It all started as a normal school day. Peter and Tate had been friends for the longest time and this day was like any other. Except it wasn't. Tate hadn't been waiting for Peter when he got there and that was the first thing to tip him off. It wasn't like Tate to be late. Okay scratch that, it was. School had been going pretty normal until the gunshots were heard. Then the screaming. Peter was in the hallway, going between rooms and instinctively ducked. His heart raced faster than normal and he laid his head back and closed his eyes.
"Please don't be Tate. Please don't be Tate." He muttered under his breath continuously. For a few minutes everything was silent. Peter worked up enough courage to step out of his hiding place and came face-to-face with Tate. Peter wheeled back a little bit, seeing the guns hanging off Tate and the one in his hands. Peter almost ran out knowing he could get everyone out of the school before Tate killed anyone else but something stopped him. The silver speedster stood and stared at Tate, his best friend, and didn't recognize him. Something around him was off. His face that was usually full of laughter and hidden pain was blank of emotion. As Peter studied him, he felt cold metal press against his chest. Tate looked at him and for a moment his eyes flickered with something. But in an instant, something went wrong. A jarring pain shot through Peter's body as he watched himself fall in slow motion. He felt the lead bullet ripping through his chest, shattering bone and tearing muscle. Tate shot the speedster a sad/happy look and raced off. Peter laid on his back, gasping for air and feeling the scarlet blood seep through his clothing. For a few excruciating seconds Peter laid there, his vision going blurry and red. Then it was over. Peter warily opened his eyes and blinked. He looked up and saw the ceiling of a familiar bedroom. The speedster shot up and looked around, seeing Tate's posters around him. Peter slowly got on his feet and put his hands to his chest, feeling for the ragged hole in his clothes and flesh. What he found only served to confuse him. There was nothing out of place. His Pink Floyd shirt was still in perfect, worn condition. His jacket was back on his shoulders and there was no blood. Peter remembered perfectly the sound of bullets and the feeling on lead ripping through his chest, and the blood dripping down his sides. The speedster glanced around, his fingers brushing his legs.
"Hello? Anyone home?" Peter called softly. He walked to the door and pressed his hand against it, wincing slightly at the creaking noise it made. "I forgot how old this house was." He muttered to himself, walking out of the bedroom. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he ducked in and out of the rooms, looking for anyone. At one point he saw the old grandfather clock, seeing school was just getting out. The silver speedster shook his head and called out again.
"Constance? Are you home?" His words echoed through the old house. Peter went still as he heard footsteps and pressed himself loosely against the wall. As Constance rounded the corner.
"Tate, honey are you home?" She asked, her voice tight with some emotion Peter couldn't discern. She turned a full circle and saw Peter. Constance let out a sigh and smiled softly.
"Come on out Peter. Sorry honey. I thought you were Tate." She said as Peter pulled away from the wall. He looked down and started messing with his sleeves. He opened his mouth to say something then winced as Tate opened the door.
"Mom, I'm hooooome!" He said in an unusually cheery voice for what he had just done. He slammed the wooden door behind him as Peter zipped away, down to the basement. There he found a woman sitting on the ground, her head dipped forward and tears rolling off her face. The speedster padded forwards gently and knelt next to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, his ears still listening to what was happening upstairs.
"Hey. My name's Peter. What's yours?" The teen asked softly, the possibility of her being dangerous not even crossing his mind.
"Nora Montgomery." The women answered through tears. "Have you seen my baby? I need my Thaddeus." Peter looked at her, a memory tugging at the back of his mind.
"Thaddeus? Where have I- Oh." The scab suddenly ripped free as the memory poured into his brain. It was one of those days Peter and Tate were playing around in the house. They had pushed the toy dump truck down the stairs into the basement and had been attacked, if you can even call being scared silly attacked, by a monster of a baby. They had huddled in the corner, crying and screaming for Constance, who had been passed out drunk at the time. Instead, Nora had found them, shooing Thaddeus away and being kind to them. The former owner of the Murder House had told them two things. One being, "If Thaddeus comes back to scare you again, just shut your eyes and say 'go away', you understand boys?" The next one was a saying that would stay with Peter until he died. Or died again. He was still confused about that. It was this what he repeated now.
"Life is too short for so much sorrow." He told her, squeezing her shoulder. Nora finally looked up and saw Peter's pale face. She shook her head and answered through tears.
"I was wrong. Life and sorrow are for eternity." Peter gave her a sympathetic look. He was about to answer when he heard feet pounding through the house. Nora disappeared as the teen stood up and ran normal human speeds up the stairs just time to see the SWAT team entering Tate's bedroom. Peter stood next to Constance, unable to get through the wall of men. What he heard scared him a little bit. In the dead silence of the house, a small sound came from Tate's room. Peter saw Tate put a finger to his temple and pretend to shoot himself in the head as he imitated the sound of a shooting gun. Then everything went to crap. Tate lunged for his pillow and pulled out a small hand gun but before he could shoot, his body was filled with lead as the SWAT emptied their clips into him. Constance screamed and pushed past the others, as Peter just turned away and disappeared into the basement. He curled up in the corner and put his hands over his ears to block out the sound of screaming and crying. Peter squeezed his dark eyes shut, feeling tears slipping out and not even caring anymore. Tate was dead and nothing was going to change that.