The Other Side

’One day this will all make sense.’

’Peter? You’re not Peter!’

’That’s not Petah!’

’Not Peter?’

’But then who?’

’He’s not my daddy.’

’Then what happened to Peter?’

A dark face appeared over him. “She’s all mine, now.”

”NO!”

Paul woke up, sweating. His stomach was hurting and his head was sore. He was breathing heavily.

Slowly he made his way across the room to his mirror, glancing at the clock as he went. Three in the morning. He looked in the mirror and his eyes scared him. Bloodshot.

Sweat soaked through his hair and the collar of his shirt was all wet. He stared in the mirror, breathing heavily.

“I need to go out,” he decided.

It’s amazingly eerie, yet at the same time expected, how quiet a suburb can be at three in the morning. There are a few birds around, and some small night animals, but almost no people. Walk down the streets of a small town and you will see no one. Every house will be darkened, almost every person in their beds.

Paul barely paid attention to the unlit houses as he walked through the neighborhood. He thought about the dream he’d had just moments before. Voices, searching for him. But they hadn’t said Paul, they’d said another name. If only he could remember.

If only he could just remember his name. Even knowing that would be better than nothing. And the voices in his dream, the vague faces poking at the edges of his memory, they had said his name, over and over. Since he could remember.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. There was no need to watch for cars, the streets were deserted at such a time.

How long had he lived like this? Roaming from town to town, always feeling as though he was on the verge of remembering, but never knowing. It was the only life he could remember. He thought back. Eight long months, he was almost certain. Eight long months. He had been wandering for eight months.

But as long as those eight months were, they were still only a snippet of his life. What had been before those eight months? He knew that he had been loved, but by whom? Who were the voices in his head at night, worrying about him, wondering where he’d been? And why could he not remember them when he awoke in the morning?

’That’s not Petah.’

Peter?

’You’re not Peter!’

Peter?

Could his name be...?

’But then where’s Peter?’

Was his name Peter?

’Peter, you know I love you.’

Peter…

"Peter," he spoke in a near whisper, to see how it sounded. It seemed to fit...

Peter?

“Is my name Peter?” he asked aloud.

A memory flashed before his eyes. A tall, dark haired man with a strange voice was speaking.

”Ya see Pete, we’re not gonna make it without hard work. It can’t all be handed to us on a platter.”

“Peter...”

A shorter, curly haired man was speaking.

“I’m sure it’ll all work out in the end, Pete.”

The woman from his dreams.

”I’ll always love you, Peter.”

A small dark haired man with a different accent.

”Come on, Petah, you can do it.”

“My name...”

He paused in his words, afraid to speak them unless he was certain of their truth. He looked around. There was no one around to hear him.

“My name…”

Could it be possible that after eight months of searching he had discovered his name? Finally discovered his name?

“My name is…Peter.”

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