Author's note: If this chapter is confusing, don't worry, that was the intended affect. Just try and roll with it. Warning: Mentions of child abuse.
Peter remembered waking up to the sound of yelling and screaming, he couldn't have been more than six at the time. He'd been scared at first, not realizing who it was that was yelling, and then he had been terrified as soon as he recognized their voices. He rolled over so he could face the wall of his room, with his back to the door, and he pulled the blanket up over his eyes and plugged his ears with his fingers, but he couldn't block out the sound, he couldn't miss a single word.
He remembered certain phrases, a few stuck out in his memory more than others. He remembered fragments, he remembered his mother yelling for his father to shut up, and at one point, he remembered hearing one of them say the unfortunate words "I hate you."
He remembered that it seemed to last forever, and he remembered hearing the front door slam and the car driving away, and then he remembered hearing his parent's bedroom door slam and his mother rage and scream and cry some more on he own.
He remembered being afraid that his dad wouldn't come back, and he'd asked his mother in the morning where he'd gone. He remembered his mother telling him to be quiet and not ask about that son-of-a-word Peter had never heard before.
Peter remembered coming home from school and seeing the family car parked in the driveway, and he remembered feeling a surge of hope. Perhaps last night had been a fluke. Perhaps everything was still alright.
Peter remembered the day his dad came home early, and announced that he'd lost his job. Peter was eight years old at the time, he remembered that because they ended up moving right before his eight birthday. Peter remembered the months leading up to the move, how at first, they just had to cut back on things like sweets or toys, but how one day, his mom had gone through the house and sold most of their stuff out on the lawn. He remembered her packing up everything that was left, and he remembered sitting in the back seat of their car, watching the trees go by out the window while his parents bickered in the front seat.
He remembered when they got to Connecticut and brought the boxes into the small apartment they now called home, and he remembered being so tired that his dad had picked him up and carried him into the house. He remembered falling asleep on the couch in the middle of the living room.
He remembered his first day of school, how the teacher made him stand in front of the class and say his name in front of of all the kids. He remembered how later, one of the kids pushed past him in the hallway, and another kid had knocked his books out of his hand. He couldn't remember now what made them pick on him out of everyone in the class. Maybe it was because he had come in half-way through the school year.
He remembered when his mother got a day-job as a secretary to help pay for their expenses. He remembered how she hated it, and how she came home every day tired and irritable. He remembered her telling him she had a headache, and snapping at him to be quiet whenever he talked too much or asked questions.
He remembered the first time she slapped him, it wasn't very hard, she just reached over and popped him on the mouth, but he was stunned into silence. He remembered she sighed then, and said maybe now he'd know to stop pestering her with foolish questions.
Peter remembered seeing his dad for the first time in a week, and asking where he'd been all this time. He remembered his dad explaining that he had to work afternoons at his new job, so he was at home when Peter was at school, and he went to work before Peter got home.
Peter remembered noting how tired his dad looked, and how whenever Peter asked him to help him with his homework or something like that, his dad would say "Not right now, Peter, I'm very tired." So Peter stopped bothering him. He didn't want to be a pester or a bother.
He remembered one of the kids at school locking him in the janitor's closet one day. He remembered being stuck for what seemed like hours, even though it was probably only an hour at the most. He remembered trying desperately to get out at first, then he remembered sitting down against the wall to wait. He remembered thinking someone would come looking for him eventually.
He remembered when his teacher asked him to stay after class, and said she'd called his parents and told them he was being bullied. He remembered being surprised that she'd found out, he hadn't told anyone.
He remembered his mother telling him later to suck it up and drive on, he could make it through the end of the school year and they would send him to a public school next year.
He remembered that summer, having his dad home during the day and his mom home during the evening, and having them both tell him to be quiet so they could rest. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night hearing them fight. Apparently, they fought all night when they were both home together, which was why they were so tired during the day when they were alone.
He remembered thinking it would be funny to see their faces if he were to go out there and tell them to be quiet so he could get some rest.
The first day at the public school, he didn't have to stand in front of the class and introduce himself, so that was good. But he didn't introduce himself to anyone on his own either, so he just sat in the back of the classroom, watching all the kids.
During recess, one kid came up to him and asked him his name. Peter told him, and the kid invited him to come play a game with him and some other boys, because they needed an extra. Peter agreed and went with him, but nobody really connected with him. He became their extra, they would ask him to play when they needed him, but usually, he was left sitting against the wall of the school.
Peter had a homework question once, and he took it to his mom, who told him to be quiet and not bother her. So Peter put his homework in his backpack and set off to find the library. He knew there had to be one somewhere. After wandering around for a little while, he spotted a policeman. His teacher always said that if they ever needed help, they could ask a policeman. So Peter went up to him and asked him for directions to the library. The policeman asked him what he was doing in the middle of the city on his own, and Peter told him he was looking for the library. So the policeman drove him to the library, and told Peter to stay with a grownup next time he wanted to walk anywhere.
Peter remembered thinking that such a thing wasn't going to happen anytime soon, but he just thanked the officer and went into the library.
After that, whenever Peter had a question or a problem with his homework, he walked down to the library, and asked the librarian. She would answer his questions, and help him find easy to read books about some of the things he showed an interest in.
Peter remembered hearing his dad come home at night, to find the house a mess, the sink piled high with dirty dishes, and his wife waiting for him. Peter remembered hearing them fight almost on a nightly basis, his mother complaining about having to work, and hating Connecticut, and wanting to go back to her old home.
His dad would come back with complaints about how dirty the house was, and how he hadn't had a home-cooked meal in weeks, and how he was sick of hearing her nag him about moving to Connecticut.
The complaints would turn into arguments, the arguments would turn into fights, the fights would turn into screams, and Peter would lie awake in bed and wish that they would both just stop fighting and love each other again.
Eventually, one of them would go too far, and the other would leave, either his dad would go for a drive and slam the front door behind him, or his mother would go into the bedroom and slam the door behind her.
His dad started staying at work later and later to avoid coming home, and his mother got increasingly angry at how late his dad stayed out and would become furious with him before he even made it through the front door. Peter remembered sometimes when he would hear one of them say something about how much they hated the other, he would hear his mother say she wished his dad would die, he would hear his father yell that he wished he'd never met her, that he hated her.
Peter started hating going to bed. He began to associate bed with yelling, sleep with screams. Sometimes he would work himself up to such a state that he couldn't even sleep, because he knew as soon as he closed his eyes, he would be woken up by the sounds of their arguments. He remembered lying awake for hours before finally drifting off to sleep, only to be awakened by the sounds of them fighting.
Peter remembered the first time he noticed his mother had a bruise on her face. She told him she'd gotten it by tripping over something at work, and hitting her face as she fell. But Peter knew better. He'd heard the fight the night before. He'd heard the screams suddenly stop and he'd heard the sound of his mother crying. Peter was actually a very smart kid. He put the pieces together.
He never told his mom he knew what had happened, he didn't want to admit it to himself. He simply went to bed and cried himself to sleep that night.
Then Peter's dad lost his job and life took a major turn for the worse. Peter's mother now had to work full time as a secretary and would come home frustrated and angry. His dad would spend most of the day hunting down jobs and also come home frustrated and angry. The two of them would get frustrated and angry with each other, and would bicker with each other for most of the evening, so frustrated and angry that they didn't even seem to notice Peter at all. Peter began spending most of his time in his room, sitting on his bed with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands over his ears, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong and he couldn't hear any yelling, and they were back in their old house, and it was quiet and peaceful, and his mother was singing him a song.
He remembered throwing himself into his studies in an attempt to escape the tension in his house and the thoughts in his head, which were filled now with the sounds of yells and screams and hateful words spoken out of turn. He practically lived at the library, talking with the librarian, a wonderful old woman hailing from Ireland, who told him stories about the amazing places of the world, and the fascinating history of the countries around them, and the new and strange world of the animal kingdom. She made stories come alive, and Peter listened to her and dreamed of one day seeing such things for himself.
He started music class at his school, and the teacher said he had real talent. Peter got some books on music out of the library and began studying all the great musicians, and learning to read music.
But when he wasn't at school or at the library, Peter was forced to accept the new reality he lived in. And he hated it.
Peter remembered the first time his dad hit him, he'd found a job that was even worse than his last one, and had taken to drinking away his frustrations.
He came home that night moderately drunk, and his wife was waiting for him with quite a few choice words to say to him. He told her to shut up and leave him alone for one blessed moment of his life, so he could finally have a break from her nagging. She began to cry and said that he didn't love her anymore, and the fight was on.
Peter was in his room, trying to ignore it. But in a moment of sheer hopelessness, he resolved himself to the situation and decided that if this was his life, he had better get used to it. So he got up and opened his door, and he leaned against the door jam and watched.
Neither of his parents noticed him there, they just kept on fighting, and the more Peter watched, the angrier he became. Finally, after his mom threatened divorce, Peter had had enough. He didn't say anything, he just stepped out into the hall, slammed his door behind him, thus announcing his presence, and glared at them.
His mom was still crying, and his dad looked mad, drunk, and ashamed. He yelled at Peter for slamming the door. Peter retorted that his dad slammed the front door all the time. The hit came out of nowhere.
Peter was knocked to the ground where he sat, seething and holding his jaw. The front door slammed and Peter looked around. His mother was still standing in the hallway crying, and his father was nowhere to be seen. The sound of the car starting and pulling out of the driveway proved that he had fled the scene.
Peter remembered sitting there for a few more minutes, trying to calm down, then he remembered standing up and storming to the bathroom, passing his mother on the way. He slammed the bathroom door shut, locked it, and examined his jaw in the mirror. It hurt, but it seemed fine. He splashed some water from the sink onto his face to sort of shock himself into control, then he got a drink of water and stepped back into the hallway.
His mother was still crying; she'd sunk down to the floor and now leaned against the wall with her head in her arms. Peter watched her for a moment, trying to decide whether or not he should try and comfort her. Then he stepped over her and went into his room, closing the door behind him. He remembered deciding that his dad had hit him and his mother had ignored him. So he was done with them both.
Peter remembered that he stayed out of the house for as long as possible when he got a little older. He remembered that he would spend hours at the library, do odd jobs around the neighborhood, or simply walk through the park doing nothing. Anything but go home. He remembered going home late a lot.
Sometimes he was lucky and only his mother would be there when he showed up. She would yell at him for being out so late and then she would cry and sometimes hit him for it, then he would go into his room and read his books until he fell asleep. Sometimes he wasn't so lucky, and his father would be home, and he would yell at Peter for being out so late, and Peter would get mad and they would fight late into the night, and Peter would be punished a bit. Sometimes Peter was very unlucky, and his dad would be home and drunk, and they would fight late into the night and Peter would be punished more severely, gaining a bruise or two.
One such night when Peter came in a little after midnight, he realized it was one of the unlucky nights. His parents were in the living room, apparently in the middle of a fight. Peter's mom saw him in the door and burst into tears, then turned and made her way down the hallway where the sound of a door slam made it known that she wouldn't be joining in the rest of the fight anytime soon.
Peter's dad stared at Peter for a moment, obviously drunk and not completely there. Finally, he seemed to realize it was Peter.
"Where you been?" He demanded in a slur.
Peter leaned against the door. "Library," he answered quietly.
His dad snorted. "Library..." he repeated. Then he looked at Peter. "What'chu doin' at the library?" he demanded again.
Peter bit his lip. "Homework," he said simply.
"Homework!" His dad repeated. "Wha' time iss it?"
Peter checked his watch. "After midnight," he said.
"When'sschool geddout?" His dad asked, his words blurring together.
"Three," Peter answered.
"Ssso you been doin' homework sssince three?" His dad asked.
Peter nodded.
"Boy," his dad said. "You gotta be sstupid if you think I'm gonna b'lieve you been doin' homework for... nine hours."
"Either that," Peter said in a rare moment of recklessness. "Or I've got to be stupid to need nine hours in which to complete said homework."
His dad stared.
Peter gave a half-smile. "Either way, we both agree I've got to be stupid. Now, unless there was anything else...?"
He waited for a minute and then, when his dad didn't say anything, he smirked at his father and moved to pass him and head for his room.
The smirk must've been overkill, 'cause with a jerk, Peter felt the three new books he'd borrowed from the library leave their safe place under his arm.
He turned around and tried to grab them back, but his dad just shoved him to the ground and began ripping the pages out and throwing them on the floor. Peter stood stunned as his books were destroyed, and the covers thrown down with the hundreds of pages littering the carpet.
As Peter stared at the ruined pages of his books, he was suddenly slapped across the face. He stumbled back a few steps and turned to his father, who apparently wasn't finished punishing him yet.
That night, Peter had the most unlucky night he'd had so far.
The librarian was kind and understanding, and since Peter could no longer take his books home, she set up a special system, where he would officially check out the books so no one else could borrow them, but she kept them in her desk until he asked for them.
At the house, however, Peter now had nothing to keep him occupied, and so more often than not, found himself staying even later at the library. And when he stayed late at the library, his mom or his dad stayed up late to catch him when he came home. When it was his mom, she would accuse him of rebelling against her, and she would yell and scream and cry. When it was his dad, Peter was unlucky.
Peter remembered life changing drastically when he was sixteen, and he came home late one night to find the house empty. All of his mom's things were gone, and there was a note in which she said goodbye to Peter and his father, and explained that she'd had enough and was moving back home.
Peter's dad was nowhere to be found, but the broken picture frame containing their wedding picture suggested that he'd come home, found the note, and he'd either left the house to go chase after her or he'd left the house to go get drunk.
Peter remembered waking up in his room at three in the morning four days later, to hear his dad swearing and cursing the front lawn and his mother and the front door and his mother and the keyhole and his mother and the end table he stubbed his toe on and his mother for buying the end table. Peter sighed. It seemed the days of quiet were over.
He remembered his relationship with his father getting worse and worse, they fought almost every night, the night more often than not ending with a new bruise for Peter.
Peter remembered one night, after a particularly bad fight, when he'd decided to get drunk. There was plenty of alcohol in the house, his dad had cases and cases of beer. Peter hated the way his dad was when he was drunk, but Peter wanted to numb the pain and forget his misery, and he wanted to rebel, so he went for it.
He took a tentative sip, and immediately spit it out. It was nasty. He sat and stared at the can for awhile, almost deciding that it wasn't worth it. But then he remembered how angry he was at his dad, and how much his side hurt, and how alone he felt, so he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and took a big gulp of the stuff.
He'd never had any alcohol before, so by his fourth can, he was out like a light.
He remembered waking up in the morning with a splitting headache. The early morning light filtering through the curtains made his head pound like a hammer, and he rolled over and threw up.
Once he had everything out of his system, he sat up and rubbed his head. Why people made a habit of this was beyond him. But it had done it's purpose. Peter had been unconscious all night, no insomnia, thoughts, or nightmares had plagued his night.
He cleaned up the four empty cans and washed that area of the carpet. Then he returned the case of beer to its rightful spot and went to his room to get ready for the day. It was summertime, so he didn't have school to worry about. But he had a part-time job at the library, and then he wanted to practice his music, so he got dressed, took some acetaminophen for his headache, and stepped outside.
He remembered his headache getting a thousand times worse by the glare of the sun, so he hurried to the library to get out of the bright light.
He remembered stepping into the library and saying good morning to the librarian, and her asking if there was anything wrong.
He remembered shaking his head. "Headache," he'd said as an explanation.
"I'm Irish, Peter," The librarian said without looking up at him.
Peter paused and looked at her, confused. He knew she was Irish. She'd told him before.
"I grew up in Ireland," she continued. "My father was Irish, my mother was Irish, my six uncles were Irish, and my nineteen cousins were Irish. Every holiday, we'd have a big family reunion, and we'd celebrate together. Then, when I married, me and my husband moved out here to America. We opened an Irish pub. It's still there, I sold it when my husband died, and moved out here to Connecticut to start a new life, as it were."
Peter stood for a moment. "So...?" He prompted.
The librarian looked up at him with a half-smile. "So I know the Irish flu when I see it."
Peter froze, caught, then he gave a sheepish grin.
The librarian smiled. "I'm not going to pry into your affairs," she said. "I'm not going to demand you tell me what you did, who you did it with, why you did it, any of that stuff. I'm also not going to tell you to stop, or even that you should stop. All I'm going to say is you're a smart boy, Peter. Make sure you know what you're getting into. Remember, every choice is a fork in the road, every decision is a step down either path. Make your decisions wisely, and you won't find yourself on a road you regret. And Peter, not all footsteps are made to be followed."
Peter looked up at the librarian, who smiled sadly. "Some people go down dark paths," she said. "Don't follow them. Hate can make you do horrible things, Peter. Don't hate. Man was made to love, Peter. Strive for love. Love brings freedom. Understand?"
Peter nodded, then smiled. "Yes," he said. "Thank you."
Peter never drank alcohol again. And what's more, he decided to heed her advice, and he strove to love. One good thing that came from his "Irish flu" was he now had a bit of sympathy for his dad, and began to take care of him sometimes. He wouldn't go as far as to say he forgave him, but they stopped fighting so much, and they even began getting along sometimes.
Peter remembered his mom showing up at the front door one morning, with a briefcase full of divorce papers, a lawyer by her side, and a fiancee waiting in the car. Needless to say, Peter's dad wasn't very happy about that.
He signed over willingly enough, although furious, then he went out and got drunk.
Peter remembered the following months as the worst and most painful times of his life.
He only had fragmented memories of those months, a flash of light and a pain in his head sometimes, he remembered his dad coming at him once, a wild look on his drunken face. He remembered when his dad threw a plate at him and Peter didn't duck in time, the plate shattering across his arm as he tried to block his face.
He remembered when he graduated high school. He remembered looking out at the crowd of people there, proudly supporting their family members. He remembered being disappointed that his parents weren't there, even though he had known they wouldn't be.
He remembered moving out of his dad's house, getting a small apartment of his own. He remembered getting a job, he remembered taking music and art lessons at the community center.
Perhaps his most complete memory was the one that changed his life the most.
He remembered being out late, very late. He remembered walking to his apartment, at three or four in the morning, and he remembered seeing his dad stumbling from a bar towards his car. Normally, when his dad was drunk, he walked home, and picked up the car the next morning after sleeping off the alcohol. But as Peter watched, his dad pulled his keys out of his pocket, and began fumbling to unlock the door on the drivers side.
Peter sighed and crossed the street, walking towards the car.
"Hey dad," He remembered saying as he drew near. He wanted to make sure not to startle his dad. His dad turned to Peter and stared at him for a moment. Then he seemed to realize who it was.
"Pe'er," he said, slurring heavily. "Wha're you here in this hour to sssaying?"
Peter remembered being grateful that at least his dad wasn't feeling very violent.
"Walking home," Peter said. "Want me to drive?"
"Nah, I gossa gas me up in the keys," his dad said.
"Here, give me the keys, and you go sit shotgun," Peter ordered.
His dad lurched forward heavily, and Peter caught him. Then he helped him over to the other side of the car and into the passenger seat before returning to the driver's side and starting up the car.
"Pe'er," his dad said.
"Yes, dad?" Peter answered absently.
"Pe'er, I love you," his dad said. "Yer my sssson, and I been bad as a dad and sssorry to sssaying this. Yer my ssson. I sssorry need sssaying this..."
Peter paused, the car engine running, but not yet out of park. Finally, the lump in his throat seemed to go away, and Peter managed a small smile. "That's alright," he said. "I forgive you. I love you too, dad."
"Sss good, ssss good," Peter's dad said. "I sssorry, Pe'er. Thank you..."
Peter shifted the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot, and began the drive home.
For awhile, his dad muttered illegibly, while Peter drove in silence. But then, as they approached a busy intersection, his dad began yelling in fright at some unseen foe, and he flung himself on top of Peter and grabbed the steering wheel.
Peter remembered yelling at him to stop, slamming down on the brakes, the blinding light of headlights shining directly into his face, a searing pain all over his body, and then darkness.
