lifeboat

39.

pete didn't know what he should've been feeling right then - accomplishment? certainty? he'd finally done it; the last few months of his life had led up to that very moment, so why did his heart drop to the floor?

he suddenly felt very, very sick, and the back of his skull burned like someone had doused his hair in gasoline and set it on fire; he stared at the empty pill bottle resting on the counter and covered his mouth with a hand. what had he done?

suddenly, he was a live bomb, a timer above his head ticking away until he'd explode.

pete stumbled back, bumping into the toilet and falling onto the floor. what the fuck had he done?

he heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and someone yelling his name, but the whole goddamn world was spinning and his lungs were compacting and he couldn't fucking breathe -

pete didn't want to die on his bathroom floor. he had dreams to chase, places to go, and history to make - what was he thinking?

he had so much to live for, and now life itself was slipping through his fingers.

the bathroom door swung open, and pete was too overwhelmed and afraid to fully comprehend that someone had broken into his house in the middle of the night.

"pete," whoever it was said, starting forward hurriedly and getting down next to him on the floor. "are you okay? pete!"

pete tried to push himself up, the world still swaying around him like a boat cruising the ocean. "i'm fucking dying, oh my god, i don't want to die."

"pete, pete, what did you do?"

the words were too loud and pete squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering a little bit. he didn't want to die, especially not like this.

"pete, what the fuck did you do?"

--
i don't need any angst in my life right now