Gun

Peters mind had wandered, very far. Way deep inside where it couldn't even comprehend what the fuck was going on. It made Peter angry, frustrated.. He couldn't do anything right. It was that time of the night... Peter began to chain smoke, one after another, he kept hoping his lungs would just fail and he would fall dead on the ground. He kept putting himself down, telling himself he wasn't good enough. He was cynical and he couldn't bear to look at people without wondering what the fuck it was they wanted from him. Money? Pleasure? Did they want him to make them laugh? Peter didn't want to care, but he cared so much.. He didn't want to be a failure, but he didn't care enough to make himself any better.. He didn't want to be better, because if he was better, he'd just be angrier, people would expect MORE from him. He didn't want to be expected of anything. He didn't want to be anything at all, all he wanted to be was a pile of bones and rotted meat. He wanted his soul to take off and do whatever it wanted because obviously, it didn't want to be inside of Peter at all.