(Parenthesis)
At first he does not remember the details of the nightmares. Peter just wakes gasping for breath and sweating with terror, a phantom like pain suddenly crippling his spine. His violent awakening disturbs Leanne once or twice but mostly she sleeps through. He is vague in his explanation when she asks and really its not a lie because he doesn't actually remember anything, he doesn't want to even try to remember. He never wakes her for comfort; he has never been comfortable asking for help especially when lying came like breathing.
But while he does not remember the emotions stays with him like an invisible weight on his shoulders. And he surer than ever that he does not want to remember because he has already lived this and it almost destroyed him. It weighs so heavily and constant and he is back under the rubble and it won't leave him the fuck alone.
He is not one for sentiment but he does not need a calendar to show the first anniversary was approaching. It all seemed to be too soon when not so long ago it was like it would never go away. His bones still ached on the frostier mornings. Logically he understood post traumatic stress, understood that he would never be free of what happened but it did not make it any easier.
And he went to the meetings like normal, he took his son to chess club and he did as his wife asked and yet none of it felt real. The flashbacks started during the day, the noise of a tram triggered the first and eventually they became his dreams and they had leaked into every inch of his life.
They wanted him to make a speech at the memorial ceremony. His father kept on encouraging (pushing) him but all he wants is a drink. Ken finally looks at him like he is proud of him and all Peter wants to do is destroy everything he feels he has not earned. It makes him so angry that everyone acts like it was over because even if he was too much of a coward to face it, it would never be over for him.
When he closes his eyes all he can see is his friend's body, dusty and still, limbs twisted at unnatural angels and yet it did not seem comprehendible that he could just be dead. That he was simply gone. All he felt was the impossible pressure of the wreckage pinning him down.
Peter had never felt so alone and so angry even after a lifetime living with those emotions. They had no idea of the sheer horror of that night because they had not been there, not buried and fighting for their lives. And he would always wonder if his marriage was based on guilt and a lie. Maybe if he had not almost died he would have not been so lucky and lost Leanne forever. Sometimes he was not sure which was worse.
The teenager behind the counter of the off licence looks barely above the legal drinking age. He does not even look up long enough to see the look of desolation in his customer's eyes.
Vodka had never really been his drink of choice when he was pretending to be picky but it felt strangely fitting now. Leather did not offer proper protection from the weather, rain threatening to pour at any second as he lingered on a street corner, but he had nowhere else to go. He swallowed back the tears as best he could still trying to lie to himself as he tumbled with the lid. This was one giant step back, yet another reason for those closest to hate him but it was all he had. All he knew to do with all his grief and pain before it destroyed him. Maybe it already had.
The alcohol was a revelation and yet dangerously ordinary all at once. It made him splutter a little and wonder when he stopped being a pro at this. Nearly everyday he tried to summon the courage to talk to his wife, everyday he failed. She was still so unpredictable and paranoid, she still felt so faraway. Admitting he couldn't cope felt like handing her yet another reason to leave him.
There was one person that might understand. Understand how trauma never went away and that alcohol seemed as if the only possible escape. But he could not put this upon her. Not when every feeling he had for her was so complicated. When seeing her felt like even more of a betrayal of his wife than drinking did. He had only seen her briefly since her return and already he ached.
And yet here he was alone and falling off the wagon, not that he had ever been on a real, non metaphorical wagon. But it was just one drink, just one bottle to chase away the nightmares because he could not bear to remember.