Author's note- Hi! I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed this story
and I promise each person who leaves a signed review that I'll R&R one of
your stories when I get time! This chapter contains a character death.
Peter Fenwick ran through the dusty corridors of the were-house. He'd seen Artis taken down by a quick blow to the head, delivered with much violence by Vaughn, who's eyes had been blazing with fury. He'd also seen Sydney get shot by Artis, thought that she was dead, killed by his actions. In that moment, he blamed himself for everything that had happened.
Guilt was the only thing he felt as he ran, pushing himself to get as much distance between himself and that room as possible. His throat burned as he gasped, trying to pull air into his straining lungs. The guilt pushed out every other emotion he should have been feeling. In his mind, all he could see was image after image of people he knew dead and dying. It was safe to say that he'd lost his mind.
As he ran, he remembered the shiny silver gun. He remembered the promise it had made to him. The promise of an easy way out if he needed one. He made his way to the office where he'd seen the gun and found it to be empty, much to his relief. He walked in and shut the door behind him with a little bang. He also flicked off the lights as he walked past, dropping the room into semi darkness.
The gun was still on the desk, along with the ammo. He picked both up and sat down in the torn and dusty chair behind the desk. Moving slowly, he loaded the gun and put it to his head, against his temple. That gun was cold and heavy in his hand. He closed his eyes as he pressed the cold metal against his head.
As his finger tightened on the trigger, tears began to flow down his face, leaving clean streaks in their wake. He was absolutely terrified by what he was going to do. His finger tightened even more on the trigger, and with a single bullet, he bid goodbye to the world. The gun fell un-noticed to the floor, where it landed with a clatter of metal on stone. The sound hung heavily in the silence.
Peter Fenwick ran through the dusty corridors of the were-house. He'd seen Artis taken down by a quick blow to the head, delivered with much violence by Vaughn, who's eyes had been blazing with fury. He'd also seen Sydney get shot by Artis, thought that she was dead, killed by his actions. In that moment, he blamed himself for everything that had happened.
Guilt was the only thing he felt as he ran, pushing himself to get as much distance between himself and that room as possible. His throat burned as he gasped, trying to pull air into his straining lungs. The guilt pushed out every other emotion he should have been feeling. In his mind, all he could see was image after image of people he knew dead and dying. It was safe to say that he'd lost his mind.
As he ran, he remembered the shiny silver gun. He remembered the promise it had made to him. The promise of an easy way out if he needed one. He made his way to the office where he'd seen the gun and found it to be empty, much to his relief. He walked in and shut the door behind him with a little bang. He also flicked off the lights as he walked past, dropping the room into semi darkness.
The gun was still on the desk, along with the ammo. He picked both up and sat down in the torn and dusty chair behind the desk. Moving slowly, he loaded the gun and put it to his head, against his temple. That gun was cold and heavy in his hand. He closed his eyes as he pressed the cold metal against his head.
As his finger tightened on the trigger, tears began to flow down his face, leaving clean streaks in their wake. He was absolutely terrified by what he was going to do. His finger tightened even more on the trigger, and with a single bullet, he bid goodbye to the world. The gun fell un-noticed to the floor, where it landed with a clatter of metal on stone. The sound hung heavily in the silence.