Star Wars: The Chosen One || An Anakin Skywalker Story [COMPLETED]

Thirty-One || Hiding... Again

Narrator's POV

Faster than he believed to have ever flown his Starfighter before, Anakin zoomed through the night of Coruscant, similarly to the way the horror rushed through his veins and pulsated his head, throbbing in his ears and whispering to him all the bad things that he could possibly come home to.

Everything he could've ever imagined to have been the worst outcome was what he prepares himself for as he speeds practically in the wrong hyperlane, speeding past angry Coruscant residents as they honk at him, flying by with a whiz of a blur. He was close to snapping his own mechanical hand, wrapping it tightly around the handles of his fighter as his anger increased. His hatred for Demetrious and his fear of what he was to arrive back to at his apartment had completely taken over Anakin, replacing him with a distraught, anxious man who had anger, who had hate, who had fear.

In every minor crevice of his mind was a voice of someone he cared about, speaking to him in a way someone would speak to a child. A vulnerable, afraid child.

Don't let your personal feelings get in the way, lulls Obi-Wan, Anakin's dedicated and trustworthy Master. Anakin grits his teeth when his words fly through his mind in a combusted form with Qui-Gon's voice.

Anakin... Anakin... says the Jedi Master's voice, the symbolic and hearty tone now in a whisper, coaxing him to release his anger.

He couldn't.

Then came his beloved wife Padmé's voice, music to his ears. I truly, deeply, love you...

"No!" Anakin screams through gritted teeth, his anger ripping and tearing through his tough outer shell. He couldn't help himself now; he was aggravated, infuriated, more irate than he'd ever been. His wife's voice pulled something out in him; his fear. His terror for wanting to see her when he got home, his terror of knowing she might not be there.

He was full of anger for anyone who ever dared lay a hand on his family; full of hatred and worry.

But above all, he was terrified. Guilt and horror clouded his mind, sunk his stomach and caused him to be overwashed with nausea and the impulse to break something, to destroy something... someone.

It was sickening, the way he saw himself now, rushing to get home to what might be an empty apartment where there should be life.

Where he needed there to be life.

But with every foot his speeder took in the night of Coruscant, looming closer and closer to his apartment, his heart throbbed in his ears, his forehead condensed with sweat and his stomach churned over and over, all leading up until the apartment came into his view.

His eyes reflected with anger and fear as he parked his fighter with a trembling hand, shaking tremendously and horrifically as he bolts from the speeder, rushing into the veranda.

As though his worry couldn't be worse, his heart sunk inevitably low when there were no lights on in the veranda.

"Padmé!" his voice chokes out, low but choked, raspy and showing hints of tears. In all honesty, he was on the verge of them, fighting back the burning impulse behind his eyes that threatened so strongly to take over.

He hears no response, and enters his apartment without thinking. His head darts one way and the other, scanning the hallway for anything that told him someone, anyone was here... yet, nothing.

No, please, no! His thoughts, in the tone of his once strong and healthy voice, ring through his ears and soul, telling him the worst of what could come.

He had nothing to tell him not to worry; the voices dissipated with his fear, his anger.

Until Padmé appears from around the corner in a nightgown, her hair loose around her glowing face, looking as though something had disrupted her slumber.