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Peter Lake · (07-29-2013)

Tokyo Rose - Chapter One: "Sharp Objects"

My name is Peter Lake and this is my story. This is not the story of a man who thought he could rule the world. I'll be upfront with you. I am not a good man. I have hurt people. Burnt bridges. Destroyed relationships with the ones I love. For what you ask? I'm not entirely sure. I'm still figuring that part out. Unlike most stories this one starts near the end, but trust me when I tell you that that is important. It's important for you to know what I'm capable of. I just want you to promise me something. No matter how bad things get, don't look away. Not for a moment.

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

A figure stood in his bedroom doorway. It startled him right out of the dreamlike haze he was in.

"Meet me in the garage," the voice said and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. It was just his father.

Peter rolled out of bed and rubbed at the sleepers in his eyes. It was Saturday, and he had plans that night to check out some amateur wrestling being put on in the high school gymnasium. He wondered if he'd make the show. The tone of his father's voice seemed to indicate disappointment over what he couldn't imagine. He hadn't even broke curfew the night before.

A t-shirt and a pair of shorts were still on the floor from when he shed them before entry into bed. He snatched them up and quickly dressed, knowing that keeping his father waiting wasn't an option. The garage door was open and a warm wind that smelled like rain came and went as it pleased.

"I'm disappointed in you, Pete."

The voice was slightly muffled as his father was under the hood of the Dodge Charger he had been in the process of restoring since before Peter had been born. Alan Lake peeked around the hood and motioned for his son to come over. Peter shuffled his feet and kept his head hung low.

"What's this Mom tells me about you missing Morgan's dance recital?"

Alan wiped his grease covered hands off on a frayed rag.

"You didn't go," Peter replied.

Alan shot him a look that sent a bolt through Peter's body, suddenly making him wish it was possible to eat words.

"You're right," Alan said. "I didn't go, but that's cause I had a job I needed to be at. What's your excuse?"

Peter hung his head lower.

"I… don't have one."

Alan turned his back to him as he bent over to search for something in his toolbox on the ground next to the car.

"Good answer," Alan said. "I know it doesn't mean anything to you now, but it means a lot to your sister. You might not see it, but it does."

"Why do I always have to go? It's boring…"

His father didn't answer right away as his focus had shifted to fiddling with something back under the hood.

"Believe me, I know it's boring, kiddo. But guess what? There's going to be plenty of things in life that are like that. What's important is showing up for them, especially when people are depending on you. Make sense?"

"I guess."

A metallic clang echoed through the garage as Alan tossed one of his tools into the box. He wiped his hands again and placed one of them on Peter's shoulder.

"Listen to me," he said softly. "Morgan looks up to you. You're her big brother. She's very sensitive. When you miss things like this it affects her a whole lot. That's why she hurts herself sometimes. You know that much don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Peter, look at me."

Peter looked up into his father's eyes, which were just like his, at least that's what everyone always said.

"There may come a day when I'm not around, but you guys will always have each other. I need you to promise me something. Can you do that?"

"Sure."

"I'm being serious right now, Pete. Can you promise me something or not?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want you to promise me that no matter what happens you will never let anything happen to your sister."

PRESENT DAY - ONE WEEK AGO

Old cliches tell you about how you can never go home again. Maybe they're right. Maybe you can never go back to that time and place where you felt safe from the all the world's ills. Hell, a time and place where you didn't know the real reason behind Duck and Cover. A time and place where you disappeared for ten hours a day and only saw your mother and father come supper time.

I didn't have a childhood like that, but what constituted as one was definitely better than what I got now. As it stands, I'm sitting in an empty apartment wondering where it all went wrong. Clothes are strewn about and the coffee table in front of me is covered with magazine of all sorts. Dirty dishes lined the kitchen counter, and the hardwood floors had definitely lost their sheen and polish…

It finally sunk in that maybe Aubrey wasn't coming back.

Maybe she had finally grown tired of my bullshit. It wouldn't be the first time and it wouldn't be the last. Not by a long shot. Opening my eyes, I looked down at the gun on the table. Unassuming in the way it sat there. A deadly weapon only waiting for someone to enact its power.

“And if you order now, I’ll throw in a second beating absolutely FREE!” The man on the television declared, holding some kind of mechanism designed to make a homemaker’s life simpler. I looked into his eyes through the High Definition display, seeing how tense he was, how his smile seemed distressed. I shook my head and quickly turned the television back off.

I picked the gun up off the table and felt the weight of it in my hand. I thought about how many times I'd used it over the last few years. More times than I cared to remember. I placed the barrel under my chin, leaned back, closed my eyes and cocked the hammer back…

"Do it you coward," I whispered. "Fucking do it."

A knock on my apartment door startled me and on reflex I almost pulled the trigger.

"Not today," I muttered.

I sat up with a groan and trudged toward the door. I opened it halfway, letting it get caught on the chain. I felt myself squint into the bright lights of the hallway. A man, probably a few years younger than myself, dressed business casual stared back into what I was sure were my bloodshot eyes.

"Peter Lake?"

I nodded, not ready to form words yet.

"This is for you."

He slid a blue folder through the crack of my door and I took it, not bothering to look inside.

"I'll be outside," the man said, "you have exactly three hours to make a decision. In that time I will return and retrieve the documents signed or unsigned. Understood?"

I nodded again and he didn't wait for me to ask any questions, just quickly moved down the hallway in the direction of the stairs. I shut my apartment door and tossed the XWF contract into the wastebasket near my front door.

ELEVEN YEARS AGO

He'd come home one day in the late afternoon to find the house completely silent. It normally wouldn't have worried him, but his sister had asked if he could give her a ride home from school and he had waited in the school lot for an hour and she hadn't shown.

"Morgan?" he called out into the empty kitchen, hoping his voice would carry to wherever she was in the house.

He stepped into the hallway near the staircase leading up to the second floor. He called again, but still only silence in its return. The grandfather clock in the hallway was ticking the day away and Peter felt himself begin to get worried. He started up the stairs, took a hard left once he got to the landing and pushed open his sister's bedroom door…

She wasn't there.

He left the bedroom behind as he let the thoughts in his head run wild. As he was thinking about possibly calling around to her friends to see if they knew where she was, he heard something fall over in the spare bedroom that his mother had converted into a unused sewing room.

"Morgan?" he called again, but this time with less confidence.

He walked slowly across the upstairs floor and reached the bedroom door and knocked lightly.

"Morgan, you in there?"

No answer. He tried for the knob and it turned easily and he slid inside the room. He found Morgan there, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the room. Her eyes were closed and he could see that she'd been hurting herself again.

"Jesus -- "

He went to her, tapped her face lightly with his palm to get her to wake. After a moment she did, eyes squinty and far away.

"Peter, what are you…?"

"Shhh," he replied.

"I can't stop," she said. "I can feel the words just crawling there under my skin. Is something wrong with me?"

He looked down saw that she hard cut the words "HATE" and "LIES" into her forearm.

"We're going to get you help," he said. "I promise."

"I know," she mumbled. "You always take good care of me."

He took her head into arms and held it against his shoulder. For once he was glad she couldn't see the panic in his face.

[Image: normal_colin-farrell-006-361679.jpg]

Over black we hear the jostling of a camera. A voice calls from far off. Inaudible.

"This looks like it's on. Okay, good. Here we go."

Suddenly, light comes into our eyes. Focus fuzzy -- then clear.

"Ricky Desmond, the first sheep to step forward to make his voice heard. I commend you for that. If I didn't think you were such a complete and total moron I probably would applaud your efforts more."

We're looking into the eyes of Peter Lake. He stares at us. Stoic. Then a small smile.

"Congratulations, Ricky. Mr. Natural Fighter. You've done real good. I know I'm not the only one here who is impressed on how you pride yourself on your mediocrity. You are a man who believes that just 'giving it your best shot' is all you'll ever need to succeed in professional wrestling."

He brushes the hair back off his face.

"Let me be perfectly honest with you, Ricky. Can I do that? Why don't you take your little Gordon Gecko schtick and head back to 'bloody ol' England' and do us all a fucking favor."

He readjusts the camera into we're in a softer focus.

"I do not see a man, nor do I see competition, I see instead a worn out, used and abused, poor creature that has had the proverbial carrot dangled in front of his hungry, starved eyes for far too long."

"We all know the truth, Ricky. You're mid-card fodder at best."

"When old man Madison is sitting on his porch one day and telling stories of this place I can assure you he's not going to be telling stories of how Ricky Desmond was a winner or had his legacy written in gold."

"That's a hard, bitter pill to swallow, I'm sure of it, Ricky."

"So, take this for what it's worth, because there's only going to be one winner of this gauntlet and it sure as hell won't be you."

"I am Peter Lake and you're not. Signing off."

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