"Wake" -- a short story by YakkoW

"Peter."

A gentle hand caressed the young boy's cheek. "Peter, honey, you need to get up," whispered the soothing voice. "We're leaving in a couple of hours."

Peter allowed himself to be drawn slowly out of the realm of fantasy-laden sleep and into a more grounded reality. He felt the mattress and sheets become tangible around him as he moaned and stretched and yawned, filling his lungs with the still-drowsy air of early morning. He heard his mother's footsteps retreat down the hallway before he painfully opened his eyes and forced them to accept the sunlight that was now gushing through the window. Peter didn't know what time it was and he didn't care. The pillow was so soft and the blankets were so warm that he just couldn't resist lying in bed for a few more sweet minutes.

But an eerie chill came over him now that he was alone with his thoughts. There was something in that night's dreams that haunted him still. Perhaps it was because they still seemed more real than the reality now around him, or perhaps because he knew they weren't real at all. The night had been full of dreams, more dreams, he thought, than any one night could hold. Joy and fear; love and sadness; friendship, death, truth, and pain -- all were intertwined in the nonsensical web of his own mind's concoction which bypassed logic and spoke directly to his heart. Something ached inside of him, and he wondered whether it wouldn't be better to return to the world of illusion in his dreams.

No one would suspect that such thoughts troubled the dreams of the ten-year-old boy. One look at Peter's cherubic face was enough to convince even the most pessimistic that this child had nothing on his mind more pressing than the next neighborhood game of hide-and-seek. For very few had Peter's gift of seeing within.

After putting the inevitable off for as long as he could, the boy peeled back the covers and slid out of bed, toppling the large stuffed animal that slept next to him every night. The Lion fell to the floor and landed on its head, remaining unnoticed by the young child as he left the room and closed the door.

Peter trudged downstairs and sat at the kitchen table, where a hot bowl of oatmeal was placed before him. He watched thoughtfully as the steam rose out of the bowl, forming intricate patterns as it twisted its way up into oblivion. After several minutes of silently pondering the vanishing pictures in the mist, he spoke.

"I don't want any oatmeal this morning."

His mother had spent the morning busying herself around the kitchen with all sorts of insignificant jobs which simply had to be done. She was in the middle of her third pass with the broom when Peter's words gripped her with the suddenness of broken silence. "What did you say?" she asked.

"I said," he repeated slowly as he stood up and walked to the pantry, "I don't want any oatmeal this morning."

The surprise was evident in her voice. "But you love oatmeal! And I even fixed your favorite kind this morning. Look, apple cinnamon--"

"I don't like oatmeal," he replied matter-of-factly, while he poured the contents of a cardboard box into a clean bowl. "I'm going to have some cereal."

His mother acquiesced, partly from pure shock, and partly because of the circumstances of the day. She watched with wonder as he lugged a nearly full gallon of milk out of the refrigerator and opened it to pour on his cereal. "Here, let me help you with that," she offered, moving forward.

"No," he insisted. "I can do it myself." He proceeded to do so, then replaced the milk gallon and carried his bowl back to the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his mother reaching for the paper towels to wipe away the evidence of a young boy's struggle for independence, but he said nothing. He ate his cereal in silence, then trudged quietly back up the stairs.

His mother had left his suit laid out in his room. He hadn't worn it since his grandmother's funeral, so it took him a bit of struggling before he had everything on just the way it should be -- everything except the clip-on tie. He left the tie on his bed, hoping to postpone that bit of agony until they actually had to leave. In the meantime. . . games.

Peter opened a small cabinet on the other side of his room, next to the television. There he looked over the grey plastic cartridges which made up his video game collection. He smiled sadly to himself as he read the titles. Josh loved that game, he thought. And I remember when we played this one for hours and hours, until finally his mom came to take him home.... He decided it was time to sell the 2-player games.

When Peter finally turned on his game of choice, life around him dissolved and he was once more absorbed into fantasy. He was a fighter pilot with a mission that must be accomplished above all else. He was alone against a sea of enemies, but they were weak and he was strong. He shot them down one by one as he maneuvered with the skill of many years. He dodged bullets, missiles, bombs, and planes as he continued to shoot down the villains one after another. They came faster and faster, but he was prepared. And then -- in the flash of an instant -- it happened. His finger slipped on the game controller, and the plane was hit. He watched in horror as his plane spiraled to the ground and burst into flames. The colored lights flashed ominously on his face as the horrible words appeared on the screen: GAME OVER.

Game Over. He turned the words around and around in his mind. There was something sinister in this phrase which stated so simply that which was so complex.

Peter sat mesmerized, watching the metal burn and burn, never being consumed by the flames. The pixel-lights sparkled in his eyes, reminding him of a story he had heard once before, about something that burned this way. It was the time he had gone with Josh to Sunday School after spending the night at his house. They had learned about Moses and the Burning Bush. Moses had to take off his shoes because in the fire there was God. Peter remembered even now the pictures they had drawn. Josh had drawn his fire with so much loving care, so many different reds and oranges and yellows, that it was almost beautiful. But Peter's fire was like this fire. It was a carrier of destruction and death. And still the plane burned and burned, filled with God's wrath.

Game over. But how did it feel to be the pilot in that plane?

At that moment Peter's mom walked into the room. "Come on," she said. "It's time to go. You can finish the game later."
Peter looked guiltily back at the Lion, which was still lying on its head, propped up against the bed. The boy plucked the stuffed animal off the floor and carried it in his arms on his way out of the room, forgetting to turn off the video game. As the car pulled out of the driveway several minutes later, the fire still burned on the screen, ever torturing, but never destroying.

Peter could hear his parents having a conversation in the front of the car, but only a few incoherent words and phrases drifted back to him.

". . . not ready for. . ."

". . . must come sometime. . ."

". . . innocence. . . so young. . ."

Peter laid his head back, pressing his cheek against the smooth, leathery back of the seat. He realized too late that he was destroying the work his mother had just done sculpting something presentable out of his dark brown mass of hair. He squirmed a bit, for he was beginning to feel restless, and the seatbelt was restraining him more than he deemed necessary. The shirt collar with the clip-on tie seemed to choke him, and he pulled at it as he gave an uncomfortable sigh. He began to watch the scenery through the window. Tree after tree passed quickly by, all ugly and bare with grotesque crooked twigs and branches sticking out in every possible direction. Peter grimaced and turned his attention once more to the conversation in the front seat. This time he was determined to hear what was being discussed. He leaned forward slightly.

"Do you really think he'll show up?" his mother was saying.

"Well I certainly would in that situation, no matter how things were otherwise," his father replied.

"Maybe so," she said. "But remember, he hasn't seen them or even communicated with them for years. Still. . ."

Peter spoke up at this point. "Are you talking about Josh's dad?"

The whispered conversation suddenly hushed. All that could be heard was the hum of the heater, and the occasional passing car.

"Well?" Peter insisted. "Are you?"

He heard his father clear his throat, and then a click as the radio came on. Peter sank back in his seat. The Lion sitting next to him had a look of gentle concern in its glossy black eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity of near-silence, the car pulled into the parking lot of a building whose sign in front clearly proclaimed it as the Funeral Home.

"Time to get out," Peter's father said quietly.

"Leave the lion in the car, honey," Peter's mom added. "He'll be here waiting for you when you get back."

As Peter stepped out of the car, he felt a sudden gust of wind, like an icy hand holding him back to keep him from making it inside the building. He walked forward but it just blew harder, pulling back on his clothes and stinging his face. He fought the wind all the way through the parking lot and up the narrow gravel path to the door. Once inside, his mother quickly ran a brush through his hair before they entered the room.

It wasn't an overly large room, but there were lots of people. And they were all adults. Peter scanned the faces, but he knew only the face belonging to Josh's mom. At first he didn't even recognize her. He had seen that haggard expression on her face only once before, the day he asked about Josh's dad.

He hadn't known any better then. She knew that. She had been as gentle as one could possibly be when she said the words: "Josh doesn't have a dad. Not anymore."

Josh had protested immediately, crying out, "Yes I do!" And then he had cheerfully quoted: "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. . ."

But as Peter looked at Josh's mom's face now, he couldn't help but think that she was right. Josh didn't have a dad. The only one he ever did have had abandoned him long ago.

Peter took solace in the knowledge that his own dad would never leave him. He had said so himself.

He tried to shut out the memories of the shouting that went on for nights and nights, so long ago, when he hadn't been so sure.

There was a big group of adults gathering all around Josh's mom now. They were all talking in low tones, expressing their sympathies in a hundred cheap synthetic ways. Peter looked from one person to another, and everywhere he saw only plastic expressions of sorrow on plastic faces of formality. Everything was polite and everything was safe, but nothing was real. It didn't suit Josh at all.

Disgusted, Peter kept searching the room for something that was truly Josh. Something past all the murmuring adults caught his eye. Over in the corner of the room stood a large wooden box with brass handles. The half-lid was open.

Knowing what he would find, wanting to see inside, yet scared of what might be there, Peter took step after step in the direction of the box. But with every step it seemed that the room grew twice as long and more adults stepped in Peter's path.

Finally he came upon the box. It was just low enough for him to look inside. He took a deep breath.

It was Josh.

Peter had known for some time; he had known even before it happened. But somehow to know and understand wasn't enough. It wasn't the same as accepting it. He still didn't know if he could accept it. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he kept hoping, wishing, praying that the day would come when he would see Josh again, and they would play together and things would be as they always had been. Josh was his best friend. Josh was his only true friend. Josh had been there when Peter's own parents hadn't. But now. . .

Peter looked again at Josh's face. He looked so peaceful, as though he were having a pleasant dream from which he would awake at any second. Peter kept looking harder and harder at the face, afraid to blink and miss that moment when Josh might twitch ever so slightly and show Peter that he was still alive. He wanted to make sure he was watching when Josh opened his eyes and stretched and yawned, and he wanted to give him a big hug and cry and tell him that everything would be okay because they were best friends. But he watched and watched and waited and waited and Josh didn't move. He didn't wake up. He stayed dead.

Peter wanted ever so badly to do something. He wanted to reach out and touch Josh's face. He wanted to cure his friend and amaze them all. He wanted to be a big strong adult and put on a plastic face and be okay. He wanted to be a little baby and cry and cry. But he couldn't do anything. He was just a little boy, ten years old, who couldn't cry and couldn't be happy because he was so empty inside. There was nothing to feel, and yet there was so much.

Something way back in Peter's mind cried out to him. He could feel himself once more standing on that sun-baked sidewalk pavement on a day so long ago. . .

Josh beamed down at him from where he was sitting on the brick wall. "Aren't ya gonna come up?" he laughed.

"It's too high. I can't climb up there."

"Sure ya can! I did it! Here, hold on to my hand and I'll pull you up."

Peter looked up uncertainly, but Josh's confident smile reassured him, and he reached for the hand as he grabbed on to the brick wall. A single gentle tug, and then he was up on the wall, quite a feat for such a youngster.

The two boys sat there for several minutes, feeling the warm sunshine on their faces, listening to their canvas shoes scraping against the brick, and thinking about all the games they had played that day and the ones they had yet to play. Then Josh said, "Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"You're my best friend. Actually, I think you're my only friend."

"You're mine too."

They allowed this to remain floating in the gentle breeze for just a moment, and then Josh hopped down and shouted gleefully, "Wanna go play hide-and-seek?"

"Sure!"

Peter looked down into the coffin again. This looked like the same person, but all the joy that Josh had had was gone here. There was peace, but not the unexplainable joy and excitement about life that had always characterized him. This, then, Peter decided, was not Josh. It was Joshua -- formally the person himself, but not the friend that once Peter knew. And yet, if Josh was not here, where was he?

And then, without meaning to do so, Peter's mind turned to another incident from his past. He fought it as the scenario began to present itself in his mind, but it was like trying to hold back the wind. It all started coming back: his first chance to be popular, the jokes he'd told that the other guys had laughed at, and then the helpless feeling when the conversation had turned to Josh. But most of all, he remembered the sad look that had come into Josh's eyes that day. . .

Once more Josh stood before him, looking directly into his eyes and painfully asking, "Pete?"

Peter looked down at the floor, knowing all too well what was to come. "Uh, yeah, Josh?"

"Well, um, I was just talkin' to the guys, and they, uh, said something."

Peter felt a horrible ache in his chest. "What?"

"Well. . . did you. . . say I was weird?"

Peter shrugged. "I dunno."

And when he looked up, he saw the impact of his betrayal in the pain that flooded Josh's clear blue eyes instead of tears.

And that face still haunted him, even now. Josh had long since forgiven him, even though Peter had never really asked to be forgiven. They had been best buddies for a long time after that. But still, as he stood there looking down at Josh's peaceful features, he thought he heard a cock crow outside.

Presently Peter became aware of an older man and woman standing just beside him, also looking at Josh. They were talking.

"Such a shame," the woman clucked.

"Yeah, it is. And he really looks horrible, doesn't he?" her husband replied.

"True, but not half as bad as he did before they fixed 'im up. That's what the chemotherapy does to you, they say."

"Can you imagine," the man said, "being just a child and bald as a cue ball?"

This was something Peter had never really thought about. He had always just accepted it. He did remember that Josh had had hair a long time ago, and then he didn't. But he never remembered making a big deal about it. Josh was just always Josh to him.

"That was the least of his worries. . ." the woman said, but her voice trailed off in the distance to Peter's mind, because he was remembering this past Christmas.

Josh had spent Christmas in the hospital, and Peter had been told that Josh wanted to see him. In Peter's mind, the hospital room appeared again around him. . . .

"Peter?"

"Yeah, it's me. How're ya feelin'?"

"Oh, I'm doing great! How about you?"

"I'm okay, I guess."

There was an embarrassed silence before Josh whispered excitedly, "I got you a Christmas present."

At the time, Peter didn't think about not having a present for Josh. But it was okay. Josh always understood.

"Come here." Josh beckoned to Peter, and pointed out a medium-sized box wrapped in red paper with a large green bow on top. It was sitting against the wall next to the head of the bed. "My mom wrapped it for me. Go ahead, open it!"

Peter did, and inside he found a beautiful stuffed animal, a lion with soft, golden fur.

"It used to be mine," Josh explained. "I want you to have it."

"What's his name?"

Josh smiled that mischievous smile of his. "You'll have to figure that out for yourself."

Peter never had decided on a good name for the lion. He just started calling it "The Lion". Ever since that moment, he had always kept the Lion by his bed. He knew he had been given a special gift, but he never truly comprehended how special it was.

Suddenly he felt as though he couldn't bear this anymore. As he fixed his eyes on the placid face of the boy in the coffin, everything began to mix and swirl in Peter's head. All that had happened, all that had been said, all the emotions, and all the lessons he ever learned from this wide-eyed, cheerful boy named Josh -- it all clashed together, and his head started to hurt. He could hear himself whimpering quietly and he could feel the hot stares of all those behind him, but he was past all that now. Now was the moment of Truth. Now was the time to face the horrible dull pain that was making its presence known inside his soul. He looked down desperately at his best friend for help, but there was no one there to tell him what he must do. Peter closed his eyes and silently prayed to Josh's God. . .

And when he opened his eyes, everything was clear, and he knew the Lion's name.

Peter turned around, but there was no one else. The room was empty, except for Josh's mom and his own mother and father, who all looked at him with the looks of pity he had previously cast upon Josh. Peter wanted to cry out to them and tell them to stop, but he didn't.

Instead, he simply said, "I'm ready to go home now."

(Story by Justin)

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