Westbrooke

4. Happy Birthday

Lying prone in his bed, Peter refused to open his eyes even when the artificial lights above him and outside his door switched on with a soft hum. It was subtle at first, but he eventually came to notice someone else's breathing out of time from his. His heart quickened, but he tried not to change his breathing too terribly and give himself away. 

Not a minute into the day, and he had a torrent of mixed emotions. Beach day, beach day, a voice kept whispering to him, belonging to someone that was no longer of this world. Maybe it wasn't a very good idea to request a roommate on one of his objectively worst days of the year. Said roommate broke the silence after noting Peter's fake unconsciousness.
"Talked to the.. doctor. Dianne. Guess I oughta thank you."

No answer provided. Charlie filled the gap with more conversation regardless.
"Happy Wednesday."

"..."

"You okay?"

Swallowing a lump in his throat that didn't go away, he struggled with an answer. He didn't want to lie. Lying is a bad thing. Unfortunately, Dianne informed him lying by omission was just as bad as lying directly, putting him in a pickle at times in which self-expression was not desirable.
"Tired. Don't think I'm gonna get up for the day, if that's okay.."

"Peter."

He turned his head to look over at Charlie. He was sitting on the bed opposite Peter's, no possessions save for the clothes on his back, and even those did not belong to him. Although squinting, his newfound roommate didn't become anything more than a mess of colors, a suggestion. He could tell he was wearing white, Hospital apparel. Didn't have that yesterday. 

"Why're you frownin?"

"Just thinking. Never mind. I'm gonna go check this place out." In spite of saying this, Charlie stood slowly and lingered, as if waiting for something.

"Check out..?" Peter asked, prompting a planned and concise response.

"The floor plan of the building, perimeter of the outside fencing, that sort of thing."

"Um.. I don't think they letcha near the fence at all."

"But they'd let a guard, right?" The boys looked at each other in silence, and one started to realize the other was hatching an escape plan. No no no. Not again. He couldn't do this again.

Pause. She held up a hand for them to still; Mr McCarthy and Ms Scientist Lady were passing by. The tall, mean man and his friend would certainly know they weren't real repairmen. I'm scared, he whispered to her, although she looked like a stranger. He was a stranger too; part of the plan, but the plan didn't work, such a plan would never

He was brought back by the feeling of his face burning and tears welling up in his eyes. These were wiped away without words.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, and left the room since it seemed apt. Now he lay by himself, feeling dumb, feeling ashamed. He cried so easily, especially on Beach Day. He didn't want to push away a potential friend. He also didn't want to endanger another life by encouraging risky behavior.

A little shaky from distress, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and retrieved his glasses from the bedside table. The bed, or cot, was small but not uncomfortable. If it ever was, he's forgotten along with the feeling of how a good mattress with decent sheets felt. Yes, he knew it was selfish, but sometimes he imagined what it would be like to have more.
More friends. More sunlight. More.. good, happy days. More happiness.

He moved his pack of crayons and picked up his journal and pen. Flipping to a fresh page, he sniffed and collected his thoughts.

'Dear Journal... today is not ok. Bad thoughts all ready.' He tapped the page. What was his exact words.. but they'd let a guard. A guard. Did he know he was inclined to disguises? He couldn't have. But why would he ask if he didn't? It was a reasonable first strategy for escaping. Right.. overthinking it again. 'Cried thinking about Amey. I dont like being alone but I made Charly go way.' The bottom of his hand brushed against the paper as he went back a line and crossed out the sentence mentioning her. This was too much. The book was shortly closed, and shucked aside. Come back to it later. First.. he needed someone to talk to. Anyone. 

The boy ran down his mental checklist of people he could speak to. Dr Dianne? No, he'd better not. Being psychoanalyzed grew tiring. She wasn't a friend, really, but a steady figure. Ever present, but not close. Like the sun. Mr Fisher? Gone. Mr McCarthy? He didn't seem to really like him. Charlie?

Rising from his place of comfort, he took what felt like long steps to the door. His hand froze before he could close it around the handle. Behind him, he heard it. Cloth shifting, soft breathing, and a gentle breeze. It was as if a wall had been knocked down, just out of sight, to let in cool air and someone that shouldn't be there. 

He was afraid to move, as if whoever was watching him would pounce if they knew he was more than a statue. The figure had light footsteps, but it came nearer. He flung open the door and fled before it reached him. Running down the hall, he smashed into another after rounding the corner. With a thud he hit the tile floor, but was unkindly yanked to his feet by the collar soon after.

Although his glasses were askew, and he was panicked, the man he had collided with was recognizable as none other than Mr McCarthy. His eyes sparked with rage, because even if he hadn't been knocked over like young Laurence, his pride was afflicted instead by such a reckless impact.

"Office. Now," he hissed, face nearly as red as his hair. Peter couldn't even manage a 'yessir', instead choosing to silently accept his fate and repress his excuses. How would he explain it, anyway? 'Sorry, I was being chased by a demon'. As he was marched to the Office of Punishment, he snuck a glance into his room while the door was still ajar. All walls intact. No sign of any malignant spirit or intruder. He didn't know whether to be relaxed or more upset.

With a slam, McCarthy kicked the door closed, and that was that.