Before It's Voiced

Confessional

Beta'd by the amazing Chaotic_Panda

~

confessional

a first-person style that is often presented as an ongoing diary or letters, distinguished by revelations of a person's deeper or darker motivations

Pete's day is restless and, consequently, the following night is the same. Each hour feels shorter than the last, dripping off the clock with a sticky kind of glee. Fingerprint minutes press against the window in the shape of a fading sun. Soft seconds slip from Pete's grasp with the elusiveness of soap suds— good and clean but bitter and impossible if he tries to hold onto them for too long.

As night falls, he waits, almost hoping for a whisper from the bathroom— laughter or perhaps a cursing of his name. But it's silent— so silent. Even the monsters in his mind circle his thoughts unresponsively and, though he's only seen them in imagination, Pete can almost feel the weight of their eyes on him like blind, crawling ants.

Stop that, he tells himself sternly, sitting with his back pressed against his bedroom wall. You're acting as irrational as everyone claims you are.

Still, the minutes drag on and Pete's breaths expand to thunderous sighs filling the room like oversized balloons. The mermonsters listen closely in his head, lined along the edges as if attempting to decode a secret message.

"Curious today, are we?" Pete asks, only for them to shriek their way back into the shadows like rats suddenly exposed to light.

We heard you are bringing the siren. A good choice. A smart choice. Go home, soon, human. We will leave. We will be gone and the prince will be—

"Shut up." The words pull involuntarily from his throat as Pete jerks his head to the side— all his choice but not his conscious doing. He's been on edge since the... the discussion with Patrick and the monsters' words are far from helpful. Not that there has been anything helpful around here. It's all so messed up and Pete smiles like it's funny. "No matter what happens, he's still a siren and that means he has more power than you."

Believe what you will but we have the truth, the creatures say, more curtly than they've ever spoken before. You cannot protect him forever. You will leave, sooner or later. We promise.

Pete's lips press tightly together. He doesn't entertain their words with a further response, brushing off their sniggers-- scratched and hushed but leaking through his thoughts all the same. The sound brings a scowl to his face. When had their presence in his mind expanded so far? It began with dreams and whispers, the odd chuckle here and there, with only one full attack to concern him. But, now? Conversations and constant commentary? A smiling quietness that hadn't been there before? The quiet contempt grows more unnerving with each day. As if they're... planning. Scheming.

Preparing.

Pete pushes the thought away and rests his head back against the wall.

The moon rises with a light that drowns out the stars. It's welcomed by the subtle shifts of water swaying back and forth as Patrick wakes.

Pete smiles softly at nothing in particular; he shuts his eyes before they have a chance to tempt him with the sight of the bathroom door.

Moments pass like this. Little splashes and quiet breaths, heard only because the silence of the house dares to emphasize each sound. Water trickling through the air on soundwaves meant to shut the monsters up, keep them hidden because they can't see what their prey is doing.

Pete can't, either, but that doesn't stop him from imagining. Patrick twisting and turning as he opens his eyes, trying to keep quiet but too clumsy to do so properly. Somehow, he's short— small, little? — enough to fit in the bath but his tail extends over the edge in a manner he often jokes about. Never complains, never whines. Just... comments.