Peter was suddenly stirred from his sleep by a knock on the door. His drowsiness turned to panic as he realized it was Mr. Morris. He was not supposed to be home yet. Why was he home so early? There was no time to think about that. He had to go, or Mr. Morris might call the police—he'd threatened to before.
"Shit! My dad's back, Peter." Maria said, sitting up. "Just head out the back door."
Peter got up and kissed her cheek. "I'll see you later, Vee."
Maria blushed and pushed his shoulder, "Go! Before my dad knows you're here, Lover Boy."
Thankfully, it was still mid-September, so it wasn't very cold out. Peter slipped on his shoes and headed out the back door as Maria's father entered the house in the front. He opened the backyard gate and began walking home.
"Just a few more days, and it'll be homecoming." Peter smiled as he walked along the cracked sidewalk. Crater Hollow may have been a lovely town, but its sidewalks were never maintained, and so most of them were cracked and uneven.
He smiled as he pictured homecoming night in his head. He was going to be dancing with Maria and laughing with his friends. It was going to be the best night of his life.
His smile quickly faded as he noticed a wanted poster for the local crime boss, Alejandro Ventura. Ventura was an influential Italian kingpin in Crater Hollow's crime ring.
"When will they catch that guy?" Peter scoffed. Ventura was responsible for his uncle's death and Maria's mother's but was never jailed. Partially because of insufficient evidence, but anyone with half a brain knew he had bought his freedom.
Peter stepped up onto the rickety porch of his house. It was late, so he figured his mother was probably passed out. Maybe even down the road fucking the neighbor, they had a thing going for a while, and she was often over there when not drunk at home.
Peter opened the door to his house, and a beer bottle hit him in the face as soon as he stepped forward. It shattered and sent him falling back. She was definitely not with the neighbor.
"WHAT THE FUCK??" Peter shouted, holding his hand against his bleeding face. He could feel shards of glass sticking out of his face. His head was spinning, and he could hardly sit up.
Peter's mother looked at him with a disgusted look on her face. "WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!?" She shouted, puffing on a cigarette.
Peter looked up at her, his face covered in blood and broken glass, but his anger was visible. "I was working." He uttered through clenched teeth, tears on the edge of his eyes. He didn't cry, though. He'd learned better than to shed tears in front of her.
Peter stood up, scowling at his mother. She slammed the door shut as he tried to enter the house. He knew his mother was heavily intoxicated already. Otherwise, she wouldn't have given a shit that he wasn't home.
"That fuckin' bitch." Peter mumbled under his breath angrily. He opened the door, and his mother was in the kitchen, grabbing another beer and grumbling about how "disrespectful" and "lazy" Peter is.
Peter made his way to the bathroom, holding his face with a pained groan, closing and locking the door. Staring into the mirror, he turned on the faucet and sighed.
Peter looked at the ceiling, kneeling on the bathroom floor. "If you're there, God. I could really use a miracle right about now." Peter wasn't very religious but agnostic—most people would consider him an atheist.
He sighed and grabbed a towel covered in red blotches. It wasn't the first time using this towel for this reason. He looked at the mirror, dabbing at the blood on his face. He splashed some water on his face and wiped the blood off with the towel. Peter reached into the cabinet and grabbed a pair of tweezers.
Looking into the mirror, Peter slowly removed shards of glass from his face with the tweezers. He had done this countless times, and this was no different. It was practically second nature.
Peter dabbed at his face again, drumming the tweezers on the sink. Shards of glass clinked against the sink as he tapped them from the tweezers.
He looked into the mirror, tears rolling down his cheeks and stinging his many cuts. "I need you, Dad. I can't do this."
Peter's father was always a source of comfort, and the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Peter stared at the mirror, his image blurring through the tears. He stared down at the bloody glass shards in the sink.
Slumping against the bathroom door, Peter rested with a blank stare toward the ceiling. He was startled as his mother slammed her fists against the bathroom door. He knew this wasn't all his life was, but it was hard to see the light when all you've ever known was darkness.
"OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!!" She shouted so loud his ears hurt. Peter began to cry, the emotions and terrible thoughts swirling in his head.
She slammed her fists more. Peter sat against the door, his muscles aching and shaking with fear, rocking himself as he lay against the bathroom door in tears. The emotions poured out of him as tears.
"GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!!" Peter sobbed as he rocked himself, holding his hands against his ears with tears streaming down. "GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!!"
His vision blurred as her fists banged and his pounding heart merged. He grabbed his ears in pain as his head throbbed loudly, occasionally even hitting himself to drown at the noise in his head. The tears stung as they streamed down his face, his grip on his ears so tight they were red as the fires of Hell.
He rocked himself more, screaming through sobs. His vision blacked, and he passed out, screaming, "GO AWAY!! GO AWay..."
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