7. Sky of paint
Peter Lake slept in a sky of paint. Hovering over the people. Over time.
He had lied to Cecil about having all he needed up there. He had no supper that night. He was hungry and a little thirsty. He was now regretting his decision to lie to him.
But there was little to do but think. He simply drank in the serenity of his hideout. How much he would genuinely miss it.
Under his bed and under the floorboards lay a swarm of stars and clouds and darkness. A pretense sky. Pretense stars. Little dots of paint. Yellow and white. Blue and purple. Painted over the pale gold interior of Grand Central Station.
Those who went in, those who went out. Those going, those returning. The first thing they saw was that starlit ceiling. Much easier to admire than the actual skies of New York, whose colors were often cloaked by lamplight and smoke and fog and rain. A perfect sky, indoors, never changing. Never hidden.
Little Peter Lake sailed on toy boats. And Peter Lake slept in painted skies. And today Peter Lake had flown over New York and turned it into a model city. A city of paper and ice.
Home, Cecil had said…
His home was the hollow center of a painted twilight. He lounged in the belly of beautiful beasts.
His baby blanket had been soft last night. He kept it well-hidden and well-protected from the rats and the dust. He now had it gathered up against his chest, the thick fabric between his fingers. It was no longer soft. It was coarse and old and prone to disintegrate at any moment. The moment he'd lain his hands on the white horse, that blanket had stopped being soft…
But he still loved to touch it. To smell it. Smell the salt and the wood and the paint.
Peter looked at it in wonder, acknowledged that he had once been small enough to be wrapped in it completely.
Wished he could shrink, disappear in those folds, sink into the blanket and hide there forever. He had shrunk the city. A whole city. His city. He could shrink himself, then. He could make himself smaller…
But the only thing he could wrap in that blanket at this point was the golden banner. His only trophy. The remains of his first theft. His first vessel.
"CITY OF JUSTICE," it read. The years had yet to flatten the letters. They looked as clear and legible as ever. With just two hands, Peter could cover it all up. Bend the sentence until it vanished. Snap the banner in half. He was strong. He could do it.
But tonight all he did was stare at it. Graze a thumb gently over the texture of those words. City… Of… Justice… His parents had done this to him. They chose this vessel for him. They stole it. And, by extension, he had stolen it.
Why?
What did they think he would do with this message? What did they hope he would interpret? He had stolen justice. A model of justice. A parody, a mockup of justice. Had they been wronged by it? Perhaps… Maybe…
He could never know.
The City of Justice, New York. Is that what they were telling him? New York is the City of Justice?
Well… Peter thought, as he looked at the ceiling.
His unpainted ceiling.
Under him, people wandered. People with destinations. People with a purpose to go, to return, to stay. And, under him, too, lay a sky of paint. He slept among a sea of fake stars…
I took the City of Justice… I glided over it and it became small… And I opened my mouth, and I swear, I swear I tasted it...
I feasted upon it... I felt it on my tongue... Who else has done such a thing?
Author's Note: If there is anyone here, thank you for reading. Thank you for taking some time off your day just to read my stuff. I had a lot of fun with this chapter. I like lingering on character's emotions on little moments like these. It's when I have the most fun writing these stories. When there is little physical action and there is ample opportunity to delve into what someone may be thinking.
I hope you don't feel bored by how much time I spend doing that: going into Peter's perspective and talking about his thoughts. Beverly will be showing up soon, so that'll be interesting ;)