This was going to be bad. He could tell. "Help!" Peter cried out, but it was no louder than his first plea.
Pain erupted in Peter's head, burning white hot in his skull. Peter dropped the whiskey bottle, and it exploded into shards on the floor, amber liquid scattering with force through the criss-cross pattern of the grooves between the tiles. Peter fell to his knees then, shards of glass digging into his flesh, tingeing the amber slightly pink with blood. The pain didn't let up. In intensified, along with the rising sound of the buzzing and the terrible smell of sulfur. Peter let out a pained yowl, his hands on the sides of his head. Before he even had the chance to feel another wave of sickness, he leaned forward and vomited forcefully, all over the floor.
I didn't do this! It would have happened anyway. I didn't do this to myself. I'm fighting, dammit! I'm fighting!
Peter's thoughts were desperate and guilty, and they were distracting him from what he needed to be doing. Most of the time when he had a seizure and then a vision, there was no warning. It just happened. This was something else. This was something deadly. He had to get to a phone, though in his current state, that seemed just about as difficult as learning to fly.
Some people can. Peter thought to himself. Some people can!
Crawling forward through the mess of his own making, Peter groaned as more glass found it's way into his legs. The phone was just ahead of him. It was on the kitchen bench, and a sunbeam was hitting it, illuminating it in a way that made it look like some sort of mystical implement high on a sacred shelf. Stupid world mocking him. Inch by inch, Peter closed the distance between himself and the phone, though the pain was building. His head was growing fuzzy. Black spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes.
"Pphhhh...." The left side of Peter's face drooped then, as he lost muscular control. "Heee...heeelll..." He couldn't form words anymore. It didn't matter. If he got to the phone and he dialled any of the speed dial numbers, someone would come.
Peter reached the bench and, as he was left-handed, he tried to raise his left arm to grab for it. Nothing. Peter made a swipe for the phone with a clumsy right arm, but he missed and fell forward, crashing into the wooden cabinets. The phone was now unreachable and Peter let out a frustrated and pained groan. It was over now.
Have to keep fighting. Must....keep...
Peter's eyelids started to flutter, and he sank to the floor without resistance.
His wife's birthday was in two days. It was supposed to be his second wedding anniversary. He wanted to shout to the world that he remembered. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He remembered everything. He was fine, dammit. He was supposed to be fine. His daughter was going to come home and find him. Just like she had found the evidence of her real parents' deaths. Poor Tasha....
No. Fight. Must. Fight-
Pain so debilitating it nearly made Peter vomit again, arced it's way through his body as his brain started sending haphazard electrical signals all over the place. The seizure in the bath had started a bleed from the site of Peter's original surgery. Insignificant at first. So insignificant no one had seen it. But every seizure that had happened since has worsened it. And now, as the seizure that he had been fighting off for nearly five minutes slammed into his body, taking his consciousness with it, the bleed opened wide. A vision Peter could do absolutely nothing about burned into his subconscious. As Peter's head repeatedly bashed itself against the wooden cabinets and the floor, it did it's damage, spreading through the vessels of Peter's brain until he lay still, seven minutes later, in puddles of his own piss and drool.
Peter's heartbeat was fluttery at best and his breathing so shallow, one might even miss it. but even unconscious on the floor of his kitchen with a bleed in his brain, he was fighting.
There was a bottle hidden in the back of the cabinet in the kitchen where they stored the things they never used. The decorative red blender that hardly worked, but Aly had wanted it because it was pretty. The melted plastic strainer that Lydia had accidentally put in a bot of boiling water, and then called modern art when it had twisted into a shape resembling a mutant seashell. Peter pushed it all aside, odds and ends clattering against the wood, as if they were trying to resist moving after sitting still for so long. Peter's knees ached from kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, but he felt his hand hit the smooth glass of the whiskey bottle and he managed to extricate it from the junk without incident.
Peter stood and he set the bottle on the kitchen bench in front of him and he stared at it. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was failing himself and his family, and his friends, but for just a little peace...just a little? Deirdre was gone and Tasha was working and the house was empty save for MaryAnne and Angie and Peter couldn't spill his guts to them. They wouldn't understand.
The lid cracked as Peter twisted it off breaking through the metal seal. He didn't even bother with a glass. He just held the bottle to his lips with a trembling hand and tipped it backwards. The first wash of the burning liquid over his tongue felt like freedom. Like welcoming an old friend home after being separated for far too long. And Peter swallowed quickly so he could drink more. It was as if he couldn't drink it fast enough. He gulped desperately at the bottle, sputtering here and there when he remembered he needed to breathe. And then, when he had drained the bottle nearly halfway and his head was spinning quite pleasantly, he slammed the bottle back onto the bench to take a short break.
Peter's breath came short and sharp. Something was buzzing in the room somewhere...something other than him... He could hear it. It was like he could hear the electricity in the walls. Then his nostrils were assaulted by an almost overpowering smell. Like burning rubber. "Augh!" Peter gasped, covering his nose with his wrist. "Oh, fuck, gross!" Peter grabbed his bottle and he tried to stagger from the room, anything to get away from the smell. The buzzing was growing louder. Maybe the walls were screaming at him for giving in. The house was chastising him by smelling bad and sounding annoying.
The bottle was in Peter's hands and he took another swig from it as he made his way towards the door. His head felt light, and Peter was enjoying the feeling of drunkenness as it washed slowly over him, but then there was a wave of nausea and he stopped in his tracks. It wasn't just being drunk he was feeling. The sounds. The smells. His head. Oh good fuck..... "H...help!" Peter croaked out, but his voice was weak, almost like a whisper. Someone had to come. He had to get someone's attention. This was going to be bad. He could tell. "Help!" Peter cried out, but it was no louder than his first plea.
Pain erupted in Peter's head, burning white hot in his skull. Peter dropped the whiskey bottle, and it exploded into shards on the floor, amber liquid scattering with force through the criss-cross pattern of the grooves between the tiles. Peter fell to his knees then, shards of glass digging into his flesh, tingeing the amber slightly pink with blood. The pain didn't let up. In intensified, along with the rising sound of the buzzing and the terrible smell of sulfur. Peter let out a pained yowl, his hands on the sides of his head. Before he even had the chance to feel another wave of sickness, he leaned forward and vomited forcefully, all over the floor.
I didn't do this! It would have happened anyway. I didn't do this to myself. I'm fighting, dammit! I'm fighting!
Peter's thoughts were desperate and guilty, and they were distracting him from what he needed to be doing. Most of the time when he had a seizure and then a vision, there was no warning. It just happened. This was something else. This was something deadly. He had to get to a phone, though in his current state, that seemed just about as difficult as learning to fly.
Some people can. Peter thought to himself. Some people can!
Crawling forward through the mess of his own making, Peter groaned as more glass found it's way into his legs. The phone was just ahead of him. It was on the kitchen bench, and a sunbeam was hitting it, illuminating it in a way that made it look like some sort of mystical implement high on a sacred shelf. Stupid world mocking him. Inch by inch, Peter closed the distance between himself and the phone, though the pain was building. His head was growing fuzzy. Black spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes.
"Pphhhh...." The left side of Peter's face drooped then, as he lost muscular control. "Heee...heeelll..." He couldn't form words anymore. It didn't matter. If he got to the phone and he dialled any of the speed dial numbers, someone would come.
Peter reached the bench and, as he was left-handed, he tried to raise his left arm to grab for it. Nothing. Peter made a swipe for the phone with a clumsy right arm, but he missed and fell forward, crashing into the wooden cabinets. The phone was now unreachable and Peter let out a frustrated and pained groan. It was over now.
Have to keep fighting. Must....keep...
Peter's eyelids started to flutter, and he sank to the floor without resistance.
His wife's birthday was in two days. It was supposed to be his second wedding anniversary. He wanted to shout to the world that he remembered. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He remembered everything. He was fine, dammit. He was supposed to be fine. His daughter was going to come home and find him. Just like she had found the evidence of her real parents' deaths. Poor Tasha....
No. Fight. Must. Fight-
Pain so debilitating it nearly made Peter vomit again, arced it's way through his body as his brain started sending haphazard electrical signals all over the place. The seizure in the bath had started a bleed from the site of Peter's original surgery. Insignificant at first. So insignificant no one had seen it. But every seizure that had happened since has worsened it. And now, as the seizure that he had been fighting off for nearly five minutes slammed into his body, taking his consciousness with it, the bleed opened wide. A vision Peter could do absolutely nothing about burned into his subconscious. As Peter's head repeatedly bashed itself against the wooden cabinets and the floor, it did it's damage, spreading through the vessels of Peter's brain until he lay still, seven minutes later, in puddles of his own piss and drool.
Peter's heartbeat was fluttery at best and his breathing so shallow, one might even miss it. but even unconscious on the floor of his kitchen with a bleed in his brain, he was fighting.
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Date: 2008-11-30 08:58 am (UTC)From: