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Hatred snored like a combine harvester, every exhale from his large body vibrating the bedding around him. Pete wished that he could sleep so soundly, that he could sleep at all. As it was, his mind was abuzz, full of nightmarish scenarios of what Billy could be going through, of how he would return if he returned at all.
Would Billy come back maimed, tortured either physically or mentally? Would Brock bring back nothing but a tiny, lifeless body? Billy had been kidnapped so frequently over the past few years, but no matter how many times it happened, Pete could never get used to it.
He had, however, gotten used to playing tough, pretending like none of this was scary to him, like his anxiety wasn’t eating him from the inside out every time Billy vanished. He’d played this game for so long, since before college, always hoping that somehow, if he lied to himself enough, if he fooled everyone else for long enough, then maybe he’d stop feeling entirely.
Hatred’s words from earlier stung. Pete wasn’t sure why; he knew he was a liar, a fraud, hiding behind a mask of indifference to appear strong when he was weak, so weak. Always cherry-picking his words, how he said he felt about other people in hopes that if he picked the right ones he could avoid ridicule. Pete wasn’t sure why it hurt so much to hear from someone else what he’d already known for years.
Pete had lived behind a mask for so long that he wasn’t sure what he was really like anymore, if there was any depth left behind the mask, or if he was nothing more than a starfucker who felt sorry for himself. Pete dug his long nails into his forearms as Hatred gave a contented snore-sigh.
He hoped that wherever Billy was, he was okay.