Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 by Sean Platt, David Wright Page A

hair and was quite pretty. She was wearing a long, flowing white dress that seemed to radiate some kind of light, even though Peter had never seen anything like it. 
    “My name is Paola, and I’ve come to save you.”
    “There’s no saving me, not after what I’ve done. Please, leave us be.”
    “Why? So you can kill your daughter?”
    “You don’t know anything!” Peter fired more shots at the girl. Still the bullets sailed through.
    “What the fuck are you?”
    She must’ve been a delusion, further proof of his mental decay.
    “You’re not here,” he said, turning away from the apparition and giving his attention to Claire. She was shaking, lips trembling, begging him not to kill her.
    “I’m so sorry, baby. But you’ll be with Mommy. I killed her. Don’t you want to be with Mommy?”
    She shook her head no, and her crying turned into a cracked wail of despair as she realized her mother was dead. Her mouth was open, saliva bubbling from her lips.
    Peter flashed back to when she was three-years old and had got bitten by the neighbor’s dog. She was rushed to the hospital for stitches on her face.
    He looked at the scar turning pink as it did whenever Claire was scared or angry. She wailed, “Please, Daddyyyyy.”
    He aimed the rifle, wanting to end her suffering before snuffing his own.
    He heard the girl’s voice louder in his mind. 
    “You will not kill your daughter!”
    He turned to her, “Stay out of my head!”
    She stepped toward him, but her steps were more of a floating motion.
    “This isn’t you,” she said, just inches from his face. “You’ve been infected, and there’s a parasite that is breaking you from the inside. It’s not you, Peter. Please, put the gun down.”
    “P-parasite?” 
    “Have you been getting bad headaches?”
    “Yes,” he said, stunned. “I have.”
    “It’s the parasite.”
    “What kind of parasite?” 
    Peter once heard stories about a type of parasite that infected small animals and took over their motor control. 
    Or was it insects?
    “You mean this isn’t my fault?” 
    Peter couldn’t stop the tears pouring down his face. It felt so good for someone to tell him he wasn’t a monster, even coated in his wife’s sticky blood.
    “No, it’s not your fault. It’s the parasites. Please, stop now and turn yourself in. You can still do the right thing.”
    A stabbing pain splintered through his skull, bringing a roaring anger alongside it.
    “No, you’re lying. You’re a figment of my imagination.”
    He turned, aimed at Claire, and put his finger around the trigger.
    “Sorry.”
    His finger froze mid-squeeze.
    The stabbing grew more intense as if someone, or something, was slicing his brain into pieces with an icy blade drenched in acid.
    Peter clenched his teeth so tight he felt a few break. Blood poured from his mouth.
    His body tensed as he felt something sliding through his muscles, going from his chest to his arms and then into his fingers, forcing him to release the trigger and drop the rifle.
    He reached into the bag, or his body did, acting against his brain’s commands.
    He grabbed a pistol, not sure which, and brought it toward his mouth.
    No, no, no, no!
    “Kill yourself, Mr. Williams. It’s the right thing to do,” Paola’s voice spoke in his head, adding to the intense pain.
    No! Get out of my head!
    He stared down at Claire, still trying to get out from under the dead teacher, eyes on her father.
    He had to resist, had to free Claire from her misery.
    His arms refused to obey.
    His mouth opened.
    He screamed, trying to resist whatever, or whoever, was in control.
    The pain in his head was dialed up to a million, so bad he was certain his brain would explode without release.
    He put the gun in his mouth.
    Peter found freedom from the pain.
    He fell to the floor, dimly aware of the world around him, watching Claire scream.
    It was the last thing he saw, the final torment he would visit on his daughter.
     
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