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When Peter woke in his bed, his entire body was sore. It felt wrong somehow, like he didn't quite fit in it. His nose ached, bandaged and reset.
He remembered smashing his face on his desk. It was all he could think to do to free himself from the strangling feeling of something gripping him. Invading him. Trying to take him over.
He couldn't go on like this. He needed help, and he needed it desperately. He needed his parents. Both of them.
He sat at the edge of his bed, orienting himself. Trying to settle into his skin. Unable to shake the feeling of something - someone - looming over him. Watching him. Waiting to pounce.
He jumped when something moved past the edge of his vision. His head whipped around. There was nothing there.
He pulled himself slowly to his feet and started to the door. The house was quiet. He called for Mom and Dad, receiving no response. He padded down the stairs, keeping an eye out for a note, or any other sign of where they were. Something felt wrong. He didn't know what.
The smell of something burnt didn't register in time to remotely prepare him for the sight waiting by the fireplace. Maybe because of the bandages. Regardless, the putrid scent of charred flesh hitting his nose was just as much a shock as the crisp, black body lying on the floor, frozen in a gesture of panic. The only identifiable feature was the gold wedding band.
Dad.
Peter's heart dropped into his stomach, cold dread rushing through his bones. The tears stung his eyes but he didn't even have the energy to sob. He could just stand there, gasping for air, eyes glued to his father's burnt corpse.
The shuffling in the doorway, the almost apparition-like form of the naked man watching him, a sick grin on his face - it was almost a relief. As terrifying as it was, for a moment Peter could believe someone other than his mother had done this.
Then she was running at him. Chasing him, right on his tail as he ripped through the house to escape her, driven only by the fumes of fear.
***
It wasn't normal to be afraid of your mother. Peter was pretty sure of that.
Annoyance was normal. Ragging on your mom for being a smother, getting pissed when she told you off or grounded you, saying you hated her with no real venom behind it. That was normal.
That was the kind of stuff Peter had always heard from his friends. That was the kind of stuff Peter said to his friends. Never beyond that, though. When one of the boys took a seat at the lunch table and started a tirade with "you'll never believe what a bitch my mom is", he was never about to recount waking up in the middle of the night drenched in paint thinner, his mom standing over him with a lit match.
That wasn't normal. So Peter never talked about it.
He thought about it a lot, though. At least, he used to.
He thought about that night all the time after it first happened.
The sound of the match striking, pulling him from sleep. Mom's face illuminated by the flame, her hair wet and stringy, her body and clothes drenched and her eyes wide with shock, like she'd just woken up, too.
Charlie in her bed on the other side of the room, still asleep but restless, also drenched.
Feeling it on his own skin. His eyes darting around the barely-lit room and settling on the empty can at Mom's feet. The lit match again.
The scream that tore from his throat.
Mom put the match out right away, kicked the empty can towards the door and rushed to Peter's bedside, dropping to her knees and grabbing his face.
"Shh, shh, Peter! Sweetheart, it's okay! It's okay, you're okay, I was- I was sleepwalking again, that's all! I was just sleepwalking!" She pulled Peter into her arms, muffling him when he wouldn't stop screaming. He trembled in her embrace, the disgusting stench of paint thinner burning inside his nose. "I'm awake now and you're okay, we're all okay."
Peter couldn't stop shaking. He really, really wanted to, but the fear wracked his body and it wasn't going away. He could feel his heart pounding, squeezed against Mom's. Maybe it was her heart, too. Maybe they were both shaking. Peter couldn't really tell. His muffled scream broke into sobs and Mom climbed onto the bed, pressing his face against her chest.
"Shh, Peter, shh…"
She was holding him too tight. She was going to suffocate him with the fumes they were both covered in and her embrace. He struggled.
"M-Mom," he stammered, "Mom, stop, I can't breathe. Please, Mom!"
"I'm not gonna hurt you, sweetie-!"
"Please!" Despite himself, he clung to Mom's robe, crumbling into sobs on her shoulder. "Please stop, please, please…"
Mom held him close. Tears blurred his vision and Mom's stringy hair curtained his eyes, but he could see Charlie sitting up in her bed, staring at her hands. Her hair stuck to her face. She looked up and met Peter's eyes. She looked at Mom. Her nose wrinkled.
"It smells bad," she said.
"Charlie!" Mom reached her hand out. "It's okay, sweetie, I'm right here."
Charlie recoiled just slightly, and Mom immediately clamored across Peter's bed to reach her.
"You know you're okay, right? Mommy was just sleepwalking, that's all it was!"
Charlie was stiff as Mom stroked her wet hair. She looked at Peter again. Her brow twitched and creased, her eyes dark.
Peter threw the sheets back and stumbled to his feet. He tried to wedge himself between Mom and Charlie. Mom just grabbed for his face again. His knees buckled and he dropped down. He still couldn’t stop shaking. Every breath trembled, tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the paint thinner. Mom gripped him and Charlie tight. She looked rapidly between them. Her eyes glistened with tears of her own, a shaky, frantic smile stretching her features.
“Look at me, look at me,” she said, her touch drawing gently over their faces. “It’s okay, I promise. I’m right here, I’d never ever hurt you. It was just sleepwalking! It wasn’t real, I was never gonna- look at me, okay? You’re okay. You’re both okay.”
Charlie was still.
Peter kept trying to catch his breath, but the stench of the chemicals coating everything just made him cry harder. He hiccuped and wheezed, gripping his shirt over his chest. “M-Mommy,”
“Shhh, shh-shh!” Mom feigned comfort, barely masking her desperation.
“Annie?”
Her face paled. “Steve,” she turned around to face him.
Dad was in the doorway, eyeing the empty can on the floor. His gaze slowly turned back up. "What the hell is this?"
Mom stumbled to her feet. “Steve, I swear I can explain-”
“It better be one hell of an explanation."
"I was asleep," Mom surged forward, clinging to Dad's shoulders. "I was sleepwalking, I don't even remember doing this. I just woke up, Steve, I'm as shocked as you are but I wasn't gonna do anything, I was sleeping."
Dad held onto Mom's arms, studying her. His gaze drifted behind her, between the two beds. Peter didn't know if he was supposed to say something. He could barely think.
Dad gave a quiet sigh, his eyes softening slightly. "We need to get this stuff off before you all get chemical burns."
"Steve, I promise-"
"Later, Annie," Dad squeezed her arm, but not hard. "We'll talk later. Go clean up, please."
Dejected, Mom brushed past Dad and headed upstairs.
When her footsteps were out of earshot Dad stepped between the two beds and knelt down slowly. He set his hand over Charlie's and she laid her other over his. The other hand found Peter's trembling shoulder.
"Are you two alright?"
Charlie's nod was stiff. "Mhm."
"Peter?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you sure?"
Peter looked at his dad. He blinked rapidly, more tears spilling down his cheeks. He sniffed, the sting burning his nose. Dad moved his hand, holding his arm open. Peter collapsed into him.
Dad’s embrace was steady and tight. Grounding, not suffocating. Safe. Peter clung to him, sobbing into his chest until he had nothing left. Dad held him until his breath steadied. Helped him stand, held Charlie’s hand, and guided them to the bathroom down the hall.
The bathwater was warm. Charlie didn't move much, so Peter scrubbed her clean himself. She sat with her head buried in her knees, clicking her tongue every few minutes. She washed her own face. The sting in Peter's eyes numbed. Neither spoke.
When they were finished and dressed in clean, chemical-free pajamas, Peter held Charlie’s hand and led her to the guest room, locking the door behind them. Charlie climbed up on the big guest bed. Legs crossed and shoulders slumped, she stared down at her lap.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked.
Charlie didn’t look up. "She was gonna hurt us."
"Yeah," Peter sniffed, sitting on the other side of the bed. "She didn't mean to. But she was gonna."
"Were you scared?"
Peter scoffed. His eyes were bloodshot. His temples throbbed. "Were you?"
Charlie squeezed her eyes shut. She clicked her tongue. Peter reached out to set a light, awkward hand on her shoulder.
"Yeah. Yeah."
Charlie scooted a little closer, leaning her head against his side. Though still stiff, Peter softened. He wrapped his arms around her in a cautious, slightly uncomfortable hug. For a moment, she relaxed. Peter did, too. Then she withdrew, promptly crawling under the covers. Peter rolled onto his side.
He didn't sleep.
He hardly slept for weeks. When he did he had nightmares.
They talked about it once or twice. Mom promised it was completely unconscious, she was asleep, she never chose to do that, she would never choose to. She loved them. She wanted to protect them. Didn't they know that? Of course they knew that. She would never want to hurt them.
Peter didn't know what he was supposed to say. He believed her. Entirely. That didn't change anything. He couldn't say that, though.
He didn't know what Charlie was thinking, sitting next to him at the table. She wouldn't look at Mom, but she'd never liked eye contact much anyway.
"You have to trust me," Mom said, "please. I'd never, ever want to hurt either of you."
Peter just nodded and said "okay." Charlie did the same.
Dad said he'd gotten Mom in contact with a guy from his building - Dr. Stetson - for a few sessions. He said if there was anything they needed to feel safe, just say the word.
Peter started locking the bedroom door at night. That felt a little safer. Mom said it was a fire hazard.
The stench of paint thinner lingered in the carpet. At least, Peter thought it did. He couldn't quite tell if it was real or not. Eventually he'd stop noticing it.
Charlie moved to her own room. The space hadn't been ready for a while, but once the bed and all her stuff was in there, so was she. As relieved as Peter was to have his own space again, he still felt like someone had dropped an anvil in his stomach.
They tried to move on. It made Mom too upset to talk about. Nobody wanted to upset her. Clearly she felt bad enough already. Scared enough. It lingered, still, like the stench in the carpet. The way Charlie would look at Mom, the barest, unreadable glint in her eye. The way the corner of Mom's mouth trembled during a quarrel. The tone in Dad's voice when he'd shut it down.
Peter couldn't be so subtle. Not at home. He tried, but it plagued him. It ate him alive. It boiled under his skin, and the heat was suffocating. To him, and to everyone else.
They were arguing when it exploded. He didn't remember what it was about anymore. Maybe his grades, maybe he’d broken curfew, maybe she didn’t like one of his friends. It didn’t matter. He just remembered a comment, an eye roll, a scoff, something that breached his limit, and his fist collided with the wall.
"If I piss you off so much, why don't you just light me on fire?"
He shouldn't have said it, but he didn't regret it. He stood his ground, knuckles split, tears welling, and shoulders heaving. He was on fire.
It was shock first. Then disbelief - Mom's head dropped, eyes curtained by her hair as she shook her head. Her breath trembled, something between a pained laugh and a hysterical sob.
“I was asleep, Peter!” She shoved her hair back. Her jaw was set, lip trembling, brow twitching. “Fuck! I- You’ve been waiting to throw that in my face, haven’t you? I thought we were moving on, but you’re never gonna let it go!”
The flame flickered. “Would you?”
“I’m trying to! That’s all I want! Jesus Christ, Peter! You don’t think I was as scared as you? You don’t think I wish it never happened?”
“Well, it did! It fucking happened!”
Mom squeezed the bridge of her nose, shoulders trembling. “I don’t know what you want me to do that I haven’t already done. The treatment is helping, and I still let you lock your stupid door.” Her hand moved to cover her eyes. “I wish I could take it back! I wish I could, I wish you could understand how much I regret this, how much I love you and want to keep you safe. But you’re right, it happened. There’s nothing I can do about that.” She huffed a sigh, and after a moment, looked at Peter with expectant eyes. “What do you want from me, Peter?”
The question caught him off guard.
He didn’t know.
He wanted the fire in him to die. He wanted to stop being so overwhelmed and afraid. He wanted the assurance that she didn’t want to hurt him to make a difference. He wanted to feel safe in his home. He wanted to unlock the door.
There wasn’t anything she could do to give him that.
His eyes flitted to his feet as he fumbled for a response. There was no answer they would both feel satisfied with. There was no olive branch either could extend that wouldn’t be immediately scorched by the fire.
A quiet, bitter laugh sounded from Mom. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you just love this.”
A coldness rushed up Peter’s spine. He balked. His brows knit, tears threatening to fall when he blinked. “Love this?” His voice broke.
“You have something to hold against me forever now.”
She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her tone was harsh with regret and fury simultaneously.
“You think I-” Peter cut himself off, his voice shaky and pathetic.
He held the tears back. His breath trembled.
The words stuck in his throat. You think I want to hold it against you? You think I like this?
Of course she’d think that. How was he supposed to refute it? How could he explain himself when he barely understood it?
He hated her. He loved her. He was afraid of her. He wanted their quarrels to feel pointless and average, like a typical mother and son again. He wished he’d never picked fights with her, because maybe that had something to do with it. He believed her when she said she loved him. That she would never consciously hurt him. He wanted to believe there was nowhere in her subconscious where that wasn’t true.
Maybe he did want to hold it against her. Maybe there was power in it. Or maybe he just didn't want to pretend it never happened. He didn’t even know.
All he knew was he wanted this to end.
He shook his head, wiping his teary eyes with his sleeve and sniffing harshly. “Yeah. That’s what it is.”
“Was there more you wanted to say?” Mom flicked her hand out expectantly. “Go on, release yourself.”
Peter backed up, conceding. “No. No, I’m done.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
The flame had been snuffed, but the smoke still filled the house.
There was a small painting hung over the crack in the wall the next morning.
Peter didn’t shut down. Not entirely. It was more like running on his lowest possible setting. He felt too heavy to manage anything else. He stopped arguing, stopped pushing entirely. The tension didn’t ever leave, but at least things were quieter.
Peter’s buddy Brendan had been getting into weed around that time. He offered some; said it helped with stress. He didn’t know - nobody did, Peter knew better than to take that public - but what high schooler wasn’t stressed? Peter had tried it once before. He accepted it like a godsend. It made everything feel far away. Made it easier to stop thinking about the things he didn’t want to. It felt good - like he could detach from himself. Like a pleasant dream. He could use more of those.
Maybe he should’ve practiced more restraint. He didn’t really care. It helped.
He grew accustomed to detachment. Comforted by it. It became a conscious effort, to pull back from everything even when he was sober. Before long it took no effort at all.
It was easier. Withdrawing. Armslength was a safe distance. It was still there, but he didn't have to look at all of it head on. He could keep it in his peripherals, focusing on something else. Like his friends. Like a new crush; her name was Bridget, and she was smarter than him, but she seemed just as far away. Peter liked that. He liked looking at her. She was very distracting.
Anything distracting was welcome. That was why he scattered about twenty different low-investment activities around his room - things to do with his hands that didn't require much thought. Maybe he'd actually learn how to play his guitar someday. For now, random plucking sufficed.
Anything that helped keep it all from getting too close for comfort.
He could live with it if it felt far away.
He could live with anything this way.
He wanted to live the rest of his life this way.
This way they were all finally able to move on. Or at least, more convincingly pretend they had. A new normal settled over the Graham house. It was a lot like the old normal, shifted to the left. Tenser. But similar still.
Charlie was no quieter than she'd always been. She kept to herself or hung around Grandma; relieved when she moved in. She was the only one.
Peter didn't bother her if he could help it. She didn't need that, not with everyone else breathing down her neck all the time, and he didn't have the energy anyway. Every now and then, though, she'd knock on his door to show him one of her drawings, or sit close to him on the sofa and put together one of her strange little figures while he watched TV. He wouldn't complain about that.
Dad held everything together like he always did. He was the rock, and the only one Peter ever felt he could see clearly who saw him back. He didn't push, but he was always there. He was steady. He was safe.
Mom was stiff. Tired. Peter could feel her eyes on him all the time, even as he avoided her as much as possible. That mix of regret and resentment always present on her face. The sound of her voice when she spoke to him like a hesitant knock on a locked door. He noticed it. She didn't like him shutting her out. She didn't like him shutting anything out, but her in particular. He had no plans to stop anyway, but it wasn't like he had another option if he wanted it. He noticed the defensive quills she kept raised, too. The irritated frown and arch of her brow prickly and sharp. The sting ever-present in her voice, even when she tried to soften.
He wouldn’t open the door and she wouldn’t lower the quills. They kept the peace best by leaving each other alone.
At least, they had.
That was then.
***
The attic was latched. Peter didn’t even know how she was reaching the ceiling, but he could hear her, feel her slamming against the door, over and over and over and over.
Gripped in terror, Peter pushed down against the door, screaming and begging for her to stop. He apologized.
That was all she’d wanted - an apology. An admission of his guilt. Maybe that would make her stop. Maybe she could forgive him.
It was all his fault, wasn’t it?
That stupid fucking party. He’d just wanted to get out for a night. He’d just wanted to smoke and shoot his shot with a girl he liked. He hadn’t wanted his little sister there. She hadn’t wanted to be there. If he’d just said no, he could’ve saved them both. If he’d just been a better brother, and not left her alone. If he’d just stayed sober. If he’d just brought her epipen. If he’d just called an ambulance. If he’d just driven more carefully.
If he’d just, if he’d just, if he’d just.
If he hadn’t left her body in the backseat.
If he could have faced it and apologized.
If he’d died, too.
But he hadn’t.
There was no escaping, no taking any of it back. Weed didn't even help anymore, all it did was give him panic attacks. He couldn't keep this at armslength, because it was right behind him. Right over his shoulder.
In the rear view mirror.
Even if he chose not to look, it was there.
And it should be. He shouldn't be able to hide from this. From killing his sister. His endearingly strange, hauntingly quiet, lonely little sister, who'd been so tiny when she was born that all Peter remembered about seeing her for the first time was wanting to keep her safe.
And he'd failed.
And she'd died, probably not knowing he even loved her because he'd never showed it, he'd barely even fucking looked at her.
There was no changing that.
There was no changing any of this. There was just the banging on the other side of the attic door, and the desperate burn in his throat, begging Mom to stop. Hoping against all odds for the match to strike and wake him from this endless nightmare, for his mommy to snap out of it and hold him close and swear in spite of the stench of death and fire that she never wanted to hurt him.
When the banging stopped he didn’t get that relief. He called to her again and got no response. Nothing at all on the other side of the door. Just… the soft sound of flies buzzing.
He had to be dreaming. All of this, the eerie candles flickering around the attic, surrounding a photo of him with the eyes scratched out… the horrific sound of wire tearing through flesh. The spray of blood, Mom’s empty eyes staring down at him as she sawed through her own neck. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.
It was a nightmare, just a mental concoction of his fears no different than any other he’d been having. He only thought it was real because it was so… vivid.
He just had to wake up. He just needed a jolt and he’d wake up back in his bed, Dad would be alive, Mom would be lucid and he could apologize, and maybe things would never be okay again, but at least he would have them. He just needed a jolt.
A jolt was what he got.
Peter didn’t die when he hit the flower bed. The impact from the height of the fall knocked the wind out of him, and probably broke a rib or two. Shards of glass pierced his skin, the sting cooled by the frosty air of the night. He was alive, though. Feeling the blood pooling against his bandages, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
Alive as he was, Peter would never get up again. He’d lie in the dirt until his weak, exhausted heart gave out, or…
Or…
Something settled within him. His body relaxed, every ache, pain, and sting lifting away. His skin felt like it fit again, though it wasn’t his. His mind quieted. Clouded.
Numbness.
Consuming numbness, pushing him down. Far down. Surrounding him. Smothering him. Guiding him towards something; something familiar and entirely unknown. Something he’d mourned for, something he’d loved and killed. Something he’d never seen and always feared. Something deep inside himself, far outside of him, something that gripped him tight and pulled him in. Something that would never let go.
His name escaped him. Both of them. Were there two? Or three?
His head lifted, but it wasn’t him doing it. At the same time, it was. His vision was blurred - too blurred to see through eyes that weren’t his anymore. Eyes that had never been his. That had always been. His mind still registered what was in front of him. The treehouse. The headless, bloodied figure in the white robe, ascending the ladder without touching it.
He knew her.
He hated her. He loved her. He feared her.
His mother. Her mother. Their mother. His most stubborn pawn.
He wanted her to come hold him, like she'd done that night, smothering him in the evidence of death. She wanted to hear her voice, see her face, even if it would be angry. They wanted to understand what happened to her - to all of them. He wanted to see her dead at his feet.
He followed her.