A 13 year old boy with weird ghost powers is convinced by his terrorist father-figure to help him end the world, while the CEO of a delivery company and a mailman with his baby try very hard to convince him otherwis
°•| I Know The End |•°
Part 1/?
Chapter One: 02106.
The hallway felt too cold to Wight, biting right through his jacket. His hands were shaking. Maybe, it was all in his head. His boots sounded too loud along the tiled floor. The boy had half the wish that the ground below would swallow him up and he'd disappear.
He glanced down at his sport watch again: 2:27 am. Just a few more minutes, then would come "the beginning of the end"—or at least that's what Petey had said. The whole thing still made no sense to Wight, but that didn't matter. He would do this, for Petey. It didn't matter what he had to do. He'd do it for Petey.
Wight stopped in front of the door; room 02106, just like Petey said. He could hear a television blaring from inside; the trill of canned laughter, indistinct voices buzzing from speakers. The hair of the back of his neck stood on end, and he swallowed down the anxious sting of bile in the back of his throat.
'Do it for Petey.' Wight thought to himself, pressing his lips together into a thin line, 'You can do this. Petey said it'd be easy.'
His eyes darted to the opposite end of the hallway; Petey was leaned against the wall, blue Bridges hat pulled over his face. He was being inconspicuous, but he was waiting.
Waiting for Wight.
Wight felt conspicuous.
The boy lifted one hand and knocked on the door—not too soft and not too hard. He was trying to be casual, it didn't feel like it was working.
The shuffle of feet sounded before the door hissed open. Wight almost stepped back a pace, but he held his ground. A middle-aged man stood in the doorway, sharp scowl of annoyance plastered across his face. The man's gaze flitted over Wight with an air of stuck-up irritation.
"What the fuck you want, kid? I didn't order anything." The man's voice was sharp, and Wight could only keep his eyes trained on the floor. The boy's heart pounded in his chest.
'Do it for Petey.'
"M'sorry." Wight mumbled weakly under his breath, voice catching in his throat.
"Yeah, okay, what do you wan—" The man's words were cut off abruptly as Wight's form phased into a haze of gray—like a phantom given shape.
The haze swarmed around the man as he inhaled, grey vapor sinking into his skin as he stumbled back a step. The door hissed shut again as the man stumbled around in his apartment, eyes rolling back as he gasped and writhed for control. But, his limbs no longer moved to his will, it was like he'd been pushed from his own body and forced to watch the world act out around him.
His thoughts felt sluggish, warped and pressed as he found his body slowly standing to its feet again. The man tried to scream for help, but he couldn't form the words, couldn't push his voice out of his lungs.
"I'm sorry," The man could hear Wight's voice ringing in his head, rushed and strained and regretful.
It was already in motion. Wight couldn't stop now.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." It was all Wight could find himself saying, over and over again. He couldn't stop now. The man's body stirred again, clumsily stumbling towards a drawer in the back of the room. The man tried to pull his body away, tried to look in a different direction, tried to do anything. He couldn't move. He couldn't think straight.
The man's hand slowly tugged open the bottom drawer, where the man kept his gun. It was loaded. The man still couldn't move.
"Stop—stop it! What's going on-?!" The man's thoughts swirled in panic, his heart racing painfully fast behind his ribs. The man's hand picked up the gun, pulling back the hammer with a hollow click.
"No! No, please! I can't move, I can't—stop!"
His body straightened up, without his permission, without his volition. The man could see his reflection in the mirror hung over the drawer; his skin was deathly pale, glazed with a cold sweat. His eyes stared back at him, now a horrific grey color, like a cataracts had grown over his irises in the last few seconds that had passed—only he wasn't given the mercy of blindness that cataracts would give him in this moment
The gun was pressed against his temple, index finger hovering over the trigger. The man couldn't move his finger, but Wight could.
"I'm sorry…" Wight's whispered voice cut through the static in the man's head, strung with harsh finality.
The bang of the gun was loud, but Wight didn't feel a thing. He stumbled back into physical shape, a strangled yelp breaking from his throat as the man's body tumbled to the ground with a sickening thud. Blood have began to promptly pool along the carpeted floor, the man gurgling faintly as his body lay slumped with the gun still gripped in his hand.
Wight panted, nearly wheezed, out a strained breath, the corner of his eyes stinging as he knelt on the floor. The television still blared loudly from one of the other room in the apartment; canned laughter rang through the space, echoing off the walls. Wight couldn't take his eyes off the man's body; the way it lay sprawled at an uncanny angle, the way blood oozed from the head. Wight felt cold.
The door hissed open behind Wight, but the boy didn't stir. Shoes shuffled to where Wight sat knelt on the apartment floor.
"Hey, look at that…" Petey murmured softly, his hand patting Wight's head as he crouch beside the younger.
"You did it! See? Not that hard. Right, kiddo?"
Wight didn't say anything, he could only stare at the body. Petey rested his hands on the boy's shoulders, carefully turning him to look in his direction.
"Hey, eyes here. It's okay. They don't matter anymore, Wight." Petey whispered with a warm gentleness as he eased Wight to his feet, "It's the beginning of the end, remember? And you're sticking with me…"
"…Till the shows over." The boy finished in a hoarse whisper, eyes fixed on empty space as they walked out of the apartment.
"Now—" Petey started as he wrapped his arm around Wight's shoulder. The apartment door hissed shut behind the two of them.
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