PROJECT MORTUUS : Love's End

Chapter 2: Dreaming About You...

Peter sat up groggily in his bed, his hunger urging him to go to the kitchen. As usual, his mother was passed out on the couch, a half-empty flask hanging loosely in her hand. 

Peter sighed and flicked on the stove. He kicked the side of it, the spark immediately catching. 

"I wish you'd just drink yourself to death already," Peter mumbled to himself, setting a pan on the burner and cracking an egg into it. He looked over at his mother, and anger filled him, but mostly just sorrow. She was bound to die alone. 

Peter jostled the pan a bit and added a pinch of cheese to the egg. He loved to cook but was the one paying for food and everything, so he had limited things to cook with. 

He made his way over to the cabinet door and opened it. It was filled with old plates and bowls, most of which were cracked. He picked up a blue ceramic plate. It was the least damaged, with only a chip missing. 

Peter finished making his egg and scraped it onto the chipped plate. It wasn't a great breakfast, but it was better than nothing. 

He pulled out a rickety wooden chair, sat at the table, and began eating his food, his metal fork scrapping against the plate. 

"Where's my damn beer, shitbag?" Peter's mother shouted at him from the couch. Peter sighed and picked his dish up. 

"In your fucking hand, Becky," Peter said back and set his dish in the sink. "I'll be back at around ten tonight. I'm working overtime for your drunk ass."

It was common for Peter to work overtime. Especially considering he was the one paying the bills. No one really knew why he still did that for her, and quite frankly, neither did Peter. 

Peter grabbed his keys and slammed the door behind him, a glass bottle shattering against the back as his mother threw it. He hopped in the old pickup and turned the key. 

DRUUUMMM... DUH DUH DUH... 

The pickup's engine sputtered and died. Peter banged the door shut and grabbed his coat off the passenger seat. "Guess I'm walking." He sighed. Not that he was surprised. The pickup was always a bit finicky. 

Peter walked along the dirt path, his mind racing as he kicked a stone. As he neared the entrance of his work, his boss rushed out. Jonathan Marsh was stumpy and gruff, but deep down, he was the sort of guy to always pay for your drink. 

"Are you hurt, Peter? What did she do this time?" Jonathan asked, running up to check on him. 

"I'm fine, Mr. Marsh. The pickup just wouldn't start." Peter replied, assuring the worried man. 

Mr. Marsh was like a father to him, especially since Peter never really had a father. He had never really thought of him as a boss. Mr. Marsh had realized this over the years, so he took Peter under his wing. 

It was a surprisingly welcoming work environment for being mostly burly men with scruffy red beards. Peter walked inside, grabbed his axe, and chopped wood with the other loggers. "Hey, Pete!" all the guys shouted as he joined them. 

Everyone knew everyone there. The loggers didn't have a lone ranger among them. "We're lumberjacks, not animals." They would often say with a full-bellied laugh, threatening the sound of a falling oak tree. 

Peter just waved and began chopping. He was a good worker, quick and powerful with an axe. 

Even when he worked, he was the spitting image of his father. "Your dad would have been proud, Pete." One of the guys said, patting him on the back. After a while of working, the break bell sounded. 

Peter sat down at a table with Michael Morris, Maria's father. Even though he knew Mr. Morris didn't like him, it didn't stop Peter from trying to be as friendly to him as possible. "Good Afternoon, Mr. Morris," Peter said as he opened his lunch box. 

"Peter, if this is about my daughter, you can save your breath. You're a bad influence, Peter Morgan." Michael said to him, biting into his ham sandwich. 

Peter stared at his own food awkwardly. "Actually, I was going to tell you that you forgot your comb on the log." Peter handed him the comb and packed his lunch back up. He stood and walked away, which made him angrier than he already seemed. 

Michael Morris was a very thickheaded man. His opinions, once made, never changed. Despite his outward appearance, Michael had long ago decided that Peter was not a good kid. 

Peter Morgan knew this fact well, but he was determined to change his mind, if not for him, then for Maria, Michael's daughter. Peter loved Maria, possibly more than he loved his hair, which was quite a lot. 

As Peter ate his lunch alone on a log, he couldn't help but feel a bit hurt by Mr. Morris's rashness. It wasn't like Peter was a bad kid. He always did charity work on weekends and loved volunteering for the Little League baseball team for disabled children. He finished his lunch and put it away in his locker. 

Peter shook the ignorance from his mind and focused back on his work. "Work before personal problems," He thought as he lifted his axe. 

As his axe crashed down on the wood, splitting it and sending chips everywhere, Peter's head was somewhere else or instead with someone else. 

He chopped log after log, hardly even stirring from his work as his mind raced with thoughts of dancing with Maria. She often was on his mind when he worked. She was the one thing that pushed him to do better. 

"The right woman is worth changing for, Peter. Remember that." Mr. Marsh had told him years ago. It wasn't until he had started dating Maria that he finally understood what Mr. Marsh meant. He didn't mean to change who you are but to change your bad habits. 

He was so distracted with his thoughts of holding her in his arms that he hadn't noticed the time.