Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. It was the only thought Peter had time for before his whole world erupted into flames and noise. It was almost a relief, if he was being truly honest. Dying like this made the short, sad existence he’d led worth something, helped with something bigger than himself. I’m the end, that was all he really wanted, to be a part of something bigger than himself, somwthing good. Heat surrounded him, and then nothingness, like he was falling back off a ledge. Or actually falling, if the painfully hard smack of the ground against his back meant what he thought it did. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed tightly, afraid of what he would see when he opened them. If he still felt pain, then he had to still be alive. He had to keep moving. In a single fluid motion, Peter rolled onto his feet and opened his eyes, looking around an empty bedroom. He patted himself down, taking stock of the burns and other injuries that would need to be looked at at some point, then crept around the bed towards the door. If he didn’t know where he was, he probably wasn’t supposed to be there. He didn’t want to be punished for this on top of everything else. The bedroom door has led to another room that he moved through quickly, not bothering to look around now but driven by a single minded need to get to somewhere he was supposed to be. The next door led outside, and Peter had to stop at the threshold, panic blooming in his chest like a cancer as he looked around. This wasn’t anywhere he recognized. There was green, more than he’d ever seen in his life, and a sky that seemed so so big without buildings blocking the horizon. Between how he’d slammed the door open and how he now stood frozen, Peter had  attracted a few stares. The eyes on him only served to pin him down more, his own gaze searching frantically around for someone who could help him. Peter The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.