For the rest of the day Peter fumed over Billy’s threat. What is that guy’s problem? The question ran round and round in his head until it hurt.

Finally, the end of day bell rang. Students poured out of the school gates like water from a busted dam. Nobody wanted to be the weirdo who stayed late. Going with the flow carried Peter down the sidewalk past the bus stop and down the road. He just couldn’t shake the fog from his brain and concentrate enough to figure out what to do next. It was easier to just follow those in front of him and let himself be led.

Eventually the crowd dispersed, breaking into smaller and smaller groups, some getting into private vehicles and others getting onto the bikes or scooters they had been pushing and riding off.

Peter found himself alone on the footpath. He couldn’t say when he’d last seen a fellow student or how he had managed to arrive at the intersection where he was standing. None of the buildings looked familiar. Frowning, he tried accessing his online map to figure out where he was. It popped up quickly and closed just as quickly. App Updating, a scrolling marquee announced.

“Crap,” he cursed under his breath. He brought up the message interface and fired off a quick text to his mother, letting her know that he had missed his bus and asking for a pickup. There was no response. “Great. If she’s in a meeting I’ll catch hell if I call her. Who’s got two thumbs and is on their own? This guy.”

Peter looked up and down the empty street, making sure nobody caught him talking to himself. This is getting to be a habit, the unwelcome idea wormed its way into his mind as he picked a likey direction and started walking.

I hope the dang app finishes updating soon, he complained to himself, this is a pain in the ass.

After ten minutes of vague wandering and picking random turns in the hope of finding a familiar street, the map app finally responded. Peter found that he had wandered well off the beaten path and managed to pick the wrong direction every single time. He had, purely by chance, avoided every single bus stop and taxi stand in the area. He picked up the pace and hurried to the nearest pickup point.

Deserted.

A quick check of the posted timetable told him he had missed the last bus by a few minutes and the next one wouldn’t be for quarter of an hour. Throwing himself onto the metal seat in a fit of pique he pulled a face at a car that drove past. Jerks, he thought.

Peter spent the whole time waiting for the next bus fuming. When it finally arrived he stomped up the stairs, swiped his bus pass on the sensor and turned and walked straight into the slowly opening safety doors. Their servos whined as he forced them to open faster and rubbed his forehead as he stomped down the aisle to find a place to sit. The bus accelerated, causing him to stumble but he caught himself on a pole and swung into the seat, the incident not improving his mood a bit.

Fortunately the ride home was uneventful and the stop he needed was on this bus’s route. Peter rested his forehead on the cool metal handrail, offering some respite from the bump the doors had given him. He deliberately cleared his mind, letting the chill seep into his head and freeze the merry-go-round his thoughts had become.

In the foyer of his building Peter found a sign announcing that the elevators were out of order and several technicians were clustered around the control box arguing loudly with each other, with the building superintendent and with the annoying lady who kept letting her dog poop on the roof. From what he could gather as he passed by on the way to the stairs, the annoying lady wanted compensation because the elevator doors had closed between her and her dog, scaring it and tearing the lead in half. The technicians insisted it was not the programming at fault and the super would not be taking responsibility. Peter left them playing the blame game and ascended the stairs with their voices echoing up after him.

The shadows lay long in the hall as Peter approached his front door. Tension knotted his gut as he inserted the key in the lock, expecting a veritable hellstorm the moment he stepped inside. Instead, as the portal swung wide he was greeted by silence and dark.

“Mum? Dad? Are you home?” he called as he stepped inside and turned on the lights. “Anyone?”

Nothing.

Disappointed but also relieved, he went to the fridge and grabbed the best looking leftovers and threw them into the microwave. While the timer ticked down he tried calling his mother again. He still went straight to message bank so he just left a voicemail letting her know he was home safely and hung up. Trying his Dad next, he pulled the food out of the oven and only mildly burned his fingers carrying it to the lounge table rather than pull out a plate from the cupboard. Tossing it down he threw himself onto the couch as the call rang out as well. “Where the heck are they?”

Rather than jumping immediately into The Age as he really wanted to do, Peter instead curled up on the couch and picked at his improvised dinner. Too distracted to even concentrate on a book and mind too much in a whirl to be bothered with homework, he flicked on the TV and channel surfed until he could find something to watch. He settled on something that was televised equivalent of cotton candy, all pink and fluff and brain rottingly sweet.

The episode as just reaching its conclusion and all the characters were discovering that friendship was the real magic and the power was in them the whole time when keys jangled in the front door. Startled, Peter rolled off the couch, clipped the edge of the leftover carton on the coffee table, flipping it onto the lounge room floor and then falling into the mess. Face first.

“Peter? Peter!” his mother’s voice echoed around the tiny apartment. “Pe- what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Peter tried his best to pick up the carton and scrape the remains back into it. “Uhhh,” was all he managed by way of explanation.

Slinging her keys into the bowl and slamming her handbag onto the hook on the back of the door so hard it bent a little, she rounded on the prone boy in fury. “Clean that up. Now. From now on, no food in the lounge. Never again. And,” she continued as she stomped about the kitchen, “since you’ve already eaten, you can shower and bed.”

Peter, immobile in the face of this torrent, just stared in open mouthed terror.

“Move!”

Stung into action he scrambled to follow the orders. Food from floor in carton. Mess scraped into bin. Carton rinsed. Carton in recycle bin. There was no level of complex thought possible.

Shower run. Scrub skin. Brush teeth. Dry body. Hang up towel. Do not get yelled at again. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors, dropping crockery and cutlery to the table top with no regard for the table nor the eating utensils. The microwave door closed so hard that the latches didn’t catch and it bounced open again. Slammed closed again.

He tiptoed into his room and closed the door as quietly as he could. In the dark, he climbed into his bed and pulled the sheets up over his head.

Footsteps in the hallway. “No closed doors in this house!” his mother screamed as the door reverberated off the stopper. “Now go to sleep!”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut as tears leaked out the sides to soak his pillow. There was no way he was getting to sleep any time soon. In a small act of defiance he hit the login button and left this world of pain behind.