peter :: spideypool au

ONE

Peter kicked a stone on the dirt path, watching as it rolled and tumbled over the exposed roots of a tall oak tree. He was eight years old with a little brown mop of hair, pale skin, and doe eyes. His face was flushed and there was a nagging pain in his gut. Thin pink lips formed a straight line as his brows pinched in pain and perplexity.

He had seen that tree before. And that one, too. But he did not remember leaving the house. He had just memorized a few long-limbed trees in the large, familiar circle. A path that led nowhere.

"Auntie May?" He called, his high pitched voice cracking as the trees did with every gust of wind.

All that returned was a crackle of leaves in the distance. Of which was nearly impossible for Peter to hear, for the noise was several miles away. But his senses were exceedingly strong.

And as he wet his lips, his tongue tasted the air like a snake in the desert. An array of scents stuck to its tip. Saliva bubbled at the corners of his lips.

His gums paled quickly. They ached at the roots; crescent-shaped curves outlined each and every exposed tooth. His mouth couldn't get any whiter. Peter looked like a lost cottonmouth weaving around trees and weeds.

Peter felt sick, and a groaning stomach was a significant reminder.

"Hello?" Yelled the child. He gave up soon after that; his body demanded silence, and he could not disobey.

Instead of retracing his steps, he was going in the opposite direction of where he was supposed to. Peter followed the crackle of leaves as it ricocheted off every tree. His nostrils flared and his eyes closed–almost orgasmically–to take in the forest's musky scent. Something about the situation had him on edge.

Peter heard the rapid heartbeat of a stag headed in his direction. It was approximately three miles north. Hungry, said his stomach. And he was. Peter was very, very hungry. At that time, one of his kidneys was rotting inside him as if it was slowly being consumed. It was because he was hungry, and part of him knew that.

The buck smelled like a bitter sap on Peter's tongue. Urine and feces lingered behind it like a secondary wave of odor. Mud matted the stag's short white tail. It pulled at his hooves, drawing him closer to the earth.

Peter's memory was patchy and foggy, so he was forced to rely on other senses to recall what happened that day in the woods.

He was three times his height and ran with an added weight to his body at a speed that was unheard of. Peter knew this because he could feel the marsh between his toes as his fingers clawed through tree bark. It was silent soon after that.

There was a single cry, but it ended quickly with traces of mercy. But no mercy was left for its remains. Deep snaps of bone and crackling of cartilage began. It was as if Peter sat before a bonfire. The carcass popped and sizzled like white-hot embers and chalky ash. Warmth burned his face as blood dripped from his jowls.

He felt bones hollow between his lips. Bone marrow sat heavy in his stomach. But color returned to his gums and his kidney felt just a little bit better.

Crescent-like shapes colored his gums as he applied pressure to his teeth. He was...gnawing. His teeth carved at hefty antlers. They chipped at the tines and bit from its bumpy roots. The markings he left were not blunt. They looked like they were made by knives and expensive cutlery. That was until his hand broke off pieces–tine by tine–and slid them smoothly down his throat. His throat clenched around them to send them to his stomach even faster, and his jaws crushed the rest to dust.

In the end, nothing remained of the stag. The feelings and predictions made him want to vomit hours later, but the parasite wouldn't let him. He had a full belly, and a part of him was content at that. Satisfied.

Peter sat by a pine tree, his back against the bark. His mind had slowly cleared, and the sky followed it. He wiped away the fog by assessing his body; the action had him racing to remove his jacket.

It was damp with blood and saliva, as it had been licked clean minutes earlier, but Peter had no recollection of that. There was still red deep in the fibers, and it made the jacket heavier. The child wiped his face with the inside fur of the coat. He slid his hands through the warmth to cleanse them of red.

And then he threw it as far as he could, watching as it flew in the wind. It caught a gust of wind and fell only a few feet from him.

The eight-year-old cried. His face was flushed and there was a nagging satisfaction in his gut. Thin pink lips formed a straight line as his brows pinched in pain, perplexity, and sadness.

[ Thank you brokehoax for deliberating with me and helping me with ideas. Granted I got really dark and creepy with it after. Chapters will slowly be getting longer. As of now, they are mostly snippets of Peter's life. Most of the plot will take place after he reaches adulthood ]