warning:
this work openly explores lydia's ptsd after peter's attack and forced piggy back ride (haunting, threatening, manipulation, coercion, etc.), as well as peter just being a general creep and invading lydia's personal space both in the past and the current time-line of the fic.

please keep in mind that in order to keep it all in character, the language used to describe peter and lydia's interactions with him is reminiscent to sexual violence.

please mind the warning. it was emotionally exhausting for me to write, and potentially triggering for other individuals.

Updated on 1/1/13 on AO3 and the formatting messed up on transfer.

title from warsan shire. full chapter title is: no one can teach you how to greet an empty body


.

there are mornings you wake and you feel so hollow that all you want to do is curl into yourself, pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around your body and try not to shake because you are so lonely and you feel so cold that it's like ice in your veins where there should be blood and—

.

oh, but you're not cold at all, are you, lydia? and he has his hands on your body. his hands in your body.
lips against your ear as he whispers you're so beautiful, so passionate. such a great, big heart. and you seek
out the numbness inside you

and it won't make you stronger but maybe you wouldn't have to feel so much, wouldn't have to—

.

you keep forgetting if you want to cry or if you just want to fall back to sleep, so you stare at the wall and do nothing instead.

.

.

you get up because you have to. because there are no other choices for people like you but to drag your body out of bed. to get dressed, get up, get out.

your limbs feel like lead and it hurts to move (more like you don't want to move, wish you didn't have to, crave the relative safety of your bed, of your comforters), but you keep going anyway. what else can you do, but drag your tight little ass to school and pretend to be as confident as you look?

"good morning, sweetie." you flinch at your mother's voice. you didn't expect her to be up. didn't expect her to be in the kitchen.

weren't prepared for interacting with someone so goddamn early and so it takes you a moment to gather the fractured pieces of your composure before you respond with a curt, "morning."

her expression falls and you feel the twinge of guilt like it's something outside of you.

whatever it is she wants to tell you is lost. you don't look over your shoulder when you leave her behind.

it's not like you'd know what to say if you did.

.

.

you're exhausted and not a little delirious when you walk into school.

like it isn't enough that they treat you like a ghost, now you feel like a zombie as well. your lips twitch, like you want to laugh at the bad joke, but your muscles forgot how to go through the motions and so the feeling is gone before you can taste it.

everything's going through a filter, murky and distant, and while this is new for you, you don't mistake it for "better". new isn't better, new is just different and different doesn't mean anything.

especially not better. you're starting to realize that you're never getting better. that you're never getting anywhere, that no matter what you do or where you go, a part of you is still on that field with blood on your dress and pressed beneath the monster at the end of the book.

and that part of you will never leave.

you grit your teeth and make a sharp left, bumping into something—someone—warm and hard and firm. his scent is familiar, tickles your nose like the soft cotton of his shirt caresses your cheek, and by the time you've recovered enough to react, danny's arms reach out to steady you even as he's stepping back to give you space.

there are reasons why danny is jackson's best friend, but a part of you still wonders why jackson is danny's. wonders what he sees in your ex that keeps him around, if he sees something you'd overlooked in the past or if he thought jackson was cute enough to forgive certain transgressions before the little jerk-off burrowed under his skin.

you understand the latter; after all, the same had happened to you last year.

"hey there, sorry about that." he looks at you in a way you can't describe, you just know it gives you goosebumps all over.

what do you want from me, you think and don't say. maybe it's an innocent look. maybe he doesn't mean anything by it. but you're not used to people looking at you tenderly unless they want to crack you open and take a peek at your insides.

you want to run away. you want to run into his arms. you want you want you want you want—and he smiles a dimpled smile that you've convinced yourself looks sincere even though you've forgotten what that looks like, exactly, and you smile back, small and worn and tired like your heart.

"hi," you say, and it sounds more like a sigh than a word.

danny frowns. says, "you look exhausted. did you get enough sleep?"

something in you clicks. you're not sure what, or what that means. just that he wasn't supposed to notice. nobody is supposed to notice. no one should be able to see beneath your shiny veneer. you tuck the knowledge away for later use—if there's a chink in your armor, you want to find it, fix it, make it impossible to see where there were once cracks.

you shrug in response. you're not about to confess to nightmares, to looking over your shoulder when you're alone, to jumping at empty shadows because you still remember something lurking in them. know in your bones that he's still out there, watching you.

.

it's a weakness. it's pathetic. no one needs to know but you.

.

"i had a paper to write." which is true, except you didn't do it. didn't remember it was due until you lied just now, and you'll have to write it during lunch instead of trying not to look at allison, who sits with the quiet girls who read fantasy novels. "lost track of time."

he nods in understanding. if there's one thing he understands, it's looming deadlines, papers pushed off to the last possible second. it's not his usual style, you know, and it isn't yours either, but sometimes...

"anyways, i have to go."

but as you brush past him, he says your name. says, "lydia, we're friends, right?" you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. you've somehow managed to meet his eyes, but other than that you don't move, don't speak, don't even think.

he continues. "i know we're only close because of jackson, but just because—even though—that doesn't mean—" danny drags a hand through his short hair in soundless frustration. he isn't often at a loss for words, but then you've never really heard him talk. he's a quiet guy, saying only what he needs to and nothing more. sometimes his silence is louder. "that doesn't mean we can't still be friends. i'm here for you, if you want me to be. if you need me to be. all you have to do is say the word."

you nod numbly because you don't trust that words can come out. he smiles softly and looks at you, still with that look that makes your adrenaline spike. your lungs are empty and tight. you can't breathe. you can't breathe and the bell rings, sets you both free.

danny disappears into the crowd. you're anchored.

you watch as everything passes you by.

.

.

you don't want to go to econ. wish you could skip it, pretend it was something other and unnecessary; wish you never had to step foot in there again. it has nothing to do with the class itself—while mr. finstock is an incompetent teacher at best and sabotages his students at worst, high school economics isn't actually hard—but you still remember your breakdown in the middle of class a few weeks ago, how you screamed out in terror, your cheeks stained with tears. Eyes red, mascara streaming down your face... you'd crushed the piece of chalk in your hand like so much garbage, and the blackboard behind you carried the evidence of your fractured psyche.

someonehelpmesomeonehelpmeso meonehelpme

.

you'd never felt as vulnerable—as exposed—as you did in that moment.

.

even now you can hear the laughter, how it trails after you, follows you home until you make yourself sick in the bathroom and you dry heave into the toilet as if you could actually throw your pain up instead of having its heavy weight settle in the pit your stomach.

he's still inside you, that parasitic rot, that smell of death and decay and worms, hands black and grey-brown from soot and earth. but the world keeps turning, keeps spinning, and nobody is waiting for you to get your shit together. nobody is waiting for you to get ready—they expect it to happen tomorrow, yesterday, sometime now in this moment.

asking for help is an admission of failure and you refuse to fail—you cannot fail. not now, not ever. not again.

so you square your shoulders, raise your chin up high, keep going.

.

.


ahn~

shorter than i would have liked, but this is where it wanted to end. i've got almost 1k of chapter three written out, just need to smooth out what would have been the rest of ch2 and make it into something worthwhile.