Chereads / Heroes The Mimic / Chapter 4 - I'm not crazy

Chapter 4 - I'm not crazy

The sterile scent of antiseptic was heavy in the air, mingling with the faintest undertone of bleach that seemed to permeate every corner of Clockworks Psychiatric Hospital. In a room awash with the pallid light spilling from fluorescent tubes, Peter Petrelli lay motionless on a narrow bed, his form a mere silhouette against the crisp white sheets. His mother's worried gaze, forever etched with lines of care, never strayed from her son's still face, while Nathan stood rigid by her side, arms crossed, the very picture of controlled concern.

"Come on, Pete," Nathan murmured under his breath, as if willing his brother to open his eyes just by the force of his words.

It was then that a subtle shift occurred; Peter's eyelids flickered a little, struggling to break free from him being unconscious. With a faint groan, he opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh lighting. He tried to lift his hand to shield his vision but found it oddly heavy, unresponsive.

His mother's arms enveloped him, the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla encasing Peter in a cocoon of maternal warmth. He could feel her heart thumping against his own, a silent echo of concern.

"Peter, my dear boy, are you okay?" Her voice was a soft tremor against his ear, the underlying note of fear barely veiled by her calm exterior.

He wanted to reassure her, to wipe away the worry etched deep into the lines of her face, but he couldn't shake the nightmarish images that clung to his consciousness. Peter turned his head, meeting Nathan's gaze, and there was an unspoken plea for understanding.

"Something happened," Peter began, his voice barely above a whisper as he struggled to string his thoughts together. "There was this woman..."

Nathan leaned forward, his brows furrowing with a mixture of skepticism and the need to protect. "A woman? Pete, what are you talking about?"

"She had abilities, Nathan," Peter said, his tone insistent yet laced with a vulnerability that made his words waver in the air. His eyes searched Nathan's, pleading for belief. "She was strong... supernaturally so. She threw me like I was nothing."

"Abilities?" Nathan echoed, the single word heavy with doubt.

"Yes," Peter pressed on, the urgency in his voice rising as he recalled the horror of that night. "And she... she killed someone right in front of me." The stark reality of his statement hung between them, a specter of violence that seemed almost too outlandish to be true.

"Killed someone?" Nathan's voice was incredulous now, the weight of Peter's claim settling over him like a leaden shroud. "Pete, you're sure about this?"

"Positive," Peter replied, the conviction in his voice fighting against the disbelief he saw reflected in his brother's eyes. "I saw it with my own eyes."

Peter's brow furrowed as he caught the wary glances exchanged between his mother and Nathan. Their eyes, wide with something akin to fear, made his pulse quicken, and a hot surge of frustration ignited within him. He wasn't just some fragile case to be handled with care—he was telling the truth.

"I'm not crazy!" Peter's voice cracked like a whip in the sterile silence of the room, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I know what I saw, Nathan. Mom, you have to believe me."

His mother approached the bedside once more, her expression softened as if to cushion the blow of her words. "Peter," she said gently, her hand reaching out to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. "We don't think you're crazy, sweetheart."

"Then why are you all looking at me like that?" his heart pounding against his ribcage.

"Because, my dear boy," she continued, her voice tinged with a sadness that only seemed to deepen the creases in her face, "sometimes your mind sees things... things that aren't there. You've always had such a vibrant imagination, such a special way of seeing the world."

"Special? Is that what we're calling it now?" The bitterness in Peter's retort couldn't mask the underlying hurt. "And what about the woman? The one who—"

"Peter," she interrupted, her tone firmer now but still laced with compassion. "There was no one there. It was just you. You've been through so much, and it's hard for you to separate fantasy from reality sometimes."

"Fantasy?" Peter's chest heaved, a torrent of emotions threatening to spill over. "You think I'd make this up?"

"Of course not," she reassured him. "But we need to focus on getting you better, on helping you find your way back to what's real."

"Back to what's real..." Peter echoed, the fight draining out of him as he slumped against the pillows, the stark white of the hospital room suddenly too bright, too oppressive. His mother's words, meant to comfort, felt like chains binding him to a reality he couldn't accept—a reality where he alone was the harbinger of chaos.

"Special," Peter muttered, the word like acid on his tongue. He felt the heat of anger rising in his chest, a counterpoint to the chill of the sterile sheets against his skin. His gaze flickered between his mother's earnest eyes and Nathan's stoic face, each looking at him with a mix of concern and disbelief.

"Peter, listen to me," Nathan interjected, his voice low and measured, trying to pierce the veil of frustration clouding Peter's mind. "You need to calm down. Take a deep breath for me, okay?"

The command lodged in Peter's throat, a stubborn refusal to comply battling with the part of him that craved the reassurance of obedience. But as his brother's words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken plea, Peter found himself drawing in a shaky lungful of the antiseptic hospital air.

"Okay, I'm breathing," he said, the effort doing little to quash the turmoil inside him. "But why—why am I tied up?" His wrists ached against the restraints, a physical reminder of his lack of control, of his helplessness.

"Peter, they had to make sure you didn't hurt yourself," his mother explained softly, her hand reaching out but stopping short, hovering in the space between them.

"Hurt myself?" Peter spat, incredulity sharpening his tone. "I was attacked. By her—the woman with abilities! Why won't anyone believe me?" His voice cracked, the desperation clear.

"Because, Pete, it's hard to believe something when there's no evidence to back it up," Nathan said, his brow furrowed, the weight of his own doubts etched into the lines of his face. "You have to understand our position, too."

"Position?" The word echoed mockingly in Peter's head. "How can I understand when everything I know to be true is being questioned, when my sanity is the price?" He looked at them, his family, searching for some glimmer of trust, some sign that they held onto the brother, the son, they once knew.

"Please," he whispered, the fight draining from him as swiftly as it had arisen, leaving behind only the raw, aching vulnerability of a man adrift in his own reality.

Nathan's voice cut through the tension, level yet firm. "You don't remember, do you? You were found in an alleyway, Pete. Your hand was bloody—smashed against a breaker box."

"Smashed?" Peter's brow creased as he processed Nathan's words. "No, that's not what happened. I was thrown—"

"Thrown?" Nathan interjected, skepticism lacing his tone.

"Look, I remember it clearly," Peter insisted, the frustration evident in his clipped speech. "There was this woman, and she had powers like—like mine."

"Peter," Nathan sighed, shaking his head, his disbelief a tangible force in the room. "We've been over this. There was no one there. Just you... and the breaker box."

"Wrong," Peter retorted, each word punctuated with conviction. "I would never do that to myself. Never."

At that moment, the door to the hospital room swung open, silencing their exchange. A doctor, clad in white, stepped inside with a solemn nod. His arrival was timed impeccably, just as the argument reached its peak.

"Family of Mr. Petrelli," he began, his voice devoid of emotion, the harbinger of order in the chaos of the room. "I'm afraid visiting hours are now over. We will have to ask you to come back tomorrow."

"Already?" Peter's mother asked, her voice tinged with concern. She glanced at the clock on the wall, then back to Peter, torn between her maternal instincts and the rules of the facility.

"Mom, please." Peter's voice was a raw plea as he watched her stand. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached out, brushing back the dark hair from his forehead to plant a tender kiss on his skin. The warmth of her lips lingered like a fading promise.

"Peter, my sweet boy," she murmured, her eyes welling up with a sadness that mirrored the dim lights of the hospital room. "We're not leaving you. We'll be right back, first thing in the morning."

Nathan stepped forward, his presence solid and reassuring in the sterile environment. He leaned down, wrapping his arms around Peter in a brotherly embrace that was both protective and supportive.

"Stay strong, Pete. You know I've always got your back, no matter what," Nathan whispered, a note of unspoken apology threading through his words.

"Guys, don't—" Peter's voice cracked as he strained against the restraints, desperation bleeding into his tone. "I'm not crazy. You have to believe me!"

But the finality in their movements told a different story. His mother wiped away a tear as she turned towards the door, her steps faltering. Nathan followed, casting a glance over his shoulder that was filled with conflict.

"Mom! Nathan!" Peter called out, his voice escalating to a yell that echoed off the cold walls. "Please! Don't leave me here! I'm telling the truth—I'm not—"

The door clicked shut, cutting off his view of them, silencing his pleas. The echo of his own shouts rang in his ears, a haunting reminder of his solitude.

"Mr. Petrelli," a nurse said softly, approaching his bedside with a syringe in hand. "Let's try to calm down now, okay?"

Peter turned away, his breathing ragged, chest heaving with the weight of his protests. They hadn't listened; they never really listened. As the medication began to take effect, dulling the edges of his reality, a single thought clung to him before darkness pulled him under once more: he wasn't crazy. He couldn't be.