HEROES; 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨

THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS HAD PROVIDED THE PEVENSIE BROTHERS WITH A SUBSTANTIAL ESCAPE FROM PUNISHMENT. But it didn't mean that they'd evaded the wrath of Helen Pevensie. To amend, a near escape from punishment. 

The past year had been somewhat hell for those living in the Pevensie household. The war hadn't come to an end yet- but they'd returned to London not too long after their evacuation, the Germans having turned their attention to the invasion of the USSR rather than bombing Britain.

The Pevensie House was still stood, proud as ever, its war wounds no longer noticeable, aside from the peeling masking tape crosses on the windows. The wounds remained though, perhaps not from the conflict of that world however. 
The hanging baskets by the front door had blossoming flowers growing from them, and it brought Peter that familiar sense of comfort that a Home provides, knowing that he could somewhat relax for a while. Finchley was no place for children anymore, but they still ducked in and out of ditches, and chased the postman down the road on his bike. It was as though they were fighting on the home front; Peter remembers fighting too.

Upon their entrance to the house, Peter and Edmund had received firm smacks to the upside of their heads; their mother had received a three-page letter, written on the front and back, from the Headmaster of Hendon House. They'd expected nothing less, as they walked up the front path, their mother stood waiting with her tea towel of rage hung over her shoulder.

It was one of those few moments where Peter and Edmund had done something fun together- it wasn't hunting for a stag in the Shuddering Woods mind, but it was something. Something they'd brought with them from their old life.

"What were you thinking," mumbled Mrs. Pevensie, as she set a plate of casserole down on the kitchen table. "Running out of school... in roads..."

The kitchen wasn't very spacious. You could just about fit a person between the kitchen side and the dining table, but it was quite cosy, decorative cushions on each seat and coffee mugs hanging from pegs on the wall.

Edmund looked to Peter, a smirk dancing across his mouth, but tripping and falling as he saw Peter absentmindedly clacking the salt and pepper shakers together, living in something not the present.

"Mum, can I tell you about what we've been studying at school" Lucy asked, sensing the mood of the atmosphere, and attempting to remedy it, while Susan simply stared down at her shoes.

"Assaulting the Headmaster... what would your father say?" Mrs. Pevensie continued, wiping her hands on her apron, and turning back to the kitchen, grabbing glasses out of the cabinet.

They were all silent once that word came out of their mother's mouth. 'Father'. It had been 17 years since that unfamiliarity had been a presence in their life- but that wasn't something Mrs. Pevensie was aware of, her husband having only been away 2, painstakingly worrisome years for her. Lucy couldn't even remember what he looked like, being the only one of the 4 not slumped down in their chair. It didn't bother her much; she was, after all, a woman. A woman trapped within a girl's body.

"Don't tell him, Mum," Edmund said quietly, as Peter abruptly stood up, chair scraping the floorboards as they screamed, until it hit the wall with a great thud.

"Peter-," Susan began, but he'd already left the room, quite audibly making his way up the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mrs. Pevensie hollered, placing the glasses down on the table. The response she received was a slam of a door.

Peter wrestled his tie from around his neck and tossed it across the room, resent tearing through him and splintering his bones. He couldn't care less what his father thought, nor his mother. The walls of his bedroom were closing in on him, and anger spiralled through him, an emotional shield to protect his fumbling chest from faltering and exposing his heart. He clawed at the wall, he was pressed up flat against it, his lungs collapsing in on themselves, the light bulbs of the lamp and ceiling light shattering and raining on his head, going down the back of his shirt and slicing his back.