PTR Arachnid 24601

Ch 17 - Is this home?

WARNINGS: mentions of past self-harm (nothing graphic), insecurity/self-hatred

3rd POV

Half an hour after Peter's arm was bandaged up, and the girls had gone back to bed, the brunette had spent that time in front of the mirror. His clean shirt lay discarded on the toilet seat. The teen was studying his reflection. Studying himself. And he was disgusted by what he saw.

There in the mirror stood a damaged, irremediable, traumatized boy staring back at him through lifeless eyes.

"

It's not the past that you miss,

but the version of you that didn't

know what you are now. 

A time when you still had no clue

your whole life was a lie.

You miss not knowing that

which darkened your smile and

stained your heart. The illusion

that kept your mind from falling

apart

"

~ Poem by S.S.W

The first crack in the glass had been made.

The first piece had fallen away, showing him a world that he had hoped to be a part of.

But not the one he ever belonged in.

The childish hand that used to rest on the tinted glass, longing for the other side, was now older and more mature. This now aged, battered hand longed to be weak and childish once more. To retreat back to the life he's always known.

He stood there staring at himself. At the thin, hollow boy in the mirror who hadn't quite filled in yet despite all the food. At the dead, hopeless eyes that lost their twinkle long ago. The eyes of a broken dreamer that bore into his skin until he shifted uncomfortably, scratching at itches that could never be quelled. Scratching until his skin was red and irritated, but it wasn't ever enough. Why wasn't it enough?

He stared at his body––the scars. Some old, some new. Some were reminders of who he should be. Others were of the things he's been through. They'd always be there, haunting him until death, representing his life as the perfect weapon. He stared at the brand that read 'HYDRA'. He wanted to punch the glass, fruitlessly hoping that if the reflection of his scar breaks, the real one would go away. 

He also wanted to scream. Let out all the anger and frustration over the years. To let out everything he had wanted to say. Of course, he didn't. A voice in the back of his head still yelled at him to 'shut up' and 'only speak when answering a question'. Obediently, he kept his mouth shut, building up the hurricane within, and praying it would never be released.

One more look at his scars.

They were ugly.

He hated them with a passion.

But they had always been there, ever since he was small. Reminders. He didn't need reminders for God's sake. The nightmares were enough. (Or were they? No, no they weren't. Nothing's ever going to be enough).

Because he's never going to be normal.

He's never going to heal.

Trauma, PTSD, nightmares... He'll have to deal with those even more now–– Now that his world has expanded beyond impenetrable white-washed walls and never-ending carnage.