Broken Strings

Amending a misfit

“Amelia,” a whispering voice startles me from my dream. “Amelia, we have to figure out a plan,” Peter’s face is hovering over mine as he speaks.

“I don’t wanna get up,” I mumble, “What time is it?”

“It’s ten,” he sounds a little disappointed. I sit up in bed, he is showered, dressed and looks like new.

“You mean I slept until ten?” I’ve never been one to sleep in.

“Looks like it,” he points to a fragile looking clock on the bedside table.

“What’s the plan?” I ask wearily.

“Breakfast?”

Whilst Peter writes I manage to count the money I have stashed in my sock, five-hundred dollars. It should be enough to carry us through to Peter’s uncle’s house. I have no clue as to where his house is but I have a strange trust in Peter. “You’re rich,” he chuckles, surprising me.

“Not hardly,” I reply. “I’ve been saving for years. I just didn’t think it would lead to something like this,” I admit truthfully. I acknowledge his attire. A droopy grey cardigan and dark jeans. Once again his auburn hair is covered by the boring white beanie.

“You don’t like the way I look?” he questions me. This took me completely by surprise and I feel like jumping back but I hold my position firmly.

“I just need to adjust one thing,” with a plan in my head I step closer, closing the gap between us. His eyes meet mine and I feel a jolt run through my body. In one swift movement I rip the beanie from his head, letting out a gasp as his beautiful hair is finally revealed.

“Amelia!” he yells. I run from him, enjoyment and a slither of fear courses through my body. “Give that back!” he stops chasing me and I realise he is serious.

“Why do you always wear this?” I sigh. His lips turn down into an exaggerated frown.

“Amelia,” I can tell he is forcing back a smile. “Please just give me the beanie and nobody will get hurt,” he warns, his voice is slightly amused.

“Maybe that’s just a chance I’ll have to take,” I relax a little a few meters form him. I place my hands on my hips, standing firm. With every step my stomach turns. “Tell me,” I begin, “Why do you always wear it?” I repeat my previous question.

“Amelia please,” he pleads. He’s beginning to get the better of me.

“Tell me,” I stutter, “please.”

“I’m self-conscious about it okay?” he steps close to me and rips the beanie from my hand. Seeing this side of Peter was slightly confronting.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise before it all got out of hand, but frankly I figured it was a little late for that.

“Don’t be, it’s a beanie. I shouldn’t get so worked up,” his face is pressed into his hands as he sits on the end of the bed we shared. I still haven’t wrapped my head around the fact I let him sleep with me, even if it was only head to toe.

“I shouldn’t have aggravated you like that,” I realise I’ve crossed a line, I just hope it doesn’t affect our friendship. “My Mother told me a story once. She was a real great Mother when I was young, you wanna hear it?” he nods and I take in a deep breath, preparing myself. “Okay, it might be a little rusty, I can never tell it like my Mother used to.”

“Go on,” he says lifting his head from his hands. His eyes are clear. The white behind the colour clean, almost refreshing.

“Alright. So there was a cocky young man standing on the path, what seemed like hundreds of people crowded around him admiring his perfect, beautiful looking heart. It was clean, without a scratch or dent to be seen. The colour was bright and bold. The cocky man stepped back when an elderly man approached him exclaiming his heart was much more beautiful than his. “How can you’re ugly looking heart be more beautiful than mine?” the young man exclaimed. Snickering bystanders assessed the situation, siding with the young man. “My heart has holes, it has dents, it has scratched and small craters where people have taken a pieces. Some of the holes have been filled with pieces of the heart of my family and friends. There are still places where I wait for those I love to come back to me and return the love I once gave to them. My son, my heart has jagged edges but is much more beautiful than yours.” With that the young man felt a single tear fall down his cheek, realisation had hit him. The old man ripped a piece of his heart out for the young man, holding it out in his wrinkled, leathery hands. The young man looked down at his heart admiring its perfect shape. With a gulp of courage he ripped a piece from his heart. The pair exchanged pieces, placing the torn pieces into the holes they created. “Now you’re beautiful,” the old man grinned,” Peter’s eyes were wide and his ears listening contently. “The pair of them walked away, hand in hand.” I finished. Peter was speechless.

“That’s gorgeous,” he smiled after a few seconds. “Your Mother is a brilliant story teller.”

“She was,” I admit. I know this conversation is going to lead into other territory.

“So can I ask what happened?”

“You already know,” I chuckled, a little amused at his forgetfulness.

“I mean why? Why did he hit you?”

“Well my Father is a lazy man, the type of man that can’t get off the lounge to put an empty beer bottle in the bin. Anyway he’s been getting me to print documents and write out long essays and things like that for as long as I could switch on a computer,” Peter’s mouth fell open.

“So you’re a child slave?” he gasped. I heard the slight amusement in his tone but knew it was just to lift my spirits.

“You could say that. Anyway now I’m over it and when I stood up for myself he hit me. I am not going to be abused by my family.”

“What about your mother?” he had a fair point. His point was something that had been running through my head the moment I crawled from my window.

“She’ll be fine, I hope. She didn’t do anything when I was hit. She didn’t come and see whether I was alright. She didn’t stop my father. She didn’t stand up for me like a Mother should.”

“I see your point,” he says with a sigh.

“Well they will know by now, we should get going,” I say rising from the bed. Peter stands from the bed with me and threw his backpack over his shoulder. “Peter?” his head turns to me, curiosity painting his face, “What about your parents?” he stops in his tracks. His backpack slips form his back and lands on the ground again. Peter turns to me and left his cardigan and shirt up. The black bruises were evident against his pale skin. “Peter,” I gasp. I pressed my fingers against them.

“My Father and yours have something in common, he’s adamant on amending me. He hates me being a misfit,” sadness and loss of respect is unmistakable in his voice. Each bruise was a different shape and as some faded into yellow and grey others stood out like a leopard’s spots.

“You poor thing,” I am closer now to Peter than I have ever been in every sense of the word. Slowly but surely he was opening up to me.

“I’m not poor. You are. My Father has never hit me across the face.” His fingers caress my cheek but I pull away before I got carried away. “It must hurt,” he sighs.

“Yours must hurt,” I rebuttal.

“A steal rod can mess you up a little,” I gasp at his remark. A steal rod?

“He hit’s you with a steal rod?” I gasp in horror.

“Other things too,” his long icy fingers point to a fading bruise, “This one was his belt.”

“His belt?” I can’t seem to wrap my head around it all.

“Yeah. This one is fresh, only a few days ago,” he points to yet another prominent bruise, small dark veins run paths throughout it.

“Your Father’s belt?” Peter shakes his head.

“No, an old plank of wood from under the staircase,” my mind is wild.

“And your mother?”

“She is the same as yours, a bystander,” it’s obvious he is sad and slightly disappointed.

“That’s horrible,” I feel my apology is worth more than nothing.

“My life has been, till now.”

Well thank you for reading! I appreciate every read and vote! I hope you are enjoying it and have begun to fall in love with Peter and Amelia as much as I have. I love you all! xoxo