34. Stage-play
Peter Lake had never been to the theater.
Those dark red caverns of velvet, huge and exotic. He'd never sat before an orchestra and watched it compel the actors into movement, in the same way Beverly manipulated every hair on his body whenever she threw her hands upon her piano.
Peter hadn't been able to enjoy them, let alone hover above them, with those little binoculars.
Pearly's influence lended him to order pricey meals, oftentimes ordered with ridiculous suggestions, and women, and clothes, but he'd never used his wealth to become a patron of the arts, in any sense.
That wealth is crafted with the light of stars. Stranded souls, lost without their tickets... I will fix that. I will.
Pearly had never been a fan of theater. Nor had he ever been prone to take his flock of devils to a stage-play.
Peter Lake could understand now. Pearly was a crusher of miracles. He despised stories. He hated endings.
He only saw a narrative as a branch for him to wrap his fingers around and snap in half. Actions rendered superfluous. Payoffs dissipated. An ending dodged, thus betraying the whole purpose of a story.
Ugly son of a bitch.
Why did this realization come to him now? Was it a sort of wink? A guiding thought?
Were all of his ideas rehearsed now, scripted by the stars?
Beverly, I think I'd like to give you back some of your energy. I'm too sleepy to be thinking this much…
He was part of a crowd now.
An audience, reacting forever to a mortal world's fallacies. Applauding kindness. Reacting to cruelty with frigid silence.
How would they interfere in a play like this? With so many characters and so much sound?
Why did he think of this now?
Now…
He was back.
Beverly?
Her body was no longer cuddled beside his own. When he waved his arms he found nothing but the thick push of a large body of water.
You're water. You're a good man.
His body burned. His face itched, all around. He wasn't floating, as he so often did in instances like these. He had no saturated hair or small hand to look upon.
He was underwater.
I wonder if I'm an actor or an observer at this moment.
After all, Peter wasn't finished just yet. He hadn't earned a light of his own. He was still onstage…
The City of Justice, performing live.
Live… Well, not quite now, no.
I'm very funny, Beverly. If only you knew what I'm thinking right now.
Once upon a time, a little magpie was killed on a bridge.
The curtain would open, then. Drums would tremble in anticipation. The stars would shine their bright faces upon his black, leathery feathers.
His wings were of no use to him now, but the sunshine formed hands with which to cup him in and shelter him.
But a magpie has to fly… Otherwise, it'd be no magpie at all. It was made that way for a reason.
I've never been to the theater… Why do I see it so clearly, though?
Peter Lake was being moved once more.
A little baby boy with ashy skin and black eyes. Waddling about in a little model boat. Fed so eagerly to the City of Justice.
Had he been expected to sink? Had his parents harbored that doubt as they left him there?
Where were they? He needed to ask them himself.
He wanted Beverly to be there when he did so. He couldn't do it without her.
Not only because she was the keeper of his light, his open eyes, his borrowed wings… but also because she gave him a sense of power and tranquility that he would otherwise never have.
Like now, for instance. He was… delightfully calm.
Beverly, my hero, I've been stranded once more.
He lifted his head from the water and blinked at a moonlit spotlight. He waded to shore.
Stars, eyes, binoculars. The light glinting off the glass. They watched from their lit-up vessels.
Beverly was on her way. Cecil, too. He heard his footsteps. The wind billowed around him. Crisp winter waterdrops, upon his brow.
I feel you, love. I know it's you.
He lay back upon the dark sand, watching the sky, letting the breeze envelop him. A plot halted. The City of Justice was wondrously silent.
I took the City of Justice… This horrible stage upon which we've all tread… I flew over it and it became small.
His face hurt. He felt dizzy.
Peter Lake waited.
I trust you. Beverly, you hold my line. You know my story. I trust that we'll be fine.
Author's Note: To whoever is here today, thank you for reading.
I am writing this from my phone in my bed, yes sir XD I've had a very crappy couple of days. Feelings of neglect, loneliness, anger, the typical. And this all stems from multiple things in my life, some of which are more important than others.
But I'll be okay tomorrow, I hope. So, in order to cheer myself up, I wrote another chapter :3 Back to Peter's POV!
This chapter feels like one of my older ones, from the beginning of ASITL. I feel like I just returned for a brief moment to the start of this long journey I decided to embark on. The roots of my love for Peter Lake, and my own interpretation of his tale and his character.
I included a little wink to the movie in my line about Pearly's "ridiculous suggestions" with meals - in the movie, he literally orders "owl" as a meal at a restaurant at some point. And of course the people there don't HAVE owl... so Pearly kills them. Yes. Random, stupid, and extremely accurate to Pearly's bored (and almost obligatory, as I also pointed out at the end of ASITL) cruelty, toward anything and anyone.
I like comparing the stars to an audience. Peter thinking of himself as an actor, forming his own plot in his head... It was very refreshing to write this. Again, it took me back to when I was writing my first chapters of ASITL, and I was just going thought for thought. Little crumbs that build up into something bigger...
And yes, by the way, the theater IS a sign. And it IS foreshadowing. I am having a lot of fun with TFOTM cause I'm taking even more liberties than I did with ASITL - and, as always, I am very glad to see you're here. Here is your hug *hug* , thank you for reading my stuff.
I was right: I do feel better now. At least when I share the things I make, I feel seen. I feel held. It makes me feel good. So. Yeah :3