Section 2

[fallenlives.livejournal.com]

Hello, I'm back again (sort of) to update my story. It's been a little while since I've wrote anything on it, so I hope it is good and a little spooky for you. It is Halloween October, right?
Any feedback is loved appreciated. Thanks lots!
This is part 3 of the story this far.
Part 1 is located here: fallenlives.livejournal.com/1775.html
Part 2 is located here: fallenlives.livejournal.com/2047.html

Pursing the mystery of the milk carton - of how it had ended up on the porch - no further Peter reached for the door handle. Surprised to find it unlocked, he hobbled in, and kicked off his shoes. The kitchen light was still on, and the newspapers from that morning still laying across the dining table. He was supposed to back in five to ten minutes, but instead he had returned sometime at night. Missing a whole day leaving him with a sickly feeling. Peter went put away the milk, but the bold letters of the newspaper's headline caught his eye. Psychiatric Escapee on the Loose, Last Spotted in Lexington, was what it read. He stood silently in thought, Lexington wasn't far from Jamestown. Actually, it was only ten minutes away. Unintentionally he began to think of the woman he ran into earlier. She certainly had a queer air around her, but she couldn't have possibly survived that lightning strike. The strangest thing was not the woman herself, but the fact that nobody questioned her appearance. It was like they didn't see her.

"Peter," called a sleepy voice, half in disbelief. "What are you doing back?"

Having not heard anyone behind him he jolted a bit, "what?" he asked quickly turning around. There stood a familiar stature, but in it was an eerie feeling. The outline began toward him, and so stepping into the light. Floral print was what he first noticed, and the next was the face. It didn't have a face. It was blurry, and in the haze he could make out two fierce, piercing green eyes. Not daring to turn his back he felt over the table behind him for any sort of a weapon. In the process, he managed to knock over the milk, and fall over the table himself. On the ground, he tried to collect himself, but what was wet? That thing, it was her, in his house. With familiar noises mocking in his ear Peter closed his eyes and tried to shut it out.

For the second time, in one day, Peter awoke in a different position then he had left. He was laid on the couch, and beside him his mother desperately being consulted by his father. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't notice their son had woken up. Watching them silently he tuned into their conversation. "Oh my poor son, has been traumatized!" she paused to a moment to weep in despair, his father handing her a tissue, "he suddenly jumped and then knocked over the milk and fell over himself. He just lost it then, but-" she said holding back a tremor of tears in a small whine, "he looked at me like I was some monster!" The husband tried to hush his wife by stroking her hair silently.

Peter felt at a loss. He sat up to look over the couch and in the kitchen. The newspaper was spread out across the floor, and the ink ran from soaking up the spilt milk. There were hushed voices, and before he knew it he was captured in his mother's embrace. She less shaky, but obviously trying to hold up an appearance in front of her son. Peter wondered if he should apologize, or even tell his mom what he saw. But nothing managed to make it's way out. The only advice he could give her was, it's no use crying over spilt milk.