CAPTURED BEAUTY (Peter Steele x Reader)

TWENTY: The Bird and The Secret.

Your small town was a time capsule wedged in the thickening northern pines. That much was noticed the moment you returned home with half a mind and broken heart. There were no bustling city folk honking their horns to stir you awake or the awaiting call from Peter to string you along on a random plan. It was hard to settle with the changes and sometimes it was harder to not miss him. It felt stupid. He missed Elizabeth and whether he missed you or not, as juvenile as it sounded, broke your heart a little more. Why should you care? He didn't care about you like that. Not anymore.

"Honey, you're sulking again." Your mom speaks up suddenly beside you, cutting up some carrots for pasties. Shaking yourself out of it, you continue to peel potato skins with your potato peeler.

"Sorry, just thinking," you sigh, brows furrowing in concentration, "I didn't get much sleep last night so my head is all over the place."

"You're still over thousand miles away. Think any more deeper and you'll find your finger skinned with the potatoes."

The two of you share a laugh as you then toss the respectful ingredients in a big pot, mixing the meats and veggies with gloved hands. The food itself was a staple in the community and with a few local festivities coming up with the winter. Your mom always found a way to be active in them. Returning to the community was nice but stupidly enough, you imagined sharing these moments with Peter.

"So what are we making this for again?" You ask as you peel off your gloves, tossing them and the potato skins away.

"For the Saint Paul Winter Carnival in a few days," she says while then beginning to stuff the dough with the uncooked pasty ingredients, "John wanted me to whip these up for the old folk that frequent the town square. You know they love a warm pasty in the winter."

That was true and just the thought you were a apart of something so local did ease the tension on your heartstrings. It always felt good to do even better.

"John? As in the cashier John from that flea market?"

"Yeah. He's a nice guy." Your mom states simply. It's almost as smooth as butter when she says it. The most natural thing in the world and yet you see a tint of pink flushing her cheeks and it wasn't from the warmth of the preheating oven.

"That's ...good." You muster up a half smile part glad to see your mom moving on but also part sadness from the thought of the departure of your dad. Maybe that's what dad would have wanted anyways. Maybe, you think, that this is what you needed.

You help your mom smush the pasty filling in folded dough pockets before setting them in the oven for the standard time. Dusting your hands off of the crumbs, you sigh. "Now what?"

"We take it easy until they're done. That's only the first batch."

Your moms pasties were beloved and renown for their deliciousness and quantity because you couldn't just have one pasty, you had to have one for the whole family and the dog.

"Ah, right, forgot you make enough for a small village."

The day is filled with pasty making and cozy moments in front of the TV. For a while, things felt normal as if you hadn't even traveled to Brooklyn at all. When you decided to separate yourself, all you did was hold onto that phone. The string of numbers to the psych ward are vivid in your mind but not as much as that last argument with Peter. You tried to piece together every single outcome in search of consolation, that maybe if you called things could be different. Only the efforts were immediately shoved down by how angry he was at you. A mixture of grief settled in your chest because all you wanted to do was call. That his anger wasn't truly him and whatever words spat in the heat of the moment was the drugs talking. But Elizabeth? Why her and why not you?