Chapter 3: Graduation

"Peter! Peter, what was the motivation behind your challenge?" News reporters continued to push their microphones and cameras into Peter's bruised and bloody face. He could barely hear over all the different voices begging him for answers.

"I uh…well-"

"I'm sorry, but my friend needs to get some medical attention." Tiffanie interrupted and grabbed hold of her friend, dragging him towards the incoming medics. As she walked her stumbling friend away from the crowd's attention, they continued to follow. Doing her best to carry Peter to safety, Tiffanie could see her friend beginning to succumb to his injuries. Having enough, she turned back to the reporters and shoved their equipment out of her face.

"Can you fuck off for a couple minutes?!" Though he was in pain, Peter laughed at the girl's comment.

"I hope they don't air that part, Tiff."

"It's a black teenage girl attacking a camera. They'll air it. Shut up about me and let's get you checked out." As if in a delayed state, a thought came into Peter's mind. His eyes widened in shock and he immediately forced himself to stand up straight.

"Holy shit, Tiff. I have to go."

"Why?"

"That was all on air. I have to get home and make sure my father doesn't see it."

"Shit…but what about your injuries?"

"I'll be fine, I'll have worse things coming if he sees that." Pushing aside the medics, he dashed over to his friend's car. Tiffanie jogged just slightly behind him, digging for the keys out of her purse.

"Pete, we need to get you cleaned up first. You can't just walk in looking like you do right now." Reluctantly, he nodded and agreed with his friend. In a matter of seconds, the duo was in the car and speeding off towards Tiffanie's house. Along the way, Peter found himself struggling to keep his consciousness. The sunlight poured through the trees and into his eyes, creating blurs and flashes. Tiffanie could see him dozing on and off in her peripheral vision. Clearing her throat, she looked over at him. She took a moment to take in his beaten face before choosing to speak.

"Damn…he really fucked you up…" Responding with a pained snicker, Peter nodded.

"Yeah, he did."

"I still can't believe you did that. I mean, I can take care of myself too but I'd never even think to go up against him."

"I got in. That's all that matters to me."

"Yeah about that, Pete. Now that you're actually in, which congratulations by the way, how are you planning on going to Japan to participate? How would your father NOT find out?" Peter sat in silence and tried to think of something. However, the longer he tried to use logic, the more his head began to hurt.

"I'm sure everything will work out somehow." A couple of minutes later, the two arrived at the young woman's house and got out of the car. Checking to make sure nobody was home, Tiffanie helped Peter into the shower and left to give him some privacy. She then took his bloody shirt and tossed it into the trash can, walking into her father's bedroom to find a replacement. Once she found one, she walked back into the bathroom and tossed it onto the counter top.

"Hey, I got you another shirt. Try and hurry up, hopefully we'll make it in time." With that, she made her way back out to the living room and turned on the TV. Light bounced off her hazel eyes while she scanned every news station to see if the fight had been reported yet. One channel was concerned about the effects of global warming. Another was reporting a missing Panda from an international zoo. The last channel was running a hometown hero piece about a solider named Rock Thompson from Ohio. But still no Heihachi Mishima fighting her best friend. Good. Another minute or two passed by before Peter emerged from the bathroom. He looked better without the blood and dirt on his face, but he still clearly looked like he'd gotten into a fight.

"Well?" he asked.

"I mean…no you still look like shit." Peter chuckled at her honesty.

"With any luck, he'll already be drunk enough to think he did it in the morning." Though he was joking, Tiffanie didn't find his situation funny at all. Choosing to ignore the comment, she handed him a glass of orange juice with some basic painkillers.

"Down them and let's get going. So far you're in the clear."

"Thanks, Tiff." The two headed back outside to the car and left for Peter's house. The car ride was relatively quiet. Tiffanie didn't really know what to say and Peter was busy thinking up lies should things not have gone his way back home. The silence was soon interrupted by Peter's cell phone ringing through the air. Immediately, the two looked at each other nervously.

"Pete, is that..?"

"…Oh thank god. It's Haitz. Hello?" The voice of his Martial Arts instructor boomed through the earpiece at rapid speed. Peter had to repeat the words in his mind to understand what he was saying.

"Peter! First I want to say congratulations! Second, are you okay?"

"Yeah Haitz, I'm okay. Just trying to keep my head on my shoulders." His tone came out more sarcastic than Peter would have liked. He rubbed his forehead in frustration knowing now that his father might've seen the same report.

"Well, I just want you to know that I'm happy for you. You're not that little boy who walked into my dojo all these years ago anymore. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, you have no idea how much I appreciate it." As much as he tried to downplay it, Peter was incredibly moved by his instructor's words. Rarely did he hear someone tell him the words, I'm proud of you. For years, he longed for his father to be proud of him. But as time went on, he learned to accept it. He knew that if nobody else would be proud for him, he would be have to be proud of himself instead. Even so, it was still nice to hear those four words. He contained his smile and listened as his teacher asked him questions about the fight. It took him a few minutes to realize that he'd still been having a conversation. His mouth seemed to take over while his mind traveled elsewhere. Inside, his happiness was beginning to shrink behind his fear of what was going to happen at home. After finishing, he said his goodbyes and appreciation.

"We're here…Do you want me to come in with you?" Tiffanie's words made his eyes open wide. As much as he valued her offer, he knew how much worse things would get if she accompanied him.

"Thank you, Tiff but no. I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to wait?"

"No. It's ok. I can handle it." Taking a deep breath, he thanked Tiffanie and left the car. His brown eyes remained fixated on the front door, praying it wouldn't fly open. He checked his reflection in the window by the entrance, finally taking in the outcome of the match earlier. With a moment of silence, he grabbed the door handle and went inside. He noticed immediately that his mother was sitting at the kitchen table. She sat quietly looking at her folded hands. Right away, he took note of her black eye. Mother and son made brief eye contact before the door was shut behind him. He turned to see his father standing next to him. From the looks of things, he'd been standing by the front door just waiting for him to come home.

"We saw the news." After his father spoke, the room filled up with more silence. Peter took this opportunity to glance over at the living room table. It was littered with bottles of finished beers, vodka, and cigarette boxes. Speaking of which, he found himself repulsed by the fresh breath of nicotine he received from his dad. The smoke billowed around his face like the steam from a dragon.

"I can explain that, dad."

"When did you learn to get your ass kicked so well?" His father's words stabbed at him. Peter hid his anger under clenched teeth, choosing to ignore the comment. He found himself being shoved into the door frame by the man. Never before had Peter spoken back to his dad. This just led to further trouble. Guess I just spent too much time around you, was what he really wanted to say. Instead, he looked into his mother's eyes and focused completely on her. Moving forward, he took a seat at the table with her and reached for her hand. He knew that what was about to happen was going to be something he wouldn't forget. Quivering, she refused to reach for his. Although she wanted to, she was terrified that her husband would hit her again for doing so. Peter understood her position but at this point, he no longer cared. Leaning forward, he grabbed hold of her hand and rested it on the table with his. The older drunken man came closer to his son, practically leaning against the side of his head peering down onto him.

"What was that stuff you did?"

"What stuff?"

"Those weird moves you used." At this point, there was no escaping the moment. There was no lie that he could come up with to save him. Choosing to tell the truth, Peter basically stopped blinking.

"It's called Martial Arts."

"Martial Arts? And just where did you learn that so soon?"

"I've been taking Martial Arts after school for the past five years now." The words were spoken with the purest of fact, but at the same time, devoid of almost any emotion. The young man continued to look into his mother's eyes, holding her gaze with utmost concentration. He wanted to pretend that she was the only thing here. In his mind, his father wasn't even there. To him, he was just answering a voice.

"I thought you said you had some kind of club you joined or something?"

"I lied." The fact that his father was there was quickly remembered once Peter felt his face slam into the table in front of him. His mother gripped his hand tighter, but he was too numb to show any fear. His mother watched her husband push his forearm against the back of her son's head.

"You lied to me?" Peter held his breath while his father proceeded to burn his arm with a cigarette. The smell of his skin burning against the stick of ash reached his nose, making him want to vomit. His eyes remained fixated on the cigarette as it swirled and swiveled its way into his forearm. No matter what, he would not react. He didn't want to give his father the pleasure. Memories of Tiffanie and Heihachi came into his mind as he tried to travel to another place. He thought about everything he'd accomplished today. How in a few month's time, he'd be in Japan fighting for his life again.

"And you think you're going to be in some ridiculous contest? You think you can win that? You can't even beat an old man. You're not good enough."

"…I am."

"Either way, you're never going to find out."

"I will in Japan."

"No son of mine is going to be trying to think he's hot shit. You're going to go to school, do chores, and stay home from now on. Japan? You'll be lucky to see a take-out menu."

"I'm going."

"You ain't shit." The harsh words continued to flow into Peter's mind along with the pain. Looking away from the cigarette, he looked into his mother's eyes again. He studied her and saw how broken she was. A grown woman, yet she could sit here and watch the only child she birthed be treated like a dog. She loved her son and he knew that. But her fear of her husband was a greater emotion. One that overruled anything else. As much as he loved her, he didn't want to grow up to become like her. He refused to be broken at the hands of a man, especially not for financial stability. Heat burned in his face like the cigarette against his arm; and it was in that moment that he made his choice. Looking down, he shoved his chair back against his father's stomach.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?!" yelled his father as he stumbled backwards. Looking away from his mother, Peter waited for his dad to make a move. The drunkard yelled loudly and swung a fist towards his son's face. Moving to the right, Peter grabbed the fist and used the man's momentum to toss him over his back. His dad landed in the living room with a thud as the tv news report about his son continued to circulate. Peter stood still, looking down at his father with a stone faced expression. He was completely numb. In fact, what was happening right now felt like a dream. For many nights, he'd often dream and fantasize about this day. About finally being brave enough to take a stand for himself against his father. And now that it was actually happening, the moment felt like it was someone else doing the fighting. Like he was watching a scene from a movie.

He watched in his surreal state as his dad attempted to tackle him. Preparing himself, Peter grabbed hold of his shoulders as they plowed into his stomach. Sliding against the carpet slightly, the young man began to lift his knee into his father's face repeatedly. This managed to get the man off of him. As his father stumbled in front of him, Peter looked at him in disgust. No longer waiting to be attacked, Peter lunged forward and slammed his fist into the man's chest. He then kicked his father down to one knee by delivering a swift kick to the shin. Again, he used his knee to slam up underneath the man's chin, causing him to fall back onto the couch behind. Peter took hold of his dad's shirt and yanked him back up to his feet, just to knock him back down again. This time, with a head-butt. Jumping on top of his father's beaten form, he launched a series of chops and punches into his face and head.

Still not wanting to give up, the man reached forward and grabbed his son's throat. He squeezed as hard as he could and stared into his son's blank eyes. Instead of struggling against the strangulation, Peter grabbed his father's arm and pulled him up into a standing position again. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his forearm down against the man's inner elbow. With the vice grip now loosened, he back-fisted his father across the face before bashing his elbow against the man's jaw. Taking his arm, Peter once again tossed the drunk over his back. The older man landed on top of his table, falling to the floor as it collapsed under his weight. Peter stood over his bloody father as he lay partially buried under alcohol bottles and cigarettes.

And just like that, it was over.

Silence filled the room before he looked back over to his mother. She sat still in her same place, eyes wide and mouth covered. Tears ruined her eye make-up as she held back her voice. Peter carefully sat down at the table, looking down at his bruised hands. He then looked up again into mother's eyes before speaking.

"I can take you with me. We don't belong here." The woman said nothing. Before she could respond, her husband groaned and shifted around on the floor. He tried to rise to his feet, having little to no success.

"If you leave this house…" Peter paid close attention to the man.

"…you won't have one to come back to." That being said, he began to cough and spit small blood spatters onto the carpet. Peter looked up to his mother, who pleaded silently with her eyes for her son to make things right. Instead, he stood up from the table and walked into his bedroom. He grabbed his backpack and began throwing as much as he could into it. He took only the things that meant something to him. One of these items was a red combination lock. Picking it up, he remembered where he got it from. Years ago, his mother had given it to him on his first day of high school. The memory was so clear as he held the object in his hand.

"What's this for, mom?"

"It's so you'll stand out. I want people to see you as special as I do."

Ever since that day, it was an item that he carried around frequently for good luck. Sighing to himself, he clipped it to the side of his jeans and took one last look at his room. There were so many memories in this house. Some of them were good, some bad. But they were just memories. And no matter what, he'd always be able to make new ones. He reached for his light switch and turned it off, leaving behind everything that he once held dear. Making his way to the kitchen, he looked over to see his mother kneeling down holding her husband. The family exchanged silent eye contact before Peter finally turned away and opened up the front door. He could hear his mother begin to wail and beg for him to come back, but he ignored her cries. The afternoon sun glistened down onto his face as he closed the door behind him, throwing his house key into the dirt next to him. With nowhere to go, he clutched onto his backpack and walked.

He just walked.

He remained emotionless as he moved forward down the street. The sound of life continuing around him sounded a bit peculiar at this time. Kids played on the block, enjoyed the warm air, and called to their parents. He watched as a woman held her child's hand as they walked across the street. It was then that he stopped to process what had just happened. Dropping his backpack, he let his body flop to the curb, laying in the soft grass. A sound began to enter his ears. It was a car. The car pulled up next to him and he heard the driver get out and approach him. He lay in their shadow as they stood over his beaten body.

"Tiffanie?" His best friend sat down next to him in the grass and held him from behind. Before he could say anything else, she spoke to him.

"I waited." Her simple words brought comfort to his numb heart and he clutched onto her arms around him as they lay in a frozen moment of time, knowing that this was the day that he started his real life.