There are plenty of ways to lose a loved one, but not enough ways to get them back. This is what Peter pondered as he stood outside, looking up at the night sky barely visible through a patch of dark clouds. The winds picked up and howled. Lightning bolts tore through the air, leaving behind the sound of rage and anger that beat ever so deeply within his heart. He lit another cigarette. Curse Hwoarang for introducing him to the nasty habit.
Weeks ago, Peter lost contact with King. The two of them had history together, different stories depending on which of the two you would ask. Through all of that history, the pages now burned away. None of it mattered anymore. At least not to King. Peter had looked up to this man like he would a father. He turned to him for guidance and sought to be just like him. There was a time when he thought the older man was the ideal role model. He was wrong. That was because the man he thought he was turned out to be an illusion, a shard of truth broken like the beer bottle clutched in the young man's hand.
King had saved Peter's life years ago and it was ever since that day that Peter clung to him in an emotional way that proved to be devastating. Had King ever cared about him? Maybe. Did he now? Well if he did, it certainly didn't show. Weeks ago, Peter found himself abandoned by his father figure. Yet another father ripped away from his grasp. The security he once relished in, shattered beyond repair. Never again could he turn to him for advice. The days of him knocking on his door for comfort were now but a distant memory. A dream almost. A twisted ounce of joy in his brain, like a drug, ravaging it to the core.
All he could do was wonder, Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this betrayal? As if it mattered now. Because the only heart broken belonged to him and him alone. No one else cared or even understood the gravity of his loss. To Peter, King represented so many things. Redemption, happiness, strength, but most importantly hope. Now that hope had vanished, like the embers flickering away from the cigarette between his lips.
The winds all but attacked the young man now, his body swaying slightly back and forth. He did his best to resist being thrown into the mud beside him. Rain began to pour down, beating relentlessly against his face and chest. His clothes and spirit soaked, all the young man could think about was how to keep his cigarette lit. Each breath of smoke he exhaled, wisped away into nothingness. He must be crazy. To be out here at four in the morning, braving through a tropical storm when he could be sound asleep in a nice warm bed. But he found himself not caring. The ensuing chaos of the storm around practically mirrored the chaos inside his mind. The streets were barely lit and not a sound but the wind and thunder echoed through his ears.
In all the years he had known King, he never knew him to be a liar and a coward. Yet that was what he saw him as at the moment. He had tried to talk to the man, find out what it was that caused the separation between the two. His attempts were met with unreturned phone calls, e-mails most likely lost in the void of a spam box. Doorbells ringing away into an empty house. Why did he abandon me? All he wanted was an answer. Any answer would do.
If for some reason King hated the man, Peter would have wanted to hear it now. That way, he would be able to move forward knowing there was nothing he could do to win back his friendship. But instead, he found himself chained up and locked away in a prison of his own creation. A mental hell of which he could not currently escape by himself. Throwing the broken beer bottle in his hand aside, Peter cursed under his breath. He had done so much for King. He had done his best to be there for him whenever he could. Loyalty.
But what that loyalty became was blind faith. And now he was left alone again, just like with his birth parents. He was left to fight life all on his lonesome. Was it so much to ask to have a light at the end of the tunnel? To have the prospect of being able to wake up from this nightmare? Because no matter how hard Peter tried to open his eyes, the storm still surrounded him and tossed him from side to side. Rain still slapped against his sullen face, and thunder still rendered his ear drums numb.
To have a gift given to you only to watch it be taken out of your hands. That was what he felt. A way out of this road now permanently blocked off like a bridge under construction. And could he cross it? He didn't know. All he knew was that he would remember this day. He would remember the day King turned his back on him and never looked over his shoulder. What hurt him the most was knowing that while he stood out here trying to find his way home, King was most likely sound asleep with not a care in the world. He probably didn't care about the damage he had done to the young man.
There was a time when King would refer to Peter as his son, a name that the boy so longed to hear since he was orphaned at a young age. And yet, where was he now? Bastard, Peter thought. To come into his life and make him care, to make him feel like life was worth living and for what? To turn around and take it all back. To leave him in the dust and disown him the way his birth father did. How dare he, after everything Peter had done for him. Peter lost count of how many birthday gifts he handed to the man. The paychecks practically shoved through a shredder just to see King smile for a minute. All in an attempt to feel what it was like to have a father, to be able to feel normal like everyone else around him. Father's Day used to be his favorite day of the year because King made him forget about all the horrible things his blood father had done to him. But now he dreaded every third Sunday of June. Because now it would be almost like torture. Every year from here on out, he would have to watch sons hug their fathers. He would drive by the beach and watch them fishing together. He would graduate college and be one of the few who couldn't step off the stage and take a picture with his dad.
King symbolized all of that to him, and now he felt as if he was the victim of a cruel prank. He had been given a sample of normalcy and just like the nicotine flowing into his lungs, he craved more. Tossing the burnt filter off into the grass beside him, he whipped out another cigarette and desperately flicked the lighter against the tobacco, his thumb blistered from constant attempts to create a spark. He shielded the flame the way he felt King used to protect his spirit. Through the rain before him, he couldn't even see which direction to go. He had not the slightest clue how to get home. And then the realization hit him. He would die and never see his protector again. Never again would he share a laugh or a joke with him. Never again would he have the chance to apologize after an argument. Those days were long gone, flowing into the past like the rain into the sewers beneath him. And what's worse, he would never know why. He would never understand why King had to leave him behind.
Yes, there are worse things than death. This being one of them. Peter could have been home safe and sound, watching a wrestling match with King like he normally would have around this time of night. But for now, he was caught in a storm with no knowledge of how he came to be there. No where to turn, no safe place to shield him from getting drenched. He could stand here and wait for his phone to sound off with King's name on the caller ID, but he knew better. It would never ring. For now, he would have to find his way home by himself, just like before. Damn, I need another cigarette.