transformis: beticons @ ij (“тнe one тнaт yoυ are looĸιng ғor)
He's feeling itchy.

Itchy isn't the right word for it--but he feels too uncomfortable. Physically, like there's something scratching inside of him. There is, literally, but he goes through his class without batting an eye. High School is the best days of your life, or the saying goes. Peter's never been so bored with algebra in his entire life.

The full moon is coming, and that's why. He's not just aware of it, he's insanely, hyper-tuned to the damn thing. Occasionally, he thinks he smells bacon grease from absolutely no where at all. He wonders if that's a psychological affect from slathering it on his own face many, many moons ago. It can't be actually there.

This is what occupies his thoughts, not that there are people looking at him. Whispers of the new poor kid being this or that. He ignores them, mostly because he doesn't have time to deal with idiotic 17 year olds despite being 17 himself. Old souls, his mom said. All the Rumancek boys are.

All the Rumancek boys are. Or all of them would be, had he not been the only child on his moms side. It's a big clan, for lack of a better term, and one that minds their own fucking business. He does have to meet up with Destiny's boyfriend for a quick chat about his latest scheme, most likely to talk the idiot out of it, but right now, he doesn't feel like driving. So he walks.

The Rumancek house--and it's more like a trailer in a trailer park--is quiet a ways away. Peter lights up a hand rolled cigarette, part tobacco and part wolfsbane, to try to mellow him out as he starts the long walk through farm fields and away from the quiet town they've recently moved into. The stupid smell of bacon grease is gone the moment he inhales, and he lets out a heavy, pleased sigh as he starts walking. He doesn't mind that it'll take 40 minutes to get home.

He's alone. He's alone with his true form itching to get out.


transformis: beticons @ ij (Default)
Peter Rumancek | Hemlock Grove

May 2016

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