Notes: One more chapter, I swear. I swear. I swear. *prays for the end to be near* Title comes from Third Eye Blind's "Slow Motion".

As Death Slides Close To Me, Won't Grow Old To Be

These days, more than anything, I feel tired. All of the time. I feel so tired that I can't get out of this tiny, sterilized white bed for anything. Too tired to eat, too tired to talk, too tired to think.

I think I'm killing myself. But I can't get over it; I can't step over the pain to find life. All the medication, all the therapy, all of the hospitals in the world aren't going to make me any better.

More than anything, I'm so glad to have figured this out. But still I wonder… is death the only way out? In death there may be reunion, and for that I would be immeasurably happy. But suicide feels like such a weak answer. I don't want to be just another death, nor another basket case in a hospital. I don't want to be a coward. But I'm not doing anyone any good sitting here day after day in this white-walled prison.

Pietro ran away and I ran home, hoping and praying that he'd gone back there instead of toward the city. Because toward the city there was so much danger. And I didn't really trust Pietro's judgment when he was so upset.

No. He hadn't come home. I paced the floors with worry for hours, and he didn't come home. I tried to find something constructive to do, but he didn't come home.

I had my first honest-to-god panic attack at eleven o'clock that evening. Sitting in my room, whining and keening and moaning and pulling out my hair, I panicked and prayed to God. Please God, bring him back. We tried so hard, God. Please understand. I'll do anything, anything at all.

Just don't take him. Don't leave me here alone.

I had two more panic attacks that night, at 2:30 and 4:25 respectively. I drifted nervously in and out of sleep. I hyperventilated. I paced. I bit my nails. I didn't know what else to do. I'd check periodically; check his room, check the living room, check the kitchen, check the bathroom, check everywhere to see if maybe, possibly, he had returned home. But somehow I knew, in some small, scared part of my brain, that he wouldn't be coming home. I knew where he'd gone, and I knew he'd never be coming home.

And goddamn if that little part of me wasn't right.

I got up early, wandered around the house a little, and then gave up and sat at the kitchen table. It was Monday, of course, because his appointments at the clinic were always on Sundays. And it should have been a school day, but it wasn't because of some sort of teacher's in-service. So I was the only one awake for hours and hours, because the rest of the house had taken the opportunity to sleep in. I sat and watched the sun rise. I thought about being Catholic and how suicide is a sin, but self-mutilation apparently isn't. I thought about honoring thy father and thy mother and how that doesn't seem to apply the other way around, since I was never particularly honored. I put my palms together for the first time in years and actually prayed. The Lord's prayer, a Hail Mary, whatever I could think of. I babbled out loud, and I honestly hope God was listening.

Tabitha was the first to stumble downstairs. She stared at me for a moment with bleary eyes, still wearing her pajamas, and then turned to look behind her. Seeing nothing, she looked back at me.

"Have you been sitting here all night?" She asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. I only nodded before letting my head sink into my hands.

"Did Pietro come home?" She voiced her second question in a low voice, obviously concerned. It made me want to cry.

"No," I mumbled from between my fingers. She stood, silent, for a moment before beginning to fix herself breakfast. Todd came down about half an hour later, followed closely by Freddy. They tiptoed around me in silence

At almost eleven o'clock, there was a knock at the door. I leapt from my seat, knocking over the chair, and sprinted into the foyer. I thought it was Pietro; relief was coursing through my entire body. When I think back, I wonder why this was. Why would Pietro knock, after all? Perhaps it was optimism, blind optimism. I wanted so badly to believe he was coming home.

However, when I opened the door I found, not Pietro, but a young and nervous policeman.

He had his hat off.

A policeman holding his hat is a very bad sign. 

Before I could say a word, he spoke. "May I please speak with the legal guardian of Pietro Maximoff?"

I swallowed hard. "I'm his legal guardian." The policeman narrowed his eyes slightly.

"I was informed that a Miss Raven Darkholme was recently named as his legal guardian."

"She left us," I replied curtly, my patience cut short. "I'm eighteen; I'm his legal guardian." A hand touched my shoulder, and I turned to see Tabby, Todd, and Fred standing behind me.

"What's going on, Lance?" Tabby whispered. They were all staring at me, wide-eyed and confused, Tabitha at the forefront. I shrugged off her fingertips and turned back to the cop.

"What is your name, please?"

"Lance Alvers."

He had pulled out a notebook and took my name down diligently. "Son, may I please step inside?"

"No," I said through clenched teeth. "No, you can't." I stepped on to the porch and pulled the door halfway shut behind me. "Tell me out here. Tell me what happened. Where is he?"

"I regret to inform you…" The man obviously had his speech rehearsed. But as soon as I heard those words come out his mouth, I knew. I knew for sure.

"He's dead isn't he?"

"… He was found in a particularly rough neighborhood…"

A pause.

"Apparently he was a target for robbery. Because he didn't relinquish his wallet right away, he was shot repeatedly in the head." I began to blink rapidly in unspoken pain. "Police were called as soon as the shots were heard but there was little we could do… officers are still on the lookout for the perpetrator."

Another pause. He seemed to be waiting for a further reaction from me, but I had none to give.

"He was dead on arrival. He didn't suffer."

I closed my eyes then and clearly saw a rainy night, a treacherous curve, a car going off the side of the road and careening into a gigantic elm tree. The tree had made it, but my mother had been dead on arrival, my father brain-dead on arrival. And a larger-than-life policeman had appeared in my doorway with his hat off. I could feel the cycle repeating.

"I'm sure this is a very difficult time for you, but… I'm afraid…" He coughed nervously. "I'm afraid I'll need you to come down to the police morgue to identify the body."

I could only nod. "One moment, please." I held up a single finger and kept my head bowed as I stepped lightly across the threshold into the Brotherhood Boarding House, now less one member. The surviving inhabitants stared at me with eager and anxious faces.

"Why is there a policeman here?" Tabitha paused and, seeing the look on my face, lowered her voice. "Is it about Pietro? Where is he, Lance?" I stared at her for a moment, not comprehending. Why was she still here? Why was I still here? Why were we all still alive and why was Pietro dead?

"Gone." I croaked finally. "Gone. Not coming back."

"Where did he go?" Todd's voice was very small in the still and quiet room; I felt pity for him. For all of them.

"I hope…" My voice cracked suddenly, and they all tensed, waiting for my explanation. "I hope there is a God."

Tabby gasped. Fred closed his eyes. I stared down at the floor, seeing it with new eyes.

"I have to go… go to the morgue. To identify… his… remains." After a moment, I felt a hand curl over my own. I looked up to see Tabitha's blue eyes shining up at me. They reminded me eerily of Pietro's.

"We'll come with you."