Sequel: Paralians ›
Status: Completed.
The Redemption of Peter Wentz
Rest
Three days after Brendon was turned, he comes to. The room is dark; the windows having been covered with blackout curtains. He can’t think properly, like something incredibly distracting is thrumming in his veins.
This is not my room, he thinks.
He notices his parched throat, only for a second before snapping to attention with the new scents in the room. The aroma of laundry detergent was nearly overwhelming in the small space, but soon he began to panic. These sensations were not normal, and as much as he would normally love to make sexual jokes about this, hearing heartbeats in the walls was not something Brendon fancied…at least not now.
Trying to shift his focus from the sounds, he tried to identify his surroundings a little more closely. This was a room he had never been in; most likely the one Pete and Patrick advised him never to go into. There wasn’t much here anyway; there was the window of course, the bed he found himself on that didn’t have as much dust on it was the concrete corners of the room so that must be fairly new and minimalist, industrial-strength bolts rising out of the seamless floor, and the meat locker door that looked a bit too ostentatious for the doorframe. There was no decoration, no embellishment whatsoever and Brendon felt smothered in the bland gray like the stone walls were closing in on him.
A thumping heartbeat was just on the other side of the door, hesitating. Brendon could just make out the thin line of shadow from the soft glow of light that crept from the microscopic cracks in the frame.
“Patrick?” he called, hoping to god it was at least someone he knew. Footsteps answered by tapping against the floor wonderingly. He began to grow anxious by the lack of verbal communication. Nervousness grew in the pit of his stomach and he began to fidget with the hem of the shirt he doesn’t remember putting on. It was maroon and faded, most likely Pete’s and he was thankful to have a little familiarity at the moment.
Then the voice murmured from the other end, just as anxious as he was, nothing if not defensively hostile. The desperate grin that spread on Brendon’s face quickly dissipated. “Pete! I’m in here.” Brendon did not realize how raw his voice sounded. He sucked in a shaky breath when the deadbolts began to click. They did so slower than he would’ve liked, but as he sat hunched beside the bed, perhaps he began to regret the decision. His instinct for self-preservation was unusually high.
Pete shoved the door open with much effort, like the room was a vault and Brendon was the treasure, but that was overshooting the truth. He looked quite defeated as he pushed the door shut again, grunting with the objects in his hands.
A stake,
And a packet of donated blood.
Okay, what?
Pete just…stood there…looking at him. It was like he didn’t even recognize Brendon at all. The stare was intense and skeptical. Brendon backed into the wall further when his gaze left Pete’s to the stake in his hand. Pete gripped it unnervingly like he was weighing his options. To Brendon, he couldn’t figure any possible options other than his craving for the packet in Pete’s right hand. Yet, he didn’t want to move. He felt threatened by Pete.
His only focus was on the packet now and his line of vision narrowed to tunnel status. Brendon licked his lips languidly, still thumbing the hem of the shirt like Pavlov’s dogs.
“Brendon, which one do you want?”
Pete was offering two options, quite merciful for someone with his kind of attitude now.
The wrist, or the packet.
Pick one.
This was a test of the worst kind. Brendon always gave in to his cravings (there was this inside joke for a while about buying himself a prostitute, but he wouldn’t risk health over momentary and regrettable pleasure) and this seemed to be so much stronger now. It was Pete, or a willing source. Brendon stood shakily, hand braced on the bed, and staggered forward closed in on himself like a reprimanded puppy, not even attempting to look Pete in the eye. He wanted Pete’s wrist, so bad, and his clenched fist hesitated for it a moment as he thought it through. Brendon, like the sacrificial lamb that he is, went for the right hand but also like the pathetic human being he was, he couldn’t even grab the packet. Instead, he knocked it out of Pete’s palm like he had a severe case of Parkinson’s.
But the fact was, Brendon put the pieces together. He knew he was no longer human. He wasn’t stupid, he just couldn’t fully comprehend it yet.
The decision opened a floodgate inside Pete, like a slew of emotion just couldn’t take the barriers he’d set up only minutes prior. The stake clattered to the floor.
“Pete, what’s happening to me?” Brendon mumbled. “Am I still me?”
“Yeah,” Pete grinned, taking Brendon’s pale face in his hands. “You’re still you.”
This is not my room, he thinks.
He notices his parched throat, only for a second before snapping to attention with the new scents in the room. The aroma of laundry detergent was nearly overwhelming in the small space, but soon he began to panic. These sensations were not normal, and as much as he would normally love to make sexual jokes about this, hearing heartbeats in the walls was not something Brendon fancied…at least not now.
Trying to shift his focus from the sounds, he tried to identify his surroundings a little more closely. This was a room he had never been in; most likely the one Pete and Patrick advised him never to go into. There wasn’t much here anyway; there was the window of course, the bed he found himself on that didn’t have as much dust on it was the concrete corners of the room so that must be fairly new and minimalist, industrial-strength bolts rising out of the seamless floor, and the meat locker door that looked a bit too ostentatious for the doorframe. There was no decoration, no embellishment whatsoever and Brendon felt smothered in the bland gray like the stone walls were closing in on him.
A thumping heartbeat was just on the other side of the door, hesitating. Brendon could just make out the thin line of shadow from the soft glow of light that crept from the microscopic cracks in the frame.
“Patrick?” he called, hoping to god it was at least someone he knew. Footsteps answered by tapping against the floor wonderingly. He began to grow anxious by the lack of verbal communication. Nervousness grew in the pit of his stomach and he began to fidget with the hem of the shirt he doesn’t remember putting on. It was maroon and faded, most likely Pete’s and he was thankful to have a little familiarity at the moment.
Then the voice murmured from the other end, just as anxious as he was, nothing if not defensively hostile. The desperate grin that spread on Brendon’s face quickly dissipated. “Pete! I’m in here.” Brendon did not realize how raw his voice sounded. He sucked in a shaky breath when the deadbolts began to click. They did so slower than he would’ve liked, but as he sat hunched beside the bed, perhaps he began to regret the decision. His instinct for self-preservation was unusually high.
Pete shoved the door open with much effort, like the room was a vault and Brendon was the treasure, but that was overshooting the truth. He looked quite defeated as he pushed the door shut again, grunting with the objects in his hands.
A stake,
And a packet of donated blood.
Okay, what?
Pete just…stood there…looking at him. It was like he didn’t even recognize Brendon at all. The stare was intense and skeptical. Brendon backed into the wall further when his gaze left Pete’s to the stake in his hand. Pete gripped it unnervingly like he was weighing his options. To Brendon, he couldn’t figure any possible options other than his craving for the packet in Pete’s right hand. Yet, he didn’t want to move. He felt threatened by Pete.
His only focus was on the packet now and his line of vision narrowed to tunnel status. Brendon licked his lips languidly, still thumbing the hem of the shirt like Pavlov’s dogs.
“Brendon, which one do you want?”
Pete was offering two options, quite merciful for someone with his kind of attitude now.
The wrist, or the packet.
Pick one.
This was a test of the worst kind. Brendon always gave in to his cravings (there was this inside joke for a while about buying himself a prostitute, but he wouldn’t risk health over momentary and regrettable pleasure) and this seemed to be so much stronger now. It was Pete, or a willing source. Brendon stood shakily, hand braced on the bed, and staggered forward closed in on himself like a reprimanded puppy, not even attempting to look Pete in the eye. He wanted Pete’s wrist, so bad, and his clenched fist hesitated for it a moment as he thought it through. Brendon, like the sacrificial lamb that he is, went for the right hand but also like the pathetic human being he was, he couldn’t even grab the packet. Instead, he knocked it out of Pete’s palm like he had a severe case of Parkinson’s.
But the fact was, Brendon put the pieces together. He knew he was no longer human. He wasn’t stupid, he just couldn’t fully comprehend it yet.
The decision opened a floodgate inside Pete, like a slew of emotion just couldn’t take the barriers he’d set up only minutes prior. The stake clattered to the floor.
“Pete, what’s happening to me?” Brendon mumbled. “Am I still me?”
“Yeah,” Pete grinned, taking Brendon’s pale face in his hands. “You’re still you.”