8.

Shameful Dreams

There, in the darkness of the room, Peter realized that he was not alone. He slowly lifted his head to examine this bizarre specimen. After his eyes adjusted to the moonlight-laced darkness, he noticed that he was not in his room. His bed was in a different position, for one, facing the window rather than being positioned next to it. Emil's bed was nowhere to be seen. A circular rug covered the floor and at its farthest end an armchair faced him.

On the armchair the stranger sat. It was a woman, Peter could tell from the way the dim light captured the face and body of her. The stranger lifted her chin when she noticed Peter had caught sight of her. Peter could not see her face or the color of her clothing, or even her hair style.

"Peter, dear, how are you?" She asked in a gentle voice.

Shifting uncomfortably, Peter gave her a strained smile. "Hello, miss, I'm good."

"I'm your mother," she said. "Come here. You can't see mama that way. Come closer."

Peter hesitated, but, driven by a strange desire to see the woman who held him in her womb, he slipped out of bed and approached her. She stretched out her slender hand, her fingers crooked like a piano player's.

"Come closer."

Peter brushed her fingers and felt wrinkled, dry skin instead of the soft flesh he expected to feel. He looked back at the hand and found that his mother had vanished and instead was replaced with an elderly man. The man's face from this distance he could see clearly. His face looked like a rage that had been dirtied, washed, defiled, torn, destroyed, and worn by time. His eyes were hard as stones.

"Come closer, Peter," his raspy voice said.

Peter stepped back, his lower lip trembling. "Where's mom?"

"You miss her even though you've never met her. How do you know she's really your mother? How do you know you can trust her at all? Do you miss her? Do you hate your present family? You must, since you would drop them at the turn of the dime for some sensual woman." The man said flatly. Each word, no matter how dull, turned sharp and pierced Peter.

"N-No!" Peter said, suffocating. The air seemed to have collapsed in the room. Cracks appeared along the wall and sucked away the oxygen. Peter clutched his throat and fell to his knees. "No…" he gasped.

He woke, breathless. He shot up in bed and looked around, feeling a draft tickle his skin with cold. The window was open, the curtain fluttering in the breeze. Emil's bed was empty. The covers were strewn as if he had to rush out to use the bathroom.

Peter stayed locked into a sitting position until shoes scraped against the window. He couldn't tell if it had been two minutes or two hours, or even two days. Emil clambered back in, pulling off his shoes and tearing off his clothing. His features were flushed and oddly clear in the dark. He felt eyes on his neck and turned to find Peter gawking at him.

"What are you looking at? Go back to sleep." Emil said, slamming the window shut and creeping back in bed, falling asleep in a matter of moments.

Emil had never used that tone with Peter. Peter felt insulted and betrayed. He lay back down and placed his hands on his round stomach. A million bizarre thoughts crossed in his mind, floating in and out like pain in a wound. Some thoughts lingered and others vanished within moments. One thought remained the longest.

Like many children, he wondered what would happen if he died in his death. He felt sad suddenly. He felt that Emil would wake and laugh at him, or that no one would care since he wasn't really related to them. The sorrow he felt was so sweet he held on to it and milked it for as long as possible. At one point he pretended that death really had come and taken him away. He shut his eyes and kept his hands crossed over his chest, smiling bitterly.

When he realized that perhaps this was a strange fantasy, he rolled to his side and fell asleep. In the morning he remembered none of it, or any of his other dreams except that they contained a penguin and some lost girl.