(no subject)
Now Peter knew what the situation was, but he didn’t have the first idea how it could have happened, what he had done, or the Other Peter had done, to … swap them. Could that be right? Yes, there was no doubt. Here he was in the room, the terribly horrifically mundane room of one Peter Alexander Chance. A man who had his name, looked like him, could, indeed, have been him, but wasn’t.
He thought and though, and the only answer he could come up with was so fantastical he could hardly bear to think of it straight on. He’d set aside any beliefs in magic, in other realms and monsters and heroes around the same time he realised that Santa Claus was in fact his mother, after a few sherries too many. At least that finally explained why she always had a headache on Christmas morning. But he saw no other way. All the science fiction and fantasy of his childhood came back and informed his present.
Could he have? It seems he must have. He could only conclude that he had somehow created two of himself. That as he became more and more like the better version of himself he imagines (his ‘imaginary’ friend) he had taken over a fictional character, made it into himself. He had become his own fiction. But, and this was the bit he’d never dreamed he’d have to think about, what had happened to the other Peter, the Peter he was meant to be, the Peter he’d refused and set aside? Could it be that this Peter had somehow carried on existing, that his survival instincts were greater than anyone might have assumed? Could it be that they had been living in parallel all these years, flip sides of the same coin?
But this room was real enough. This was no shadow dimension, no Narnia. There were no talking Lions to guide him, no clues. Only one strange moment the day before. The moment he’d not quite met his other self, his missing counterpart. The moment he had been wishing his life was different.
Had he done this? Horror washed over him anew. Had he inadvertently wished for his old self, and his wish, for once, been granted? Nothing so terrible could be true. With the paraphernalia of the other Peter’s life spread around him like a fan, he put his head in his hands and sobbed, silently.
He was trapped, trapped in the life he had strived so hard to avoid. And that must mean - Oh God! He cried out again - that the Other Peter was in his life.
*************************
Elsewhere, the Other Peter, the could’ve-been-should’ve-been-and-was Peter, had been thinking.
He had fallen asleep again, but woke up this time feeling refreshed, all feeling of sickness or fever passed. He had had a little sniff around, careful not to make too much noise and bring Emma upstairs. He needed to work things out before he knew how best to deal with her.
With his head freshly clear he knew that he had not been confused before. He knew full well this was not his room, his house, or his wife, for that matter. The only other thing he knew for certain was that she thought she was - though that he was, that they were his.
She had called him by name alright, commentated that he was a bit pale, but that was all. This could only mean one thing - there was another Peter out there, just like him, but different. One who had married Emma.
And here was the problem - he might have thought of twins separated at birth, the unlikely coincidence of sharing the same name (it wasn’t unheard of afterall), but Emma? Emma knew him, Emma had known him since the very first day of infant school, from that fateful moment Mrs Riggdon paired them up in the dinner queue - since she wrapped her perfect little hand around his and said “My name’s Emma. What’s yours?” Even then he’d been over-awed, that head of white curls shining like a halo in the school strip-lighting. She was too far above him, like a creature from another realm.
She had taken him on all the same, much to his surprise. Telling her mummy and daddy that she wanted Peter to come over for tea, including him in her games. But Emma had many friends and Peter was more like … a pet, a project, even at that age. It was as though she empathically felt his loneliness, his wretchedness, and wanted to fix him, like a poor wounded animal. What she never realised was that all he needed was her, and in a way she never could be - an equal. He wanted to be able to stand on a level with her, to have her smile back at him with the same adoration he beamed up at her, not with pitying concern.
It only got worse at they got older. The first few real boyfriends, the first drinks, the first overlooked kisses and … other things. As the hormones kicked in Emma changed from a pretty angelic child into an innocent-sexy, effortlessly cool adolescent. Unlike Peter, she sailed through her teens, never experiencing the intense awkwardness that crippled him. While he was all acne and limbs growing at uneven rates, dark and hairy like a squeaky-voiced spider, she glowed with the same indefatigable light as she always had.
Boys swarmed around her like moths round a flame, more than a few burning themselves on the way. All the time Peter was there, watching, longing, always slightly on the outside. Oh, she still included him, never left him out, still hoping somehow she’d make him … normal enough. But those around her did not tolerate him in the same way - the boys resented his presence, hated him for not being one of them, and the girls - the girls despised him in the way only teenage girls can. Not worth scarping of their shoes. But still he carried on, hanging round the edges, savouring as much of Emma as he could, even though the jealousy would eat him alive from inside out. He was always ‘good old Peter, Peter doesn’t mind do you? Peter will you drive me to Mike’s house? Peter if my parents ring will you tell them I’m at your house? Peter Peter Peter.
All he had wanted was her love, and that was the one thing he would never give.
That’s why he had been so eager to better himself, why he had lied and lied about his job. Tried to make himself better than he was. he had thought somehow she’d see him for what he could be, a late revelation. But no, she had met her handsome American and gone to live the perfect live she deserved.
Only, she hadn’t.
She was here, with him. Thought he was someone else - himself - Peter, her husband. Almost as though he’d been catapulted into another version of his life, the way things could have been if they’d been how he’d dreamt them, instead of how they were.
He wasn’t complaining. This was the life he had always wanted. Maybe he should just sit back and enjoy it while he had the chance.
He walked to the door and carefully tuned the handle.
“Emma!” he called out. “What are you doing down there?” No answer. Try a different tack.
“I think I need a bit of special nursing care …”
He thought and though, and the only answer he could come up with was so fantastical he could hardly bear to think of it straight on. He’d set aside any beliefs in magic, in other realms and monsters and heroes around the same time he realised that Santa Claus was in fact his mother, after a few sherries too many. At least that finally explained why she always had a headache on Christmas morning. But he saw no other way. All the science fiction and fantasy of his childhood came back and informed his present.
Could he have? It seems he must have. He could only conclude that he had somehow created two of himself. That as he became more and more like the better version of himself he imagines (his ‘imaginary’ friend) he had taken over a fictional character, made it into himself. He had become his own fiction. But, and this was the bit he’d never dreamed he’d have to think about, what had happened to the other Peter, the Peter he was meant to be, the Peter he’d refused and set aside? Could it be that this Peter had somehow carried on existing, that his survival instincts were greater than anyone might have assumed? Could it be that they had been living in parallel all these years, flip sides of the same coin?
But this room was real enough. This was no shadow dimension, no Narnia. There were no talking Lions to guide him, no clues. Only one strange moment the day before. The moment he’d not quite met his other self, his missing counterpart. The moment he had been wishing his life was different.
Had he done this? Horror washed over him anew. Had he inadvertently wished for his old self, and his wish, for once, been granted? Nothing so terrible could be true. With the paraphernalia of the other Peter’s life spread around him like a fan, he put his head in his hands and sobbed, silently.
He was trapped, trapped in the life he had strived so hard to avoid. And that must mean - Oh God! He cried out again - that the Other Peter was in his life.
*************************
Elsewhere, the Other Peter, the could’ve-been-should’ve-been-and-was Peter, had been thinking.
He had fallen asleep again, but woke up this time feeling refreshed, all feeling of sickness or fever passed. He had had a little sniff around, careful not to make too much noise and bring Emma upstairs. He needed to work things out before he knew how best to deal with her.
With his head freshly clear he knew that he had not been confused before. He knew full well this was not his room, his house, or his wife, for that matter. The only other thing he knew for certain was that she thought she was - though that he was, that they were his.
She had called him by name alright, commentated that he was a bit pale, but that was all. This could only mean one thing - there was another Peter out there, just like him, but different. One who had married Emma.
And here was the problem - he might have thought of twins separated at birth, the unlikely coincidence of sharing the same name (it wasn’t unheard of afterall), but Emma? Emma knew him, Emma had known him since the very first day of infant school, from that fateful moment Mrs Riggdon paired them up in the dinner queue - since she wrapped her perfect little hand around his and said “My name’s Emma. What’s yours?” Even then he’d been over-awed, that head of white curls shining like a halo in the school strip-lighting. She was too far above him, like a creature from another realm.
She had taken him on all the same, much to his surprise. Telling her mummy and daddy that she wanted Peter to come over for tea, including him in her games. But Emma had many friends and Peter was more like … a pet, a project, even at that age. It was as though she empathically felt his loneliness, his wretchedness, and wanted to fix him, like a poor wounded animal. What she never realised was that all he needed was her, and in a way she never could be - an equal. He wanted to be able to stand on a level with her, to have her smile back at him with the same adoration he beamed up at her, not with pitying concern.
It only got worse at they got older. The first few real boyfriends, the first drinks, the first overlooked kisses and … other things. As the hormones kicked in Emma changed from a pretty angelic child into an innocent-sexy, effortlessly cool adolescent. Unlike Peter, she sailed through her teens, never experiencing the intense awkwardness that crippled him. While he was all acne and limbs growing at uneven rates, dark and hairy like a squeaky-voiced spider, she glowed with the same indefatigable light as she always had.
Boys swarmed around her like moths round a flame, more than a few burning themselves on the way. All the time Peter was there, watching, longing, always slightly on the outside. Oh, she still included him, never left him out, still hoping somehow she’d make him … normal enough. But those around her did not tolerate him in the same way - the boys resented his presence, hated him for not being one of them, and the girls - the girls despised him in the way only teenage girls can. Not worth scarping of their shoes. But still he carried on, hanging round the edges, savouring as much of Emma as he could, even though the jealousy would eat him alive from inside out. He was always ‘good old Peter, Peter doesn’t mind do you? Peter will you drive me to Mike’s house? Peter if my parents ring will you tell them I’m at your house? Peter Peter Peter.
All he had wanted was her love, and that was the one thing he would never give.
That’s why he had been so eager to better himself, why he had lied and lied about his job. Tried to make himself better than he was. he had thought somehow she’d see him for what he could be, a late revelation. But no, she had met her handsome American and gone to live the perfect live she deserved.
Only, she hadn’t.
She was here, with him. Thought he was someone else - himself - Peter, her husband. Almost as though he’d been catapulted into another version of his life, the way things could have been if they’d been how he’d dreamt them, instead of how they were.
He wasn’t complaining. This was the life he had always wanted. Maybe he should just sit back and enjoy it while he had the chance.
He walked to the door and carefully tuned the handle.
“Emma!” he called out. “What are you doing down there?” No answer. Try a different tack.
“I think I need a bit of special nursing care …”