You always do it, Grace said.
Peter wanted to explode. His anger was pulsating through his body and he feared it would spill out into the real world.
He felt his fists clench as Grace continued to yell at him.
He walked outside, slammed the shed door behind him and found the bottle of whiskey he kept hidden.
He turned up the volume and let Metallica erase all thoughts. The heavy hits of the drum match the beats of his enraged heart.
The warm liquid scratches down his throat and then washes his stomach in warmth.
The moment he walks into the house, she begins. There is nothing he can do anymore to please her. The very sight of him is the problem.
The song ends and he can hear someone banging on the shed door.
He ignored it and let the new song invade the silence. The guitar wept, not gently, but like a cat stuck.
Peter decided. He stormed back inside, determined to put an end to it.
He pushed his way into the house, already feeling like an intruder. Grace’s thunder erupted from another room. He went into their bedroom, grabbed a bag from beneath the bed and shoved every item he thought was his into it.
Back in the shed, he knew this was now his home. No matter how bad things got, she would not disturb him out here. This was his last stand.