Pete

Peter was lying on the bed and staring at a large damp patch on the ceiling. It was not his bed or his bedroom; he was in his Nan house. His, was just four houses away but he knew that he would never see it again, let alone his bedroom. From outside the noise of children playing in the playground made his feeling even worst. Since That day every one had behaved strangely, and even Billy his best friend, looked at him funny. There were lots of whispering when he was not around; - Did he cry? - Did he say anything? – How is he at school? – Does he play?
‘He is in shock’ his Nan kept saying, ‘He needs time’. Peter remembered his father to say angrily to him whenever he had cried. ‘You are a man, Pete and a man doesn’t cry, does he?’ But now his dad was away forever and Peter was glad that he doesn’t have to see him ever again.
The newspapers called him the butcher of 10 Darling Street because in frenzy, he had stabbed Peter’s mother 30 times. Although he couldn’t recall the all event, the headlines and his friends at school made sure he knew every details of the murder.

It was a very important day, because that day Billy asked him to stay at his house for the night. He had run home to ask his mother but when he stepped into the kitchen and looked at her, he saw she was in trouble. So, he said nothing, made himself his tea and sate opposite her. She looked awful her blond hair was lifeless and her eyes were puffy and red. He could see she has been crying, but then she had done a lot of it since Laura’s death just over a year ago. Although she had been eight and younger than him he had loved her. She had been funny and a real tomboy who would have done any thing for him.
Nan said God took her away and his mother said it was meningitis. But who ever took her away took not only the life out of his mother but Peter joie de vivre. Sleeping tablets had become his mother new comfort and a way of living. As for his father his temper, his drinking and his mood worsen. He went on working at the factory, followed by long stops at the local pub and although he had promised to give up, he went on betting.
On the sink were two days of dirty dishes and on the floor next to the patio door, weeks of soiled laundry. In fact the house looked like her now, unkempt, unloved and abandon.
Staring at her cup of tea she said, “Pete! Your father is coming back early today because….” looking for her words she went on, ‘because… he lost his job, and …and…’ Tears were showing just at the corner of her eyes. Peter jump out of his chair and rushed to her. ‘ Mum, don’t cry! Please don’t cry! It will…’ But at that moment the front door slammed and in a second his father was in the room.
‘Bloody hell! Look at you both!’ he yelled, ‘Sitting and drinking tea!’ His face was red and his eyes looked foggy as if he had hard time to focus.
‘Useless! That s what you are, f**** useless!’ By then his face was close to Peter’s and with it came the odour of beer. Was it because Peter put his hands on his mother’s shoulder, or because he started to say?
‘Dad, we were saying….’ but at that moment he went for Peter and grabbed him by his school uniform collar.
‘You F*** little brat, who ask you to say anything! Get out!’ he shouted and with all his strength threw Peter a cross the room.
As he landed on the corner of the dresser he felt a sharp pain on the left side of his temple and then black out. He never saw the killing and the 30 knife wounds the news paper was talking about, he only remember waking up alone next to his mother. She was lying on the kitchen floor with a lot of blood around her and for a while he thought his parents had a fight with tomatoes ketchup. He never saw so much of it and he knew that he would always remember the smell - sour and sweet - something he didn’t like. He never screamed or cried he just walked outside; his school uniform covered of blood and rang the next-door neighbour’s bell.

Long after, when he asked about his father, he was told that he went mad and lost it. But Peter couldn’t understand what they meant by – lost it - the only thing he knew was that he had lost his mother and that made him made. So he never asked and nobody mentioned him again.
Now he was waiting for his future. The social services were looking for foster parents because his Nan said she was too old to look after 10 years old. ‘It would be unfair on the boy’. She kept saying. She was right, thought Peter because she was far too happy in her widow life. Although she had done some odd baby sittings for her daughter, she never went out of her way for him or even Laura.
They had also written two letters to his aunt Jessica who lives in America but as far as he knew his Nan never mentioned any replies from her.
It was a year ago when he last saw her. She had staid two nights with them after Laura’s death and even his dad has been nice. Whenever he though about aunt Jessica warmth, smell of roses and laughter came to him.
‘Don’t forget’ she had said to his mother before she left, ‘you can always send me Peter if you can’t cope’. So, why didn’t she reply to his Nan’s letters? Maybe she changed her mind; maybe she doesn’t want him any more.
It was by now dark in the bedroom and Peter didn’t bother to turn the sidelight. The playground was quite and the only sound he could hear was coming from the kitchen below. Earlier the doorbell and voices had told him that the social worker and the child psychiatrist had arrived. He had seen her many time and like her. He wished he could please her and answer all her questions - how does he sleep? - Has he having any nightmares? - When was the last time he remember his mother? But the only thing he could do was staring at his shoes.
It was just when he decided to get up that he heard someone climbing the stairs. He sighed, sate and waited. No one knocked but the door open slowly and then aunt Jessica step in.
‘Hey my little prince! Did you miss me?’ She said softly, and with her came that smell of roses.
Peter stared at her, as she was a ghost. No word came out, he just stared, then with a deep pain, his heart broke and a strange sound from his throat came out and with it all the tears he had kept for so long. Jessica rushed to him, took him in her arm and cradled him like a little baby.
‘Hush! Hush! My little one, you are going home with me.’ She said and took his face in her hands and kissed his wet cheeks.

By Agnes McMillan