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It was by count of glass shard 238 that Peter finally thought: Oh God, oh shit, what have I actually done?
In his defense, he hadn't meant to break the mirror. He'd just meant to- screaming, all the while- bring both elbows down on the towel rack- strongarm the- off the wall, think of Christmas lights on, the electricity bill it would take to coat every surface outside in Christmas lights to blinding fucking ugliness- and swing it at the mirror as hard as he possibly could.
THIS IS THE SAN DIEGO EMERGENCY RADIO STATION. IN THE EVENT OF... THIS IS THE SAN DIEGO EMERGENCY RADIO STATION.
Electrical tape choking the plug kept it from being absolutely nothing. Photos of it being "old" from 35 years ago. The very last station on the dial, the honest-to-god dial. Barely came in on the edge- he only recognized it by that quiet noon in Wanda's car, what could've been centuries ago, listening to it for a half hour straight. He hadn't realized back then- a kid- about recordings, of loops. He really thought it was just some guy's job to sit in a station all day, reading from lines short enough to fit a fortune cookie, over and over.
It sounded very lonely. Peter had hoped a little bit for an emergency soon, just so the poor fellow could have a bit of a break in the monotony. Waiting for his big day to come.
He hadn't meant to break the mirror. It's just that, someone had changed the day from 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. while he was in the shower. Which already wasn't great. But then he realized, if he had to see that guy one more time in his entire entire shit-entire life, one of them wasn't going to make it out alive. So he made a choice.
It wasn't a great choice.
TURN TO THIS STATION FOR INFORMATION AND INSTRUCTIONS. TURN TO THIS STATION FOR
Things lungs are for:
Not breathing.
Burning.
Teasing cold fingers with warmth.
Not breathing and burning.
His mind clashing reckless with tunes, that hell if he can name 'em. 24-hour over-the-air-infomercial-channel. New holiday jingle for 91 point 1. The particularly rhythmic racket from dad's heirloom autoclave. Peter doesn't know that these are the day's sources as much as he can't stop them.
Hey, there's blood from somewhere? Yeah he keeps washing it down, and then his hands just go away somewhere and come back fresh-slippery and, uh-huh. At a certain point he's just started wiping it off on the walls which would be gross but blood can come out of anything if you just try hard enough, he's never known what the big fuss is?, if you just try hard enough.
ZZZZT. ZZZZZT. ZZZZZZZZSH.
AhaHA! AHHAHAHA. HE ALMOST FORGOT! OH MY GOD, HE ALMOST FORGOT.
Among numbers and whirring and scalding and they're-out-of-vanilla-scented, he really did almost forget!
It was never going to be okay.
Peter-thing, you were never going to be safe by the end.
For his 11th birthday: fire-resistant, heat proof gloves, so he could work on boiling pots of spaghetti water.
The explosion scraped his thumbprints clean off.
Peter is shaking now, from the unheated storage room, or from everything, or from hitting his head down the stairs on steps that looked farther away than they actually were. Somewhere upstairs, someone either is or isn't calling his name. But on the old radio on the even older chair in front of him- a man in a room, all day, and all night too, waiting diligently for the cold-hearted call to come in. It's showtime.