Peter sat on his bed, fingering the brim of the hat, feeling the soft wool, the smooth silk of the ribbon. He turned it over in his hands, holding it gingerly in his palms. Standing before the mirror, he placed it on his head, tilting his chin back and forth. Glancing upward, tiny specs of blood could be seen on the edge of the brim.
“Peter, come on down here now boy, it’s time for dinner” his mother cheerfully called from the kitchen. Placing the hat down at the foot of his bed, he walked to the door. He took one last, longing look before closing the door behind him.
In the kitchen, his father sat, newspaper in one hand, cigarette in the other. His mother placed his plate before him, smiling warmly down at him before seating herself. For Peter, the meal passed in a haze. He heard bits and pieces of conversation: next weekend’s chores, the weather, plans for Halloween and the holidays. His parents chatted happily as if nothing had happened the night before, as if everything were fine. Peter began to think he had dreamt it.
“Peter, would you be a dear and take the trash out?” Peter snapped back to the present as his father flipped the page of the newspaper and his mother hummed softly drying forks and knives. Wordlessly, he got up and grabbed the bag of trash.
The garage was cold, even for an early October night. As Peter lifted the lid to the garbage bin, he stopped short, noticing his baseball and glove sitting on the workbench a few feet away. Memories of the day prior came in waves:
The last of summer sun struggling through the afternoon. His fathers wide smile with every toss and catch. Cool grass on his bare feet as he ran, backwards, to catch a long throw.
He stopped himself before he thought too far but in the garbage can, he saw the rags his mother had used, blood stains and dirt. He shivered and stepped back, trash bag shaking in his hands.
Sitting in the car just after dusk. His father’s words slightly slurred. A sharp turn and loud bang and screeching stop. Stepping out of the car, seeing the man’s body lying lifeless in the glow of the headlights, his hat at Peter’s feet. Peter grabbing the hat and running. Running through the woods, running towards home, the dirt hitting his calves and his breath ragged, but when he got there, the car was in the driveway. His mother filling a bucket of water and soap, father pulling rags from a shelf in the garage. Running to his room, and watching his mother clean the hood of the car with careful, gentle strokes while his father smoked silently to the side. Placing the hat down under his bed, turning the lights off, and trying to forget.
Knives in the Nightclub 