Peter

Tap. Full-stop. Save. Run up the wooden steps two at a time, finished Hamlet essay flapping in hand. Eyes turn as I reach the top. She walks over. Hand on shoulder.

"The school rung, it, it's Peter.."

Legs buckle. Limbs tumble into a liquid mess on the polished boards.

"NO."
"No, no, no."

Head shakes. Fingers feel for ears, stuffing flesh in the gaps. I can't hear the words but her mouth is moving. Slow motion. Slow spinning. The silent words attack me. Penetrate my mind. My reality.

His promise burns hot. Stings my eyes. Liar. Bastard. How could you. How dare you. You promised. Said you wouldn't. Said I'd never forgive myself. How could you. Two weeks ago, in my arms, you promised. Liar. Bastard. How could you.

She picks me up. Eyes burning. Heart bleeding on the polished boards. Tells me to shower. Get dressed. Get ready for school.

Tumbling down the stairs. Water scalding numb skin, mixing with salty tears dripping into mouth. Towel. Underwear. Shirt. Skirt. Shoes.

She brushes my knotted hair. Yanks with a mothers kindness. She is hurting but she doesn't show it. I hate her for it.

Black lines. Soft shaking. Car moving. Stopping. Door opening.

The common green blindingly bright in the summer sun. Sad shadows loiter in the shade of the buildings. She walks toward me. Eyes mirror mine with crimson colours. The bell sounds out across the school as I collapse into her shoulder.

And she whispers. Between sobs, she whispers.

"It's not your fault."

And I will know she is right. And he was wrong.

Not right then. But eventually. One day.