Chapter 3- Lost

Peter was vaguely aware that he was awake. He didn't open his eyes, but instead tried to figure out where he was by touch. He felt like he was lying down, but he wasn't on a floor. He was lying down in what felt like dirt and what felt like long grass was brushing against his face. He could also tell that he had been sweating because he could feel his blond hair plastered to his forehead.

'What happened?' he thought to himself, 'Oh right! That girl…' That had been a good kiss, but evidently things had not ended well for him. He opened his eyes. It was dark, but not completely dark. There was a glimmer of sunlight, so he guessed it was maybe 5 am, possibly 6. He sat up and immediately regretted it. A screeching pain shot through his chest, which made him cry out. He looked down and saw that his shirt was soaked in blood.

That was not good.

He stood up slowly and painfully, glad to discover that his limbs didn't seem broken and peered into the dim light. He was in a wheat field and that was all he could see for miles. The low sky was lit up like a painting. He was alone and he was scared; very, very, scared. He took a deep breath and pain screamed in his torso. Now he was even more scared. He felt tears well up in his eyes and began to cry, which only caused him more agony.

"Micheal?" he sobbed, "Micky? David?" There was no response except the wheat waving in the wind.

Peter continued to sob as he turned on the spot and tried to figure out what to do next. He figured that his best bet would be to walk in one direction until he found a road, or a river, or a house, so he started walking. A cold breeze chilled the bassist, for he was just wearing a pair of orange jeans and what had been a blue buttoned up shirt. He was covered in sweat, blood and tears, plus his chest threatened to burst open every time he moved, so he wasn't the most comfortable of people.

'At least I'm wearing shoes,' he thought to himself, 'But shoes won't do me any good if I'm dead. Maybe I should have brought two pairs of shoes.' He was just glad that he didn't seem to bleeding anymore.

After a few hours of wading through the wheat, the sun was up above the horizon and he found a road and collapsed at the side of it.

"That was one massive wheat field!" he said out loud, despite the misery it caused him. A car drove past and Peter realised that he must be quite a sight, a man lying on the side of the road covered in blood. He stood up and considered trying to get a lift, but he knew that if he was driving a car and saw a bloodied man on the side of the road, he would be too scared to stop and then he would feel incredibly worried about the poor guy when he got home. So instead, he walked along the road and eventually came across an old wooden house. He staggered up onto the porch and knocked. A woman answered the door. She looked to be in her early fifties and have greying blonde hair. When she saw Peter she screamed and quickly closed the door again.

"ANNETTE! THERE'S A MAN OUT THERE!" Peter heard her scream. He then heard footsteps approach the door.

"What kind of man?" he heard a younger woman's voice say, presumably Annette.

"DON'T OPEN THE DOOR!" he heard the the older woman yell again, but it was too late, Annette swung open the door to find a man covered in blood standing at her door.

"Hello, I'm Peter," was all Peter could get out before Annette fainted. The older woman came rushing back over and knelt down to look at Annette.

"My daughter doesn't like the sight of blood," the woman explained, "Now! You! Peter or whatever your name is! Get away from here and head to a hospital!" This was all too much for Peter. He fell on his knees, making him yell in pain and began sobbing heavy sobs, the pain making him clench his teeth. He looked at the woman with pleading eyes and her heart went out to him. He could have been a horrible man for all she knew but at that moment he looked like a lost child, so she let him in. She dragged Annette into the house and managed to get her onto a couch. She was surprisingly strong for a middle aged lady. Peter sat down on a wooden chair in the same room Annette was and did his best to swallow the pain and the tears. The lady then turned around, suddenly extremely calm.

"My name is Mildred," she said, "What yours?"

"Peter," he croaked.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I don't know," Peter breathed through gritted teeth. Annette started to wake up.

"Well, never mind that now, you are evidently in a lot of pain, so we'll have to deal with that first," Mildred explained. Peter nodded just as Annette sat up, saw him again and she screamed.

"It's alright Annette," Mildred hushed, "This is Peter and we are going to help him out."

Peter smiled at Annette. He didn't want to scare anyone. Annette just remained still, staring at the blood.

"Do you have any idea what is causing you all of this pain?" Mildred asked. Peter shook, his head. "Alright," said Mildred, crouching down in front of him, "Let's have a look," she began to unbutton his bloodied shirt.

"Shouldn't you wear gloves?" Peter asked.

"There's no time for that," she deadpanned as she finished unbuttoning his shirt, "Can you put your arms behind you so I can pull it off?" she asked Peter. He did so, though it made him have to breath in sharply.

"Hurts," he said.

"I know, so stop talking," Mildred told him. She pulled off his shirt. His bare chest was covered in more blood than the shirt was.

"I think it stopped bleeding," Peter explained. He wanted to be as helpful as possible, for he knew he was taking up a lot of Mildred and Annette's time.

Mildred turned around and looked at Annette, who looked very pale and said, "Annette, go get a clean dishcloth and a bowl of salty water." Annette nodded and scampered out of the room, "She hates the sight of blood. Now, tell me when it hurts," Mildred began pressing her hand against Peter's stomach, but that didn't cause any pain, then she pressed her fingers hard against Peter's lower ribs, and he screamed in pain. "Bullseye," Mildred said, humourless.

Annette came back into the room, carrying the dishcloth and salty water.

"Is he okay?" she asked shakily.

Mildred laughed, "You seem more upset than him!" she then looked to Peter, "She could never be a nurse."

"I just don't like seeing other people's blood," Annette breathed.

"I think he know's that dear," Mildred stated.

"So," Peter breathed. "What's wrong with me?"

"I don't know for certain, but I think that your ribs are broken," Mildred answered. Peter paled. "Fortunately they don't seem to have punctured your lungs. You really need a hospital but there is no hospital for miles around, and we don't have a phone."

Peter gulped. None of this sounded very uplifting. "Then where is all of the blood coming from?"

"We shall see." Mildred took the washcloth from Annette and began to clean the blood off him. "Go make us tea Annette, or coffee, for the shock." Annette left hastily. Peter clenched in pain when the cloth passed over his ribs.

"I am being as gentle as possible," Mildred assured him. Peter closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain. After about 15 minutes, Mildred had finished wiping all of the blood off and she cried out.

"What is it?" asked Peter.

"Oh, who would want to hurt a poor boy like you?" she asked.

"What is it?" Peter questioned again.

"The broken ribs and everything has been done by a person."

"I figured as such." Peter explained.

"Someone with medical expertise. They have expertly broken your ribs as not to puncture any organs, as far as I know, and they have carved into the skin of your pectorals deep enough to cause lots of blood, and once it heals, scarring, but not damage anything internally."

One word stood out to Peter, "What do you mean by carved?" he asked, trying to look down at his chest.

"They have carved the initials B.F.M." Mildred explained, Peter saw that Annette was there, looking as pale as ever.

Suddenly, it all made sense to Peter. Well, not all of it, but some. He understood why Mike had said 'you' to Micky when he had asked who he was talking to.

"BabyFace..." Peter uttered.