This is a prologue to another story, although I think it can stand on it's own, as can the main story.
Countless rounds of trial and error did nothing to help Peter Waring understand what he could do to please his mother. He’d tricked Michael from down the block out of all the money in his piggy bank, and then given it to her, but that had failed to bring an approving smile to her lips. Her lips had formed a perfect “O,” froze there for a moment, and then solidified into a frown, and she hollered about what Michael’s mother would think. She didn’t think it was funny when he locked little Cheryl in the shed in the back corner of their backyard for nine hours. Peter laughed about that trick until his cheeks were sore and the stitch in his side ached. When his mother saw the pet he made (a garden snake with a squirrel’s tail and two rabbit feet, for extra luck) she fainted. He had made it all on his own, with only a BB gun, some big kitchen knifes, a hot glue gun, and a stapler. Just for her. But she said, “Oh, sweet baby Jesus. You monster. You’re a f***ing monster. God, what did I do to deserve this?” Her hands were held to her temples. Peter reached out a hand to touch one of hers. She shrieks, “Go! Get out of my sight. Now!”
Nonetheless, after 7 years Peter was still hopeful that his only parent would eventually show him some affection. Even greater then his hope was his determination. He couldn’t earn her love by doing cool tricks, but he experimented with other methods. He tried mimicking the men she brought home. She sure liked them a lot. Peter lay on his tummy, pressing his face up against the guard rails of the second floor balcony. He watched Dennis (was that this one’s name?) leave the bathroom with a newspaper folded up under his arm. When he opened the bathroom door, a nasty smell drifted over to Peter. Dennis wore only boxer shorts and a mangy white undershirt. He plopped down on a chair in the kitchen where Mother was making breakfast.
“Ahem.”
“Mmm?” Mother didn’t look up from the eggs she was scrambling.
“Can’t a man get any coffee in this joint?” He leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs.
“Oh, of course dear.” She flitted over to the coffee maker and poured him a cup. She handed it to him with a kiss.
Oh. So that’s how it works. This seemed easy enough to Peter Waring. Dennis left after breakfast, something about the race track. The race track seemed like fun, but, to Peter’s disappointment, he wasn’t invited. He didn’t really expect to be, but it would have been nice.
Right before lunch time, Peter stripped down to his briefs and a dirty old tee-shirt. He rolled up a coloring book under his arm. He mussed his hair so it flew wild like Dennis’. He even farted so he smelled like Dennis.
The peanut butter and jelly jars sat open on the counter in front of Mother. She spread their contents onto a sandwich and hummed contentedly. The legs of the chair scratched the kitchen floor as Peter climbed up on to it.
Peter coughed, but Mother didn’t turn. He coughed again. And again. And soon enough he was in a coughing fit. Somewhere in between the scratching of the chair and the first cough, Mother stopped humming.
“Will you stop that already! I’m trying to make your lunch. How am I supposed to concentrate when you’re hacking up hairballs over there? Huh?” Her hands were on her hips and her mouth was set in a stiff frown, but at least she was looking at him.
“Can’t a man get any juice in this joint?”
“Who the Hell do you think I am? Your maid? Get off your ass and get it yourself.” Mother turned around and got back to her sandwich-making, which, evidently, took a lot of concentration.
If someone was to hold an x-ray up to Peter Waring’s chest at that very moment, they would see his little heart being inexplicably ripped and torn into two broken fragments.
Fighting back tears with a quivering pout, Peter leaned back in his chair. His legs were about three times shorter than Dennis’, so when he tipped back, he couldn’t stop himself from falling. The chair fell over backwards, Peter along with it. He hit his head on the hard tile, which really hurt. He didn’t think he could stop the tears this time. They welled up in his eyes and threatened to overflow.
Helen Waring spun around when she heard the crash. She was ready to scold her son for being careless, but then she saw that he had fallen on the floor. He was on the verge of crying. Natural instinct took a hold of her for a moment, and she knelt at her boy’s side.
“Oh Jesus, Petey, are you alright?” She lifted him into sitting position. Her hands held his face so he looked up at her.
At that moment, Peter was akin to a short-circuited computer. His little mind had trouble processing this turn in events. It registered soft hands on his cheeks and green eyes (which matched his own) looking into his with concern. These images and feelings resulted in a rush of hope and elation that pulsated throughout his whole body. He blinked back his tears. The overwhelming flood of emotion triggered a smile that positively radiated joy.
Helen Waring looked into her son’s eyes. Her baby was about to cry, the poor thing. But a moment before the tears surfaced, they faded away completely were replaced by a smile. There was something about his smile. Something not quite right. Was it in the tilt of the corners? Or how it wasn’t open, but not entirely closed either? It gave her the chills. At that moment, Helen Waring was akin to someone being snapped out of hypnosis.
“Well then. You look fine to me.” She quickly dropped her hands and walked back to her sandwich-making.
For Peter Waring, that was the moment that the fragments of his heart froze solid. All of the hope he held in his heart bubbled into frustration which promptly became a sizzling anger. Similar to the joy that he couldn’t help but express, this rage was uncontrollable. It grew and grew until it could barely fit within the body that housed it. It defined him. He no longer looked for a way to find happiness. He only searched for a way to release his anger.
For thirty-one years, the rage boiled under his skin. It burned and itched him every minute of everyday of every year. He couldn’t contain it, but how to release it? How to release it?
On January 2nd of his thirty eighth year, Peter found an outlet. The planning was like aloe to his burning desires. The arrangements were finished within months. On July 5th, he carried through with the plan.
What little Peter didn’t know was that the plan would do nothing to soothe his fury. It would light him on fire.
Life is full of hard times and good times. Lift your chin up, Ladies and Gentlemen.
