ilomilo

Peter's POV:

He woke up surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

 After his 11th attempt he finally untied to rope binding him to the chair. His whole body ached. He took a step & fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled backward on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness.

He tried to remember how he ended up here. He was walking home from school. A group of people walking behind him. He turned around to ask, but they put a cloth on his mouth, the smell of cloroform, the confusion, darkness, and now he's here.  Alone. 

For some time he sat there, shuddering, hoping this is just a bad dream, that he'll wake up any moment now, but the time just stretched longer. He tried to sink in this new reality, fearing those men will come back, but when no one did, he dared to go up and look around in the dark.

He was surprised to see all his kidnappers on the floor, in the different state of unconsciousness.

And even more surprisingly, he was unharmed.

They haven't done anything to him while he was unconscious, at least nothing that he could feel. 

Well, his right arm was stinging, like a bee has stung him, but that was it. And the occasional places where the rope has sat too tight on his skin has turned pink, and scratchy, but nothing that wouldn't go away in a few days.

This didn't make sense.

This. Didn't. Make. Any. Sense. At all.

They weren't supposed to leave him unharmed, that's the whole point of kidnapping, right?

Did the police came? But the police wouldn't leave him with them. The police wouldn't beat them up either. Then who?

The first thing he heard was pained breathing of a dying animal, or so he thought. But soon his eyes caught a shadowy figure at the corner of the room, and realized that's where the sound originated from. The sheer pain in the man's voice turned the boy’s stomach sour with nausea; a smell like rotting blood invaded his senses, making him feel worse. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting.

But the man didn't make a move towards him, didn't even try to. He just lay there, cluntching his side. Even in the dark Peter  could see the blood surrounding the man.

And then it hit him. The man wasn't one of his captivators, he is the one who saved him, and now, he was dying, because of him. His heart filled with self loathing. He should have done something sooner. 

He shakingly walked towards the man. Each step groaned and creaked under his weight; he might’ve stopped for fear of falling through the old wood if he didn't know that he's responsible for the man's misery infront of him. 

Up he went, wincing at every splintered sound. He was always such a coward. He kicked himself mentally. 

As if the taunting gave him a sudden burst of courage, he walked over to the broken figure, ignoring the creaking floorboards —ignoring his pounding heart, suppressing the dreadful feelings they induced. 
 
Peter leaned in closer, but when he got a clear look at the condition of the man, his heart went cold. He had to fight the bile that surged up his throat.

The look was fast—only a few seconds—but it was enough to haunt him forever. A twisted, pale figure writhing in agony, stomach cut open, bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the man’s body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered him, red hives, bloody scratches. His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth but unseeing.

The image had already burned into Peter’s mind before he jumped down, touching the man gently, oh so gently. At least there was a pulse, but the moans and screams coming out his throat sounded nothing like a living thing could make, it sounded... dead. 

And all of this was because of him. 

He is the monster.