Peter thought he was responsible for Christina’s murders.
Roman stared at Peter’s face, and he wanted to laugh, torn between rage and a hysterical incredulity. Was it possible for someone to be so self-centred, so self-absorbed that they could think themselves responsible for everything that happened- good or bad? He felt his lips curl, resentment making every bone in his body hum painfully. Roman knew that it wasn’t Peter’s fault, that Christina did this to herself. She had potential from the start, and walking along the line of sanity, all she needed was a little push to go over- except there was no push, because she jumped of her own volition. It was nobody’s fault but hers, and Roman wanted to tell Peter. Roman wanted to, but Peter didn’t deserve the comfort of truth.
Registering the sharp movent at Peter’s neck, Roman’s heart stilled for a moment before he realised that the hand had moved away, and not into soft skin, severing his jugular and releasing the hot blood that beat beneath. The image played in his mind as the glass fell to the floor: the slide of the shard against skin, the gush of red painting Peter’s hands and neck as it poured down. Roman licked his lips, almost tasting iron on his tongue before he realised what he was doing.
He held himself together outwardly, the only sign of his discomfort being the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. The heat that flowed through him disgusted him, and he stood trembling, not willing to give in to his hunger. Flicking his eyes from Peter to Christina and back, he slowly moved closer to where they were sitting. Glass crunched underfoot, and he kicked most of it away as casually as he could.
His high was fading quickly, but he still felt twitchy and anxious, and he itched for another hit to get him away from what was going on. He wanted to run, far from Peter, far from the source of all his pain, but he couldn’t. Peter was like the cocaine in his veins: dangerous and intoxicating, and Roman could never have enough. He stood awkwardly for a moment, just observing the seated pair.
Christina was a mess, her skin smeared with remnants of food and blood. She looked wild, unstable, and Roman could smell something on her- a mutated scent of death, its sweetness soured by her reawakening. The blood that would have normally aroused his hunger sickened him, and he swallowed hard, his face crinkling unconciously. Her eyes held an emptiness that could’ve rivaled his mother’s, were she still alive. It angered him, for some reason, to look at her, so he shifted his gaze to Peter. The other boy’s eyes still refused to meet his, and Roman couldn’t determine whether the sting in his heart was caused by anger or sadness. He decided he didn’t care. Staring down at him, as though he could compel Peter to look, Roman spoke.
areudirty
origamiaround
theartofmadeline
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
blakekathryn
