Archive of Our Own

His Inner War

Prologue

Vietnam, 1975

Ben Parker hands the last packet of rations in his bag to the Bac Son Valley elder. The teetering old man takes it from him and heads inside the mud shack. He follows the man, stopping at the threshold of the house to turn and face the acres of tea plantation hugging the earth like a layer of skin. The fields are pock-marked with crater-like impacts from mortar fire. Artillery shells lie in droves around his boots, some half-sunk in the squelching mud. Taking a deep breath of this once untouched land, now smelling of napalm and gunpowder, he parts the curtain and heads inside.

Yesterday, news of the NVA rolling into Saigon had reached the ground forces. They were among the first to receive the transmission. It wasn't unexpected. For the last month or so, there was a general feeling among the ranks that the fight would be over any day now. Some men back at the barracks had taken to rejoicing almost daily. Empty booze bottles were no longer hidden from the eyes of prying officers. As soon as the tanks rolled into the presidential palace of the inner city, it would mean the end of it all. The conclusion of a conflict that had spanned generations and had been costly on both sides.

But now, the very next day, a gloom has settled amongst Ben's comrades, and within him, as well. Like him, they are walking from door to door in the village, supplying the last of their rations and supplies to the ones who need it the most - the villagers.

"Sir," he says, placing a hand on the elder's shoulder. "They're going to airlift me out of this place tomorrow."

The old man looks at him, his blank stare could be mistaken for a lack of comprehension, but he knew he could understand what he was saying.

"I've tried to leave behind as much as I possibly could for Lan and Xuan."

The sleeping bodies of the elder's grandson and granddaughter are barely visible in the corner of the hut. He considers waking them up and talking to them. Offer them his final goodbyes, as well. But somehow, it feels trivial. Compared to the devastation and upheaval faced by them what manner of farewells could suffice? A fortnight ago, their parents had wandered into the surrounding mountains for some food and they'd been caught by a stray landmine. Seeing their bodies had made him feel sick, even after all the corpses he'd seen strewn around the battlefields.

He's not sure if he should even feel this way. Not near the end. The words hitch in Ben's throat as he looks at the elderly man.

"I know this makes me sound like a hypocrite but I'll try to… do better."

The old man shakes his head and does something he's never seen before. He joins his hands and bows to him.

"Not your fault. You already do good," he says. "Now, go."

Ben takes his cap off and steps toward the man in disbelief. Whatever fleeting thoughts enter his mind are cut out by a loud call from outside. It was the regiment commander asking everyone to fall back in. He thinks of ignoring it but the old man is already ushering him out of the door. Ben stumbles out into the yellow sunlight, more blinded by his own whirling emotions than by the sun in his eyes. After being rooted to the spot for what feels like hours, he puts the cap back on his head and starts walking. It is March 1975, and tomorrow he will be heading back home.

Tomorrow, the familiar neighborhoods of Queens where he'd grown up, will be waiting to welcome him back.

Tomorrow, his war would end and a new one would take its place.

I

The hospital visitor tape hides behind the wall of books in Peter's bag. Its orange hue is a mottled brown after months tucked inside the pages of French alliteration and Plant Biology. The result is apt somehow. It reminds him of a bubbling festering wound. One spreading fetidness not even a mongrel would lick. Fingering it delicately, he pulls it out of its dark home and places it on the table separating him from Miss Catherine. Her eyes linger on it for a moment before she turns back to him.

"Is that from when you were visiting your uncle that night?"

Her voice reels him away from a boorish vision spreading before his eyes to the stark sterilized environment of the student counselor's room.

"Yes, it is."

"Might I ask you to elaborate, if you don't mind?"

The chiming of the postmodernist bells behind her are the only sound in the room. They exude a sense of auspiciousness that he's grown to like. At first, he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand how the breeze from the open window to his side would carry the voices of those outside playing ball in the middle of summer. He couldn't stand how the wind would breeze past him and swirl those hanging bells hiding behind her chair. But what was once grating has since solidified into something akin to a sense of peace.

Peter doesn't say anything.

"Listen," Miss Cathy says, rubbing a thumb across her brow. "This is possibly the last time you'll get the chance to get things off your chest. You know the final exams start soon and I've tried not to make these sessions into a formality that the school dragged you into. Ideally, this should be handled by a real healthcare professional but you insisted on not seeing anyone so the school had to intervene on your behalf. I mean, I shouldn't even be here. But I'm giving you a chance regardless."

He watches her exhale. Her worn-out countenance serves as a desperate plea. A final chance, as she put it. He wonders what that means as he stares out of the window.

"I'm sorry, Miss Cathy. I feel responsible for the trouble you've been put to."

She scoffs, "I don't need sympathy, Mr Parker. This isn't about me. I'm sure you realize you're one of Midtown's finest students, and it would be a terrible shame, a terrible shame I repeat, to see that change. I mean, your test performances have been adversely affected by what happened in March, and understandably so. But with the end of your semester approaching, we don't want anything to get in the way of your chances at a great ivy league scholarship. It's what your aunt and your uncle would want, I'm sure. Don't you agree?"

Her words contain the backbones of a well-rehearsed message. Not that he begrudges her sentiment, it's something adults like her stake a living on. It makes him smile as he looks at the white clouds passing by her window.

"You know," he says, "When he was in the army, Uncle Ben was stationed in Vietnam."

He waits to see if the counselor's gait changes. When it doesn't, he goes on.

"Not many people know this about him and he never talked about it. But he had the medals in a cabinet in our living room. That's how I found out anyway. For a long time I simply reasoned that he was still haunted by it. Why else wouldn't he talk about it? Curious, I asked May one day. She said it was because he never really fought in the war or got to see the front lines. His only job was screwing the light bulbs in the makeshift war rooms where the decisions were made. He was a menial lackey, thrown to the side for his worthlessness."

"Isn't that a little harsh?"

"I'm not done talking, Miss," he says, turning to her. She motions for him to continue. "Years later, when I started bringing back prizes from all the nationwide Science competitions I took part in, Ben would take all my awards and place them in that living room cabinet, effectively hiding his medals behind my achievements. Even if I found it strange at the time, I didn't say anything. But he did it every time and slowly the message became clear to me. He wanted me to eclipse him through my studies. I thought that's all he ever wanted of me."

"It sounds like you don't believe that anymore."

"I don't know." He leans back on the office leather. "The truth is, I don't know what he wanted anymore. The day he died, I didn't even make it to the hospital in time. It was three in the morning when the surgeon who was operating on him deemed it a failure." Rounding the edges of the crumpled visitor tape, Peter takes a deep breath. "It's funny, isn't it? My uncle who never fought in the war was gunned down by a bullet in the middle of the city. We Parkers, we have this inside joke within the family, we're like magnets for bad luck. I don't know why I keep thinking about that like it's some farce. Even now."

Miss Cathy clicks her mechanical pen. She passes a tissue to Peter who takes it in his hand but doesn't use it. Clearing her throat, she finds her voice.

"The police said they found you in the hospital lobby room sometime later. That you were pale as a sheet, sweaty, and bloodied. I understand this was all part of a sensitive investigation but could you be more honest about what you were doing that night?"

He keeps his eyes trained on the smoke rolling out of the chimney from the school cafeteria wing. He stays fixed like this for so long she's certain the answer isn't coming.

"After I heard what happened to Ben I went looking for answers."

"Looking for answers where?"

Peter doesn't say.

She suppresses an irritated sigh. "And? Did you happen to find any?"

"Not really," he says. "However, in relation to your earlier question, I felt incapable of sitting in the lobby waiting for the news, so I only showed up afterward."

Miss Cathy scratches her cheek. "I hope you understand, this is all very confusing, Mr Parker. You're saying a lot of things that don't make sense. Perhaps this will all be easier if you just tell me what happened that night a little more clearly."

Peter stares up at the ceiling fan with his hands in his jumper pockets. It's not the first time he's heard that question. For the last few months, he has wondered the same himself. In between the classes where he's kept his head down and the lunch hours that have dragged endlessly in his own company, he has sat at the back of empty classes and pondered with his head in his hand what had really happened that night. Those moments had felt so fragile, like peering into some formless substance that could dissolve at a simple touch.

He finds himself shrinking away from them, even now. Balling the hospital tape into a crumple, Peter places it back inside his bag. The weight of his books falls upon it and crushes its existence once again.

"What are you doing?" she says.

"I'm not looking to go over the past anymore, Miss Cathy. Not when I already know what I have to do. Instead, I'm asking you… to understand that what happens next… is out of my hands."

"That isn't how this works. Why show up here then if you won't let me guide you?"

But he's already past listening. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Peter stands up. A few weeks ago, he had walked in here and felt like leaving almost immediately. Everything about this room had felt perversely designed to weigh in on him like a physical pressure applied on a nasty wound. It felt like punishment. Now, several weeks later, walking out of this room would mean not only leaving behind the weight he had carried since Ben's death but also leaving behind his old self.

"Hold on, Peter," Miss Cathy says, her voice quavering. "Just what are you planning to do next?"

He looks at the distraught face of the counselor one last time and feels a strange longing he can no longer recognize.

"Miss Cathy, perhaps it's best you don't know that. Don't you think?"

~#~

Midnight. The empty gas station off of the subway junction.

Mark Reid stares at the barrel of the gun pointed at his forehead by his aggressor. His knees, chafed by the wet gravel of the parking lot, hurt a lot less when death is but a whisker away. It had been raining not so long ago and Mark had stopped by the empty lot to smoke a cigarette with his sister. They were making their way home from one of those avant-garde type movies that always try his patience more than anything else. It was really his sister who wanted to see it.

"Don't move, hombre," the balaclava-clad man with the gun tells him.

Mark feels the hot prickling of sweat line the back of his neck and shirt.

"Give me your phone."

He does and the masked man crushes it under his heel.

The message seems loud and clear, help isn't coming. Kneeling in front of his aggressors, Mark has this premonition of his mother waking up in the middle of the night to answer a door call by two burly policemen. A fear, unlike anything, grips him so tightly that he's certain he's dying even as the gun pointed at him slowly turns into a noose tightening around his neck, his arms, his legs, his everything. Its force is so immense that his limbs have already surrendered to the vastness of its power.

Then, just as he's certain he couldn't possibly move even if he wanted to, his sister's overwhelmed figure washes into his periphery. Two of the masked man's accomplices had subdued her with ropes and a cloth gag when she'd walked out of the gas station restroom. Turning his face towards her, Mark watches the terror painted across her otherwise jovial face. Its intensity only further heightens the surreal nature of the situation he's in. Almost as if this is all happening to someone else and he's just a bystander, watching.

"Solo queremos a la chica. Start moving. I'll take care of the rest."

The two guys start hauling his sister's struggling body towards the black van they pulled up in. Her muffled cries ring in the empty air of this derelict part of town.

"What?" Mark says, turning away from her and looking up at the man with the gun.

"No comprendo, amigo? That's alright. It doesn't matter, anyway."

The words stop in his mouth, struggling to squeeze out of his constricting throat.

"No, not my sister. Take me instead. I don't know what you want with us but just take me."

The man scoffs and lowers his gun for a moment. "If we wanted you we would have taken you already. Nada personal, amigo."

Dread and recognition pass through Mark in equal amounts. Dread at what was happening and the recognition there was little to nothing he could do to change it. In fact, he isn't sure of anything anymore, even himself. His senses have been dialed up to such an extent, he's unable to tell if it's the thought that paralyzes him or the adrenaline shooting through his veins. His knees are moments away from caving in. The desperation is possibly what drives him even further.

Without knowing what he's doing, he plants a kick on the shin of the man.

"Fuck."

It surprises him that he's had an effect as he watches the man stagger away slightly. Using the momentary distraction, he tries to rush towards his sister but the man is on him in an instant. A knee hits him on the back of the leg and before he knows it, he's lying on the wet gravel, his face planted on the ground. He struggles to escape, like a fish flopping around once it's out of the sea, but the man's grip on his neck is too strong. Turning his face sideways, Mark starts wheezing because of the force of the elbow applied on his back, holding him in place.

"You want to die that bad, bitch? Fine, I'll oblige."

Somewhere out of his field of vision, a gun is cocked and placed against his skin. The cold metal stings his temple. No longer struggling, Mark closes his eyes and clenches his jaw shut, the anticipation no longer palpable.

This is how it ends for him.

Welcoming the sound of death any moment, he waits. He waits a long time before he hears it. But it doesn't sound like anything he expects. It is like the wind itself is whistling, like something is moving through the air faster than humanly possible. Then, like a bird dropping out of the air, a thud. A thud that did not sound normal. It's magnified many times like a giant animal has landed out of the sky. Curious now more than afraid, Mark gently opens one of his eyes to see a shadowy man standing amongst his aggressors, who themselves are frozen still.

Then, the screams start. The empty gas station, which was abandoned moments ago is filled with the desperate cries of grown men being flung around. Unsure of what is happening Mark squints from his awkward position on the floor. It's mostly futile because of the pressure still applied on his back. The man on top of him has him pinned in place with that elbow of his, but the gun which was pointing at his temple is now firing in another direction. It makes him flinch every time it goes off followed by the muzzle flash and smoke.

The ensuing chaos lasts for what feels like an hour but couldn't have been more than a minute. Even the pressure on his back disappears not so long after. A terrified grunt is all he hears of the man on top of him before a long-drawn silence fills the abandoned gas station once more. That and the distant police sirens, which feel like they're headed away rather than toward them. Picking himself off the ground, Mark wipes the grime off one side of his face with a shaking hand.

"You're safe now," a voice says behind him.

Mark turns around and drops to the ground again in fright. A creature clad in red is crawling on the gas station ceiling. Next to him, what can only be a giant spider web, holds the three balaclava-clad men who attacked him.

"Sorry," the creature says, dropping from the ceiling to the ground like it's nothing.

"Where's my sister?"

"Safe. She's lying right there."

For the second time that night, Mark finds his throat constricting. "What are you?"

It says nothing.

"Are you human?"

The creature, thing, man, whatever it is, walks towards him, making him back away.

"There's a police station around the block, right across the street from the Starbucks. Head down there with your sister and flag the first officer you see."

"What?"

A silver line shoots out of the creature's wrist as he zips back to the ceiling.

"These guys won't be here for long," he says pointing at the subdued men. "My webbing dissolves in an hour so I suggest you start moving."

Still shaking from the events of the night, Mark picks himself off the ground and heads towards his sister who's lying on the ground unconscious. While he's unbounding her arms and legs, he can't help but look back at the creature, the strange man in red, who had appeared from thin air to save him. Even as Mark looks towards the gas station, he feels that same surrealness from earlier in the night encompass him once more as he watches a distant figure zip away on a silver line.

He's a bystander, that's all he is. If he thinks that then none of these things ever happened to him.

"Hey, Carol," he says, shaking his sister awake. "We need to get out of here."

~#~

Near the edge of town, Peter perches himself on the maintenance shaft of a radio dish extending up from an office building. Tired, he takes off his mask and stares at the distant horizon where flashes of lightning pepper the sky. A fresh wave of rain is heading towards the city. Aware of the stinging at his side, he rolls up the front of his suit to notice a blackened husk where the skin over his left ribs should be. The masked man shooting at him had fired a blank when he'd closed in to take him down.

Running a finger over the blackened skin feels like touching a piece of dry paper. The skin has molted and died and feels numb under his touch. The searing pain is underneath the flesh and it screams fiercely when he rolls his shirt over the wound. Somewhere near his shoulder blade, a more piercing pain calls to his senses but he doesn't need to see that one. One of the other thugs had pulled a knife on him and had caught him by surprise. Exhaling, he lies down on the metal shaft and looks up at the cloudy night.

"Is this going to be my life every night now?"

Placing a hand over his forehead, he wonders if this is what he really should be doing. What were those guys planning to do with that girl anyway, he thought, unable to get the picture of that unconscious woman being dragged to that van out of his head. He closes his eyes. What if he hadn't been there? What if tonight like all other nights he had just stuck to doing his homework and sleeping in his bed and not bothering about these things that shouldn't be his concern anyway? What would have happened to that woman's brother?

It's like his whole life up till this point could have fit inside a box. A box with well-defined parameters and boundaries that could not be crossed. But tonight that box had lost its shape and its boundaries had become obsolete.

"I was right, Miss Cathy," he says, feeling the first drops of rain touch his face. "No one should have to know about these things."

II

Burning the midnight candle is a euphemism often lost on Peter. Only two hours before the submission link for his molecular biology assignment comes to a close, he starts working. A week ago, the work had seemed a distant proposition unlikely to interfere with the rest of his life. Now, staring at the laptop screen in his dark room, he is reminded of the unhurried state of mind he had assumed for the past few days whenever the thought of the assignment had cropped up. If only he had started a little sooner.

He exhales, shedding any last thoughts of what could have been, and moves the curtain to look outside.

It is winter in Manhattan, the winter of his first year at New York University. White frost clings to the window sill and coats the sidewalks of the city. The apartment Peter lives in is not far from the NYU gates and sometimes, through them, he watches the crowds of people trickling in and out. Girls with coffee cups, short shorts, skirts, and faded concert T-shirts. Guys in baggy fits or week-old unwashed pants that have been sitting in their laundry baskets for even longer. It never fails to amaze him how their movements resemble the precise ticking of a clock, even if there is a sense of serendipity to it.

At this time of night, however, the ticking clock has slowed down considerably. He drops the curtain on proceedings and turns back to the blank document page on his laptop screen. An hour of concerted effort follows. From scouring the internet for resources to powering through three cups of coffee, the night wears on at a tumultuous pace, his fingers flying across the keys. The time on the submission link reads ten minutes to midnight when he's finally done. Leaning back, he crosses his arms behind his head and stretches from head to toe.

It's while carrying out the final touches to his document, the call from Mary Jane arrives.

"Hello?" he says.

"Peter."

"Yes?"

"What's up?"

"Nothing. You?"

Silence, followed by the hubbub of many voices reaches his ear.

"Hello? You there?"

"No."

"Okay, you're there. Where are you?"

"Jesse's."

"What are you doing there?"

"Come find me," she says and cuts the call.

Peter stares at the lock screen wallpaper, unsure of what to make of the rather abrupt and mysterious telephone conversation. Shaking his head, he places the phone back on the table and proceeds to finish up his assignment. It doesn't take long to hit the submit button after uploading the file. Yawning, he gets up and heads toward his wardrobe. The usual quandary of dressing for the cold hits him like every time. It's always the same problems living on his own. Either he's short on money or he's short on clothes.

Finding some hand-me-down jeans from Ben May had pleaded with him to stop wearing and a faded NASA T-shirt two sizes too small for him, he heads out. Outside, Henrietta, his roommate living across the hall, is sleeping on the couch with the TV remote dangling from her fingers. He takes it away, switches the television off, and places it on the nightstand. The door to her room is ajar and tiptoeing his way in, Peter picks up the comforter from her bed and places it over her. She curls up and turns away from him.

He edges away quietly until he reaches the coat rack near the entrance, where he picks up his jacket. He ties his sneakers and heads downstairs. Walking out of the front door, smoke swirls out of his nostrils in the frigid night.

~#~

Jesse's Dive is crammed with a huddling mass by the time he makes it in and its warm interiors are more than welcome after his walk from the apartment. Peter has been here a few times before, both with friends and alone. It's only a block away from where he lives so commuting is hardly an issue. The bar is a regular haunt frequented by the NYU crowd on weekends. Today isn't one of those but it is a frosty affair outside. On cold nights like these, Jesse's can be packed to the brim. The slender, petite bar owner stands behind the counter ushering the drinks like usual. Peter walks past her and heads inside.

It doesn't take long to find Mary Jane. She is drooping over an empty table near the back. He pulls up a chair and sits down.

"Maybe you shouldn't be hitting the booze if you can't handle it," he says.

Her head springs up.

"Oh, it's only you," she rubs her eyes. "I swear I'll never get used to that accent of yours."

"Too rough for your Philly ears, is it?"

"Pennsylvania. That's a one-forty-mile mistake you made there."

"It's a big country."

Peter brushes a hair out of his eye and stares at the collection of empty whisky bottles lying around her.

"Didn't expect you to be binge-drinking in the middle of the week."

Mary Jane makes a face at him. Then clumsily resting her back against the shop's wall she curls into a ball.

"Are you going to be a pussy about this?" she says. "I fucked up, okay."

"I'm not judging. I know you've got your problems. I'm not stupid, you know."

She stares at him for a while before finally wilting.

"Fair enough," she says, slumping her head against the wall and closing her eyes like she's about to sleep.

Peter gets up and walks over to her side.

"Alright, that's enough for today," he says, picking her to her feet.

She groans.

"You're not going to hurl, are you?"

"Shut up or I just might."

He takes one of her hands and wraps it around his shoulder while wrapping his own around her waist. The fragility of it under his fingertips stuns him. She is thinner than she looks under her clothes. He squeezes her a little tighter to him and starts shuffling towards the exit. A number of eyeballs follow them.

"Why do your pants look like you pulled them out of a trash can?" she says as they're walking.

"It's my uncle's, okay. I've been meaning to get some new ones as soon as the money from the new job kicks in."

She lets out a whistle.

"Look at Mister Big Time. It's that one with the news company, isn't it? The Daily… Bugle? Bagel?"

"You bungled that on purpose, didn't you?"

The red exit sign passes by overhead as they step outside. He disentangles himself from Mary Jane and wraps his jacket around her inebriated self.

"The dough must be amazing though I'm guessing," she says, swaying slightly.

"On the contrary, the pay is dogshit. But what choice do I have?"

She points at him from head to toe.

"It still doesn't exempt the transgression you're committing right now walking around in that attire."

"These were seriously the only good clothes in my closet. You're really going after me tonight, aren't you? Just what did I do to deserve this?"

She clicks her tongue.

"We don't deserve a lot of things. But who said life is fair, hm?"

He scrunches his face while stepping to the edge of the curb. She sits down on a nearby facade. He takes a furtive glance at her before hailing a cab.

"Are you unhappy with me?" she says, making circles on the concrete with her finger.

He doesn't say anything.

"You seem a little hurt."

A yellow cab finally draws close, its headlights nearly blinding him in the process. They both get in and head for Mary Jane's house. He looks out at the passing street lights and feels tired for the first time in the night. Beside him, he can feel her head drop on his shoulder as she drifts off. Peter looks at her and then turns back to the window once again.

"Sometimes," he says. "I wish you were nicer to me."

~#~

It was near the start of the second semester when he met Mary Jane. She wasn't in any of his classes but he used to see her in the library often. Mingling with people he didn't know. His only reason for occasionally looking at her through the tops of his book was at some point, they'd been classmates at school. In those first weeks at NYU, he was completely alone and friendless. Even the thought of sharing in his loneliness and the constant bouts of homesickness with someone who might even understand him a little was too irresistible.

The fantasy of living in Manhattan had turned out very different from what Peter had imagined. Here, people ignore him or get on with their life in a heartbeat. The other day, he'd found out that one of his project partners had asked the course instructor for someone else to work with because he found Peter's demeanor unreliable. It's true that he sometimes misses class because of his other commitments but he's been trying recently. He's more regular now than ever before. If not anything he would have liked a small heads-up before the whole thing went down but the guy hasn't talked to him since.

It's not a big deal, he knows. It's just, he feels really helpless about this stuff. He's never been good at connecting with people. When he was young Ben had to drag him from his books to try and socialize with the other kids at the park. It's like he's still that kid even now. Scared to leave his books and enter the world of the park. He tries not to feel too bad about it. But it's hard sometimes. Not staying cooped up in his room helps though, and Mary Jane is an expert at that. Sometimes when he's with her he ends up doing things he wouldn't in a million years. It's both her best and worst quality.

Popping the metal cap off of the Heineken, he sits down on her balcony. It's actually just the fire escape with wooden scaffolding underneath.

"Are you crazy?" she says from behind.

He takes a swig from the bottle and turns around to look at her. Mary Jane has changed out of her clothes and is partially undressed. A bra and tights adorn her slim, almost fragile frame.

"What?" he says.

"It's freezing out there. Aren't you cold?"

He puts the bottle back to his lips.

"Nope."

He hears her sigh behind his back. There's a brief struggle in which she puts on a turtleneck and manages to climb out of the window, squeezing beside him in the tiny space. It's a tight fit but they make it work somehow. She puts her legs through the railing gaps, dangling them off the edge.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" he says.

She scrunches her face into a grimace.

"I can't. Hand me the bottle."

"Uh, no. Get your own. Also, you had plenty back at Jesse's. You don't have a death wish, do you?"

She forcibly snatches it out of his hand.

"Just do as I say."

He watches her empty half the bottle without so much as a breath. He's unsure whether to be alarmed or impressed. Eventually, she slumps back against the brick wall and passes the bottle back to him.

"Your night was that bad, huh?" he says, rolling the bottle in his hands and watching the distortions in the glass.

"Oh, don't even get me started."

"What happened?"

She scrunches the sides of her mouth.

"Some asshole was hitting on me at the bar. I made it clear I wasn't looking for anything but he was… persistent."

Peter blows steam out of his mouth. It curls up around his face and fogs his vision for a second.

"That sucks. Nothing bad happened, I hope."

She scoffs, "Not for me. But I can't speak for the guy."

"Why? What did you do?"

"Wow, I'm actually hurt. You just naturally assumed I did something terrible to him. Didn't I make it clear I was the victim of lewd advances tonight?"

He scratches his cheek.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way but you're not exactly the damsel in distress type."

She looks at him for a while before hunching over until her knees touch her chest.

"Yeah," she says. "You're probably right about that."

They both take turns at the bottle after that. The small silvery moon shines its insubstantial glow over the gentrified residencies of the Lower East Side. They stare at it in silence, enjoying the lull in their conversation. Eventually, an ice-cold wind decides to announce its arrival by whipping unpredictably around both of them. It unfurls bits of Mary Jane's hair all over her forehead, neck, and mouth and sometimes, even throws it toward his face. He watches her expertly gather all of it with a single swipe of her hand and tie it in a ponytail behind her head.

She takes the bottle from his hand.

"Everything used to be so much simpler back in school, am I right?"

He watches her put it to her lips and then down again. It's always the same response whenever they talk about such scenarios. Perhaps it's part of their transition into adulthood or perhaps it's wishful thinking but he's a little tired of people telling him how life used to be better when they were younger. Maybe that was the case for the majority, Mary Jane even. He remembers how she used to be in the halls of Midtown. Ever the socialite, always at the center of people's attention, always having plans to look forward to. That's how she probably remembers her entire childhood.

That certainly isn't the case for him. Even after all these months, Peter still remembers the days spent in isolation after Ben's death. It's a period where he feels he went underwater for a while. While he's not sure whether he's still out of it, he certainly feels like his recollection of his time at school has become tainted after that. He can't think of anything being easy back then. Even breathing had become a chore. Moving a finger was the equivalent of dragging mountains behind him. Getting out of bed in the morning felt like a ton of bricks were lying on top of him.

"What is it?" she says. "You have a strange look on your face."

He turns away.

"It's nothing."

He takes the bottle from her and prepares to drink before she sticks her face in front of him. It startles him. She backs away with a smile. He narrows his eyes at her but she ignores him.

"It's definitely not nothing," she says. "I know you all too well now."

"Oh yeah?"

"You're too distracted for your own good."

He attempts to take a drink again.

"Remember the first time we actually met?" she says.

Of course, he does. He was heading back home from the library one evening when she followed him out. When he had stopped to look back at the person tapping him on the shoulder she had been waiting with a book in hand. It was some book he'd been looking for but hadn't found on any of the shelves. She'd overheard him talking to the librarian about it. Apparently, it was missing because she had been the one to borrow it. He'd thanked her before taking it from her and heading back home. On the way back, she'd come running to him again.

She scoffs, "You were so out of it you didn't even go to the librarian to get it leased for you. I had to chase you all the way down to the gates."

"I remember that."

She laughs.

"What were you even thinking?"

Peter racks his head for an answer.

"I don't know, to be honest."

"Makes sense," she says. "It was hilarious, though."

He grins as he leans against the cold metal railing. From the corner of his eye, he sees her head slumped against the brick wall.

"I know it's still early but do you have any plans for the future? Any clue what you want to do next?" she says.

He tilts his head to look at the street below.

"I don't know. There's a lot on my plate right now so I haven't given it much thought."

She makes a clicking sound with her tongue.

"Well, you should. If there's anything you're good at, go for it, I say."

He turns his head around, the cold railing touching his ear now.

"What about you then? What does your future look like?"

She flashes him another grin followed by a fist pump in the air.

"Broadway, here I come!"

"Acting? Really?"

"What? You don't think I can make it."

"No, that's not it," he says. "I just wasn't expecting it, that's all."

"That's because you haven't attended any of my plays yet. Frankly, I'm sick of sending you invites."

He turns away from her and looks down at the street. She's right about the last part. Peter's mailbox from September to December has been flooded with tons of production posters from the University theater group. All of them forwarded by her. It's not that he hasn't seen them. It's the opposite really. He has spent hours sometimes hovering over each of those posters before deleting them from his inbox. It was the same thing every time that made him do it. The feeling that the hell he had stepped into all those months ago in Miss Cathy's room, wasn't the kind he would like to share with anyone else.

Recently, another part of him has started questioning that side of him. Whether he even needs to anymore.

Maybe all he needs to do is to just say yes for once and try something else.

"I can't say for sure but… I'll be there," he says. "I'll make it to your next one."

She looks at him, stunned.

"Really?"

"I promise."

He taps her shoulder with the beer bottle as if they're clinking champagne glasses.

"I definitely wasn't expecting that," she says.

"Just don't forget about me when you're rich and famous, ok?"

She gives him another one of her infectious smiles.

"Idiot."

They turn to look at the lights from the city. Peter takes a deep breath. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to keep his promise, or if it's even possible at this point to hope for something more, but he'll try. He'll try because after everything that's happened and after everything he's been through it's the right choice to make. In fact, it's the only one he has left. If he can't make it to her next play, he'll try again for her next. If he can't make it to that he'll try for the one in the following week. And he'll keep trying and keep trying and keep trying until he makes it.

"Fuck," she says. "A few months in the city and I still can't get used to this damn view."

He looks at her and feels the truth in her words. There's a sense of gratitude in this moment that he doesn't think will ever translate more clearly to him at any other point of his life. That's right, he thinks, no matter who you are, where you are, or what you're doing, things never stay the same. People change, lives change, dreams change, relationships change, realities change, the world surrounding you changes. It's just the way the world is. The only thing that remains the same is you and your ability to stick it out. To weather the storm through thick or thin.

He wishes someone would have told him that all those months ago when he needed it the most. That it all gets better with time.

"Come on," Mary Jane says, extending her hand towards him. "Let's head back in."

"Yes, let's."

III

Something amazing happens the following month that Peter doesn't expect. A Fedex guy shows up at his door while he's in the middle of a shower. He rushes out with a towel wrapped around his legs, shampoo still dripping down his shoulders as he answers the door.

"Oh," he says, staring at the man in purple, "I don't believe I ordered anything."

The man gives him a look of weariness, like he has heard this a million times already. He looks down at the clipboard in his hand.

"A delivery for Mister Parker. Is that you?"

He nods his head.

"Please sign here," the man says, passing him the board.

Peter does so after fumbling around for a pen in his room. Satisfied, the man hands over a brown package small enough to fit in the palm of his one hand. He shuts the door and shakes it to ascertain its contents. It's mysteriously light. He checks the tag where the sender's name is usually written. His eyes widen when he sees his Aunt's name. Usually, if May sends him anything she just brings it with her when she visits him once a month, or he visits her. Peter lets the package rest on his bed as he goes back to finish his shower. Once he's done, he finds some scissors and starts unwrapping the box.

The first thing that drops out is a silver ornament with a red and blue lapel attached. He picks it up in his hand. It doesn't take him long to realize it's Ben's service medal.

Unsure why his Aunt would send him this, Peter places it on the bed before turning to the opened package to see if there's a note inside. Sure enough, there is.

He picks it up and unfolds it while walking to the hair dryer on his bedside table. He starts reading it as he unwinds its cord.

Dear Peter, it begins. Last week while I was out getting the groceries, I stopped by this bodega around the block that just opened up recently. With you no longer around and me being the only inhabitant in the house, I can afford such detours now. God knows that would have been impossible when there were so many mouths to feed at meal times. Feeding a growing teenager and a man like your uncle daily was more effort than it was worth at times, believe me. You were more picky with your food than some toddlers. But that's entirely besides the point, I suppose.

Peter drops the note on the bed and rushes to the bathroom. He picks up his toothbrush and paste and hurries back out. He continues reading while brushing his teeth.

While I happened to be strolling around this new shop, a woman approached me from behind. She recognized me as someone she knew and called me by my name even. I'll admit I had no idea who she was but she clearly knew me. She introduced herself as Miss Catherine Gonzalez. Peter smooths out the crinkles in the paper. Yes, that's right. You've probably realized by now that the woman in question was none other than your high school counselor from Midtown. It was my fault for forgetting the woman's face after all the parent-teachers meetings I attended.

We started talking and naturally, you were brought up.

It was during my little conversation with Miss Catherine that certain things were made clear to me for the first time in a long time. Perhaps it was an oversight on my part while you were growing up to trivialize certain things about us that I felt weren't important. Perhaps it was a mistake on both your uncle and my part. He turns to look at the medal lying on his bed. I am of course talking about Ben's time in the army and the little thing you'll be receiving along with this note which serves as the only reminder of his time serving there.

The truth is, Peter, she says, your uncle wasn't some menial lackey like you so iterated to Miss Cathy during your counseling sessions. In fact, I lied to you about his station as well.

During those last years in Vietnam, there was growing unrest both at home and across the sea surrounding the war. A lot of men who went over there to fight felt they had devoted a significant portion of their lives to the destruction of their fellow man. As you can imagine, your uncle was one of them. He was conflicted between his loyalty to his country and the madness he saw once he went there. This sort of thinking was dangerous, however, as he found out. His superiors were quick to label him a sickness and had him punished for it.

This was the reason behind Ben never fighting in the war. Not his lack of worth, she says. Peter reads the line a second time before moving ahead.

Over the past year, however, some new and interesting evidence has surfaced that sheds a new light on the case. Apparently, a few months before the end of the war, your uncle had befriended a family in one of the war-ravaged valleys in the Central Highlands. A village elder, his son and daughter-in-law, and their two children. They were unfortunately caught in the crossfire in one of the more deadlier battles in the area and Ben did all he could to help them after. The elder's two grandsons survived for a week on the rations Ben had left behind for them. Relief operations didn't start until much later so it was all they had. Your uncle was airlifted the following morning so he never learnt what happened to those kids.

Nine months ago, however, I received an email from one of them. The boy, who is now in his fifties, had been looking for the man who had saved him and his sister all those years ago. I told them about Ben and they sent me a picture in return. You can see it for yourself if you look below.

He unfolds the next part of the note and true enough, a picture falls out. He picks it up and turns it. It's a man and a woman standing in a children's park while there's a bright sun outside. The two children Ben had presumably befriended, and saved, now in their middle ages. They have their arms around their shoulders, their faces beaming as the camera captures them for posterity. The wrinkles around their mouth are like warm creases in a freshly ironed shirt, Peter feels. He lightly brushes it with his fingertips, their radiance almost tangible through the paper. Putting it down, he returns to the note.

I know sometimes there isn't much to be said about things that have happened long ago. I feel that way as every year passes and my memories get foggier. It's either that or some things aren't worth remembering. Unfortunately for us, the older you get the more stuck in the past you get. Every new year feels worse than the last, every new challenge too daunting than the last. Your uncle and I thought it would be better for you to grow up unfettered from our shackles, from our mistakes, and while this wasn't always easy, we thought it was right. You had the right to live your life the way you thought it should be lived and while I still gripe at you every time you come back home it's only because I miss you.

Society crumbles when decent men lose the courage to carry out noble acts, your uncle used to tell me. And I'll say the same words to you now, as his parting gift to you.

Peter wipes his cheek.

As you very well know, I shall be moving soon and there aren't too many things I shall be taking with me. This medal is the first of many things I am giving away. It and all it's associated memories are now yours. Do with it what you will. Cherish it or throw it, it is up to you. And if there are other things you wish to keep for yourself, I suggest you stop by the house sometime. There's enough reason to show your face around here once in a while, don't you think?

The note ends but he keeps staring at it for some time.

~#~

The call from Mary Jane arrives almost as soon as he's about to step outside. He checks his attire one final time before answering.

"You're not running late, are you?" she says.

"When does the show start?"

"Seriously?" she says, "You have like twenty minutes."

Peter adjusts the amount of shirt sticking out of his waistband. He bends down to make sure his shoelaces won't come undone and dusts the bottom of his jeans. He turns around. Hovering over his cluttered desk he moves from one side to another looking for the thing he wants. After some minor deliberation, he finds it. He picks up his uncle's service medal, now his, and puts it carefully in his pocket. Then, brushing his hair once more he heads towards the door.

"Are you going to be here?" she says in his ear.

Peter looks back at his room, ready to shut the door.

"Yes, I think I'll make it."