His name is Walter Petrelli, and he is currently losing his mind. The forty two year old grandson of Italian immigrants who left in the turmoil after the war, his heart is pounding like a drunk and unwanted ex against his ribcage. His doctor always told him that he had a weak heart, it would probably be what kills him if the boozing didn't do it first. But right now it seems like the nerves will be his death as he shakes and jerks around in his chair. The sound of footsteps walking up and down the aisle is amplified to deafening extremes within his mind and he pushes his gnarled hands into his slightly wrinkled face. Why here? he thinks to himself. Why, why, why does it have to be now?
His mind rushes back to the previous day, the withered form of his grandfather lying impotently in a hospital bed as his life faded away. Besides a faceless doctor at the other side of the bed, no one else is in this memory. His mind reaches back further, young and supple hands lifting up a black shirt from a box in the attic. There are medals on the breast of the shirt, medals that he did not understand until much later. Walter stares at his hands, at once so flexible but now twisted horribly. This can't do, he thinks hurriedly, this can't do at all.
He reaches into his tuxedo's pocket and takes out an unmarked pill bottle. A week ago Walter wouldn't have touched the stuff, but as the sound of walking and vapid conversations thunders outside Walter is reminded that this isn't last week. Swallowing three of the pills for good measure, he forces himself up and walks just outside of the stage.
"And tonight we give a thankful hello to Walter Petrelli, who lost his dear one-hundred and two year old grandfather yesterday but has soldiered on for tonight's performance." A muted wave of applause follows the announcer's diatribe and Walter walks toward the piano at the center. As the narcotics begin to course through his willing blood stream, he looks at his hands, once again flexible and young, and begins to play.
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