Peter continued to stare at her for a moment, his eyes hard, and shifted a bit, faintly and restlessly, as if he planned on fighting back or, at very least, as if the reflex to try was still intact. He didn't, though -- couldn't -- and slowly his eyes went blank, his expression softening. He stared at her for a long time like that, then finally life touched his face again and he shook his head, closing his eyes, his world and his stomach along with it reeling.

He could remember what had happened in bits in pieces -- what he'd done to John and to Lydia -- and it seemed both far away, like a bad dream, and startlingly sharp at the same time. How much of that had been his choice? Had any of it? He could remember being possessed and then compelled, but ... how much of a say had he had in any of that? How much had he tried to fight back? He couldn't remember. There were great gaping black holes in his memory. Other parts were just smears of memory. He couldn't -- he couldn't --

He pushed away from her abruptly, moving to the opposite wall of the alley, sinking down against it. Whatever had happened, whatever he'd done or hadn't done or whatever, he felt sick, and unless she wanted that on her dress, he needed to get away.