Peroxide (Peterick)

the titles have nothing to do with the chapters so I can block out the pain

Pete's neighborhood is so dingy that I'm astonished he lives here.

Rubble from unfinished houses relaxes in peculiar places (or otherwise, places it shouldn't be), which has probably clogged up too many pathways to count. The scent of trash wafts around the entire community, rotting even the previously festive trees.

Even the people look threatening, with their dirt-encrusted faces and ragged clothes, a sneer the only clean thing on them.

Normally, there would be no rancor between the citizens and me, but the times they've almost hit me with stray objects is too high to list, and my sole ambition is to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Pete is pensive, smothering his shoes in the dirt to distract him from the suspicion of my thoughts, and there's a very coherent emotion that is generated as a result.

He's ashamed that I'm here. That must've been the cause for his hesitance to visit Caribou with us, because in order to pack his bags, he needs to visit his house, and this dump of a place happens to be his neighborhood.

"There's nothing wrong with you living here, you know," I clarify amidst the shrieking of vultures in the sky — which, now that I investigate my surroundings to a greater extent, is the only perpetual beauty in this location. "Poverty can strike at any time."

A sarcastic smile flocks to Pete's face (and now that I've been to his habitat, it's an outlier among the other residents — tidy, hygienic, nothing like the grimy mess that I've hastily grown accustomed to). "We have plenty of money, enough to survive well, but that's not the issue."

"What do you mean by that? If you have money, why are you dwelling here?" None of this makes sense, and the urge to extricate my hair topples onto me as a byproduct of the stress.

"You'll see." And just like that, Pete's eyes inflate with trepidation, cast back down to his feet once more.

I can sense that Pete's willing to open up, but an interruption arises out of the blue. "Freak!" it roars, punctuating the harsh words with stones pitched our way. One of the more precise objects strikes me directly in my upper arm, poising its cadaverous teeth over my skin to bite and retreating to the ground after its lucrative suicide mission.

"Who the hell are those people?" I demand, feet trembling with the proposal of its destination. "Why do they hate you so much?"

"Just your local bullies, nothing much." Pete's breath hitches over his words, and it's tangible that the toll was more emotional than physical, but I can detect the manifestation of a bruise lurking under his complexion — and cackling about the event, because his body thinks it's what he deserves for allowing his mind to reign.

It's not his fault that he's tormented by himself. It can't be, and that's what those bullies don't understand. Metaphors apparently aren't enough for them, because Pete's been torturing himself for a while now, but it wasn't yet physical until now.

"Why aren't you doing anything about it?" I know I could never confront them, being all socially anxious and basically dead inside, but Pete's soul lodges in courage (more specifically, the tad of courage I can never have), and he's been snuffed out enough to deliver a sign to him that this isn't right.

Or that's what I think, for Pete isn't doing a single thing. No plans, no words, no reactions, just the grey tones of his neighborhood, and he's lost inside them.

I'm not.

I cup my hands around my mouth without contemplating the ramifications, but it's me breaking free from analysis paralysis. "Hey, you peasants!"