darker_london | Number Four (Peter) Rating:R (Reply)

It was one in the morning, and Peter was working by candlelight. He'd skipped dinner in his haste to finish this. Liz could yell at him later. Too much. Too little time. Must read more. Must get it all down before....

June 17th, 2002

I have been having the dreams again. It's been so long, I thought I might not have them again. I thought that I may have been considered too big a failure. But the past few nights, I've been seeing a boy of about 16, red hair, green eyes. He seems terrified, backed up into a corner, shaking. But when I approach him in the dream, I feel myself fall ill. It's almost as if all the happiness is taken from me and black spots blur my vision. Last night, I dreamt that he was in Liverpool. I am sure that getting permission to travel there from Austria will be harder than if I was still in London, but I have to try.

June 25th, 2002

I arrived in Liverpool today, but I still haven't caught sight of the red headed boy. The dreams still haven't shown me where to find him and I feel something of an idiot wandering around trying to find someone I've only dreamt of. Still, I am here, and that is something.

June 27th, 2002

I met the boy today. His name is Evan. He has been in a mental hospital for most of his life. At the age of 5, his mother killed his father in front of him and then tried to kill him as well. She very nearly succeeded. By the time they found him, most of his blood had been drained from his body. No one is quite sure how he survived. The mother disappeared. Evan hasn't spoken a word since that day. He sits in a room and rocks back and forth, his eyes blank. They let me sit with him, but he didn't even acknowledge my presence. I don't understand my purpose here. I cannot fix the horrors done to this child.

But I will try.

June 30th, 2002

I continue to visit Evan, everyday. Not once has he shown signs of noticing me. But when I mentioned his mother's name, his irises when completely red. I haven't ever seen that before. It was terrifying.

July 2nd, 2002

When I am in the room with Evan, he doesn't acknowledge me, but today a nurse gave me a drawing he'd done. It was crude and childlike, right down to the writing across it in crayon, labeling the drawing 'mummy'. It was of a grotesque woman with giant batlike wings. The nurse says that it's normal for traumatised children to envision the people that harmed them as larger than life, but I am not so sure that is what happened. I asked Evan if that was his mother and I received no reply.

July 3rd, 2002

Evan drew me another picture. It was of his mother again, but this time he was in it. They both had the wings and their eyes were black. The nurse seemed quite uneasy about it. I entered the room to ask Evan about it to see if I got a response. He looked at me for the first time since I came here. His eyes were devoid of expression, of understanding. But he saw me.

I wonder if I might be able to make a difference now.

July 4th, 2002

Evan spoke today. He said, 'I can fly'.

July 6th, 2002

Today, I went to visit Evan, but they wouldn't allow me in the room. Instead, I watched through a window as Evan screamed and clawed at his own face as the doctors and nurses scrambled about trying to sedate him. It was a terrible scene to see, but they wouldn't let me help. He locked eyes with me, and I felt ill. My vision blurred, but not enough to miss the scratches on his face healing before me.

I have never witnessed anything like that in my life. Evan is being moved to a higher security hospital as I write this. I was never going to make a difference with this one. Why was I sent here? As some form of cruel punishment for failing one too many times?

Or was it to learn something? If it was, I missed the moral of the story.

Peter shut the diary. Only one to go. One to go.

With red ink, he wrote across the page "Number Four".