I do not own Heroes, if I did Peter and/or Sylar would have died during one of their fights (they really don't want to kill each other, it would seem)

The only thing that I own is my brain a pen and some paper, the computer I use belongs to my parents T_T

Peter sits on his bed, leaning against the wall. In his hand he holds a single pure white rose. He twirls it around, studying it.

White roses are a symbol of purity, something that was within Peter's heart was before everything started. He had managed to keep his innocence longer than most, but no one is able to keep their heart, their soul, pure forever.

He was of pure heart before he found out about his abilities; before he met Sylar; before he got innocent blood on his hands. His heart, his soul, had been tainted by the things that he'd seen and the things that he'd done.

The sounds of light footfalls snaps Peter out of his reverie. He looks up as Sylar walks through the door to his bedroom. A small sadistic smirk appears on his face, illuminated softly by the fading light from the setting sun coming through the window.

"Well well," Sylar says, malicious joy in his voice. "Little Peter Petrelli. You can't call on anyone now. There's no one here to save you."

Peter's gaze returns to the flower in his hand. "I don't need to call on anyone." He murmers, too softly for Sylar to hear properly. "I don't deserve to be saved."

"What's that?" Sylar asks, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Please speak up so I can hear you; I don't want to miss your pathetic attempts to beg for your pitiful life."

Peter's eyes flicked back up to his enemy's face. "Beg?" He laughes mirthlessly. "There's no way that I would ever beg to a sadistic, psychopathic bastard like you. I said that I don't need to call on anyone." His eyes move to stare out at the setting sun, the light reflecting off of the clouds, making the sky look a beautiful combination of magenta and orange. The city lights start to turn on. Peter sighs nostalgically. It wasn't that long ago that everything was so simple. He didn't have to be cautious every single step he took because he could be killed by a psychopathic freak who wanted his ability. "And I said that I don't deserve to be saved." He says softly, his voice filled with the pain and regret that he lived with every day.

"Don't deserve to be saved?" Sylar repeats in confusion, tipping his head to the side and taking a step forward. "Everyone deserves to be saved" He reached out his hand, using telekinesis to hold Peter still. "Unfortunately this still doesn't change anything for you. Goodbye Peter."

"Goodbye Sylar." He closes his eyes. "Thank you." It came out barely a whisper, his lips barely moving as he spoke. He wondered if Sylar would ever know what he had done for him.

Peter doesn't start begging for his life, or screaming out in pain; he just sits there and waits for the pain, the regret, the sorrow, for it all to be over. He was too much of a coward to take his own life, so in a twisted way, the man who killed him had in reality freed him.

The next morning Nathan stands outside of Peter's apartment. He and his brother are supposed to go over a plan to find and defeat Sylar once and for all. He knocks on the door and takes a step back when it swings open, not having been locked or even closed properly.

Hesitantly he steps inside, walking into the lounge area. "Peter?" He calls out anxiously. "Pete, you in here? The door wasn't closed properly." A feeling of dread settles in his stomach as there is no response.

He walks to the door of the bedroom, which is slightly ajar. "Pete?" He calls again, pushing open the door. His blood freezes and his legs give way, tears welling in his eyes as he sees his brother. "No," He breathes, bringing his hand up to his mouth to try to quell the rising nausea from the sight. "Peter..." Tears begin to roll down his face.

Peter still sits on his bed, leaning against the wall, his head tilted sideways. Blood covers the majority of his face and some of his clothing. The top of his head lays next to him, his brain exposed, part of it cut away. He looked merely asleep, the look of innocence that was lost so long ago finally back.

Still laying in his hand is the white rose, stained a deep crimson, its purity forever tarnished.

Thanks for reading and please review!