Wait For Me: Carter

Chapter 2

Peter woke with a start. He'd dreamt about his wedding day every night since the accident. Always the same: joy, love, elation descending into complete devastation. He didn't know how much more he could take.

At least before the funeral he'd had something to focus on. He'd done everything he could to make the day as special as it could be.

She was buried in her wedding dress, a red rose from her bouquet tucked into the hair behind her ear. Everyday Peter would visit her in the chapel of rest, telling her things he knew he couldn't tell anyone else. Occasionally, Michelle would come too.

He spent the funeral arm in arm with her and Simon, the two of them crying for the whole service. But Peter couldn't cry. It was as if his grief was too strong for tears. He'd never felt anything like it.

He hadn't gone to the wake Michelle had organised. Instead, he spent the rest of the evening by Carla's graveside.

He couldn't remember getting home, putting his pyjamas on or going to bed.

He sat up, groggily, rubbing his eyes. Pulling himself up out of bed, he stumbled through the flat into the kitchen. He was desperate for a drink. Ransacking the cupboards, he pulled out anything and everything he found. None of it, much to his disappointment, was alcoholic.

He left the kitchen a mess before moving on to the living room. He searched every drawer, every cupboard, even under the sofa. Still nothing. He turned towards the table, and the stack of unopened wedding gifts he'd sworn never to touch. It was a last resort, but he was desperate.

He tore open bags, ripped through paper, ignored the cards that fell to the floor. In the middle of the pile he found it. A bottle of whisky. It was one of those ones that came in an expensive looking box. Peter didn't care what it was, as long as it could numb his pain. It must have been a client of Carla's that bought it, he thought, as they clearly didn't know the pair very well.

With one stroke of his arm, he pushed the rest of the presents off the table. He retrieved a glass from the cabinet and sat down, bottle of whisky in front of him. He would only have one. At least, that's what he told himself.

He shakily lifted the lid from the box, taking out the bottle, and placing it beside the glass on the table. He stared at it for a moment. The poison inside looked so appealing. He just needed something to take the edge off.

He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap as quietly as he could. He wasn't sure why he was trying to be so discreet. There was no one home: what with Simon staying with Leanne; and Carla... Well, he didn't want to think about where she was.

He poured the liquid carefully into the glass. Just enough for one gulp. Just enough to numb the pain. Deep down he knew it would always be there. He knew he could drink himself into a stupor and still feel just as heavy hearted as he had done sober.

Lifting the glass to eye level, he swirled the liquid around; watching as it coated the sides of the glass. He wasn't sure why he was stalling.

He placed the glass to his lips, ready to take a sip.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Peter jumped out of his seat, spinning around to face the voice. Upon setting eyes on the owner, he promptly dropped his glass, the sound of it shattering against the wooden floor echoing through the silent flat. Surely this couldn't be possible.

"Tina?" He whispered, analysing the tiny brunette. She smiled.

"Hi, Peter."