one more troubled soul » petekey

Seven

"The weak can never forgive.
Forgiveness is an attribute
of the strong."
- Mahatma Gandhi

Pete woke up to the sound of a guitar. An electric one. Loud. Angry. Incredible. Someone was playing furiously, passionately. It stirred something within him before he was even fully awake. He sat up, feeling himself sink deep into a couch, and then rubbing his pounding head. He was completely out of it, more than he ever had been. He had gotten drunk a million times, especially in his senior year of high school, but never that badly. He couldn't even remember anything after getting punched by those heavily tattooed fists. God, he was so fucked.

He looked around, seeing nothing but an apartment in shambles. There were old and new guitars propped up against walls or left on the floor, cases adorned in stickers and swung wide open. A few pictures hung on the wall crookedly, and an empty nail was stuck in the wall. On the floor beneath it was a shattered frame. There was a TV across the couch Pete was on, playing a grainy infomercial. Balancing on top of it was a turntable, an impressive set of vinyls stacked beside it. On the stained coffee table in front of him lay multiple open packs of cigarettes and worn out lighters, among an array of pages and pages of writing. The entire room felt sad and old, lonely and stuffy. It sort of felt like him.

"Hello?!" he yelled, as loudly as he could. But his voice was groggy and strained, and it came out like a load croak. It sounded off the apartment walls and back into his own ears, his entire hungover head cringing. He groaned and pressed his palm against his forehead hard, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. To his relief, the guitar stopped blaring abruptly and someone slowly emerged from another room.

He was tiny and thin, maybe even shorter than Pete was. His jawline was sharp and slightly stubbled, and a cigarette hung from his thin lips, the bottom one pierced with a glittering ring. He had messy, dark hair that spilled on to his forehead and hung above his dark eyes. He was drowning in an oversized black hoodie and he wore a pair of ripped denim jeans, rolled up at the ankle to reveal bare feet. He tilted his head curiously at Pete, a scorpion tattoo high on his neck revealing itself proudly. Pete cowered into the couch uncomfortably, his eyes settling nervously on the other man's hands. They were covered in tattoos.

Pete's mind exploded. It was wondering so many things and shoving so many questions down Pete's throat that he felt sick and overheated, overwhelmed. His head was screaming for Mikey, all about Mikey, and it was begging for safety and answers about the car and the man and what happened and was this the end. Pete felt the bile rising in his throat and looked at the man with wide, telling eyes. The man just sighed and pointed towards an open door, looking amused as Pete stumbled to his feet lamely. He was walking crookedly and weakly, holding on to things in his path to stay upright while holding his free hand to mouth. It was in his throat now, all the alcohol and the hurt and suck. He didn't even bother to turn on a light as he fell to the floor in the bathroom, reaching out desperately for a toilet seat. He hands suddenly grazed one and he grabbed the toilet with white knuckles and threw himself forward, getting sick as soon as his head was snapped over the seat. He felt it all rush through his throat and ears, his entire being buzzing with regret and nausea. He breathed heavily as soon as he was done, gagging at the smell and the taste that hung around himself. It made him feel even more lightheaded.

The light turned on, and he weakly turned himself around to face the man, who was now standing the door way, running a hand through his hair. He offered a forced and noticeably fake smile. "Feel any better?" Pete shook his head in response, huffing in pure frustration and anxiety. The man walked in and grabbed a small wash cloth from the sink, tossing it Pete's way. It landed at his feet, dirty, used and torn on all its sides. "You got a bit on your face. Clean the fuck up."