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Any World You Choose
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3
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He could almost feel the warmth of her body under his hands.
The smell of lavender and honey that lingered in her chestnut
hair. Richard remembered the soft warmth of her breathing on the back
of his neck as he would lay in bed in the mornings. Laying there as
not to wake her and enjoying the feel of her breathing.
He walked into the apartment's living room and lay down on the
sofa. The blank face of the televison stared back at him, for a
moment he thought he saw shapes twisting in the dark and dead screen.
He was losing it. He had never had the dreams this badly since
high school, when he had seen Peter's father outside the
supermarket and went over to talk.
Peter's father did not remember him. Peter's father did not
remember Peter. The huge, barrel chested man with the deep
voice that Richard remembered so well from his childhood, the man who
had borne Peter and Richard both upon his shoulders when they were
young, the man who had cried in deep sobs and shook without control
when they couldn't find his son, this man did not remember him.
They had found Richard two days later, almost seven miles from
the cabin. Blood caked and near catatonic they had pulled him
from the river's side where he lay and carried him up to the road and
to the hospital. All the while they asked him questions. Where was
Peter? What happened to you? Why did you go out at night like that? Was
there someone in the woods?
Richard told them about the banshee's wail, told them about the
shapes in the forest. He told them about Peter going into that
silvery light and about the shadows htat chased him through the woods.
They said he was dehydrated. They said he was delusional. They thought
he was covering up for Peter. Peter had run away before in search of
adventures, perhaps he had again.
The woods were searched again and again. Cabins were checked
and everyone in the area was questioned. They dredged the river
where Richard was found. They never did find the body.
Peter's father hadn't known him. Robert Layton recalled neither
Richard nor Peter, the son he had lost. Richard looked into the
man's eyes, remembering the sobbing giant from years before standing at
a candlelight vigil for Peter, and saw nothing. He had run home that
day, heart pounding and his ears filled with the fainstest whisper of
the ghost wail of his past.
"Mom, you remember Peter don't you?", he had forced his voice
to remain neutral as he asked. His mother looked up from the
televison for a moment, eyes distant as if struggling for the answer.
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