Peter (is dead)

Peter was worried. But he was always worried, he'd made it the work of a lifetime to be worried. He worried about leaving the stove on when he went out, he worried when he passed a speed camera that he might be speeding, he worried that he worried far too much and this might be unhealthy for him. But right now, his health was completely irrelevant to the current source of worry. Peter was dead. Not dead tired, or dead on his feet, or even a dead ringer for a person who was dead tired and purportedly dead on his feet. Peter James Clarke, was now the late Peter James Clarke.

The day had begun like every other. Peter awoke slowly and reluctantly to the sound of his neighbour leaving for work in the usual fury of wheelspin and V8 wailing. Like every other morning, he groggily and feebly cursed the sudden torrent of sound unleashed as the vehicle, propelled by high-octane fuel and the realisation of being late yet again, left the cul-de-sac. He might have taken it upon himself to raise an objection with the driver if the opportunity presented itself, but the possibility that some sort of conflict might result caused a form of worry bordering on generalised fear that prevented action. A familiar feeling. One that resulted in Peter cutting off this line of thought, preferring to wonder how long he'd been awake already. It seemed like he'd been laying awake for a long time, feeling strangely heavy, like the mattress was absorbing him. It was a pain in the chest that had originally woken him, passing as suddenly as it had come.

Seemingly more awake, and noticing the time, Peter made his way to the bathroom. It was 7 AM, and time he started his morning routine, as his lack of an eight cyllinder monstrosity would make his rush to work more difficult, and far less impressive.
The bathroom was both a work in progress, and an example of procrastination in progress. A half-tiled wall, a slightly more than half painted window frame, and that towel rail he'd bought weeks ago and in a fit of indecision over which wall was best to hold the rail, decided that it wasn't worth the worry he was starting to feel, and left it on the floor, along with the washers and screws, one of which he'd very nearly stepped on. In fact, with all the mess on the floor, it occurred to Peter that it was a minor miracle he didn't tread on it, as it lay in one of the few foot-sized clear spaces of half-sanded floor. Stepping toward the next gap in the clutter Peter came in line with the bathroom mirror, and was temporarily overcome with a feeling that something was amiss. Something other than his balance, which as he stared at the mirror baffled by it's total and utter lack of, well, Peter, altogether abandoned him. This dilemma presented by the mirror was now replaced by the more clear priority of avoiding the glass door of the shower cubicle that he was now flailing backwards towards. Any effort to stem the tide of uncoordinated lurching was pointless, his hands over his head, protecting his face, he prepared for the worst, and hoped the glass was the sort of safety-glass that shattered on impact rather than cutting you to shreds. However, rather than a smashing sound, or a dull thud on the glass and a rebound into the collection of junk and hardware on the floor, Peter found himself sitting on the shower base where he'd made the sort of landing that was quieter and softer than throwing a baloon at a pillow. He now sat inside the shower cubicle, staring out in complete and utter confusion. To be completely accurate, only three quarters of him sat inside the shower cubicle, from his knees downward was outside, resting on a crumpled drop-cloth-cum-bathmat.

Peter would be first to admit to being a man prone to worry about almost anything. He'd now stood up in the shower, the mirror, which was on the wall directly opposite, was still showing nothing it was supposed to, and for once, worry was the last thing Peter was feeling. It would be fair to say that worry might be something a person who'd just passed through a shower door could be forgiven for feeling. Then when they realised that for reasons far beyond their understanding, they had misplaced their reflection at some point, might be forgiven for upping the ante from worry to sheer mindless panic. Peter however, froze. Not frozen in fear, or terror, he'd just frozen, for reasons that he couldn't explain, but would later come to realise was because his brain had been given something to process that was completely incomprehensible, and had as a result given up that line of contemplation, and every other.

An age had passed before any thought entered Peters head again, the first was a totally unhelpful "I wonder if I hung the mirror incorrectly", which was a sign his brain was working again, although not so well. Though following that came the first sign of rational thought "don't be so stupid, you could see yourself standing here yesterday". Happy with that seemingly sensible thought, Peter tried another "I must be dreaming, all this is completely impossible", and after glancing at his hand, which seemed slightly translucent and blurry around the edges, he decided this was the best possible explanation. So what to do? Normally, Peter didn't have such vivid dreams, and wondered what he's eaten to cause this particular one, but had found when he was a child having a nightmare that it helped to close your eyes and open them again. Usually, you'd wake up after opening your eyes again, however having now tried that with a nil result, Peter decided that this much more vivid dream required a stronger response. The best thing for it was to return to bed and go back to sleep, then he'd just wake up in the morning and probably forget about the dream like he usually did.
Clearly, this course of action was the right one, and that confidence was enough to convince him that he could entertain the preposterous dreamworld physics that allowed him to pass through the shower door enough to pass back through the door, out of the shower and proceed back to the bedroom. He even picked his way back across the bathroom floor, dodging the mess, which he clearly didn't need to do, and could probably tread wherever he liked, as he now realised he'd probably stepped on that screw previously, or rather, stepped through it. However Peter thought it's probably best not to push your luck when caught in a dream, noone wants to trigger whatever it is that causes the transition from seemingly innocuous dream, to suddenly standing front of your high-school assembly without any pants.

Peter made his way back to the bedroom, still carrying the confidence that allowed him to escape the bathroom. Turning the corner, and bringing the bed into full view however, took that confidence as if it had been a piece of rubbish and consigned it definitively to the bin. There, laying in the bed, under the confused and tangled covers was something Peter wasn't expecting to see on any plane of existence, dreamworld, or other. Himself. Peter was staring at Peter, laying in his bed, and frankly not looking overly well. He'd never seen a dead body before, but in this case there was very little room for doubt. Whether it was laying in bed with his eyes open, or the stiffness, or what appeared to be a very small amount of blood in his nose, two things were abundantly clear. The first was that what he was looking at was a dead person. The second was that he was, under no circumstances, going back to bed any time soon.

Peter didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to think about doing, or do about not thinking. The only thing he could think right now, was that he was thoroughly sick of being frozen this morning. Again, he stood there, frozen and staring. Rather than in confusion, this time it was with pure and complete internal pandemonium. Firstly, because it was now clear exactly what was going on. He had actually died in his sleep, or more accurately, he'd awoken just long enough this morning to expire. Secondly, and this was actually what played on his mind the most right at this instant, Peter was an atheist. As a strictly sceptical non-believer, the form he currently took was something he'd once adamantly denied existed. Ghosts, spirits, spectres, ghouls, whatever you chose to call them, Peter stood, still frozen in the form of a complete contradiction.

Staring at his hand, which had the look of very light golden coloured liquid, Peter gave a short sigh and thanked himself for something he usually rued. He was a single man, with not a lot of friends or family. His parents had passed away, his father many years ago, and mother only recently. His sister, his only living relative was living somewhere in the jungle studying insects. He hadn't heard from her in nearly a decade. It was only his work colleagues and neighbours that were likely to miss him. The thought of his parents returned to him, and prompted him to ponder whether they too had been through this when they passed away? Did everyone become a liquid-like spook after they died? How long did it last? If it was a permanent state, there should be plenty more around like him. Could his mother, who was still fresh in his memory only having laid her to rest a few months ago, be like him, haunting her old flat, caught between the realms of living and dead?

Peter couldn't stand the sight of his own abode any longer, the mere thought of his own corpse repelled him such that the decision to leave and investigate his mothers old flat came very easily. he made his way out of the bedroom, down the hallway and proceeded to put his hand straight through the front door-knob. Although at first a little troubled by the realisation that he was required to walk through a solid oak door to leave his house, the determination to leave the place propelled him through the timber barrier with relative ease, the door put up no resistance at all, and he was out onto the street.
Peter had found it difficult to adjust to the situation he found himself in. It wasn't until he was on the street that he realised he was in his pyjamas, and as he passed people on the street, and excused himself as he clumsily passed straight through a couple he didn't see coming, it became obvious that noone could see him. It was something he took for granted initially, as everything he'd ever understood of ghosts was that they were invisible to all except the exclusive subjects of their haunting activities, and noone ever saw ghosts during the day. But it wasn't until he discovered he was able to travel on the bus, with everybody else on their morning commute to work that it hit him that noone at all could see him. The bus driver didn't acknowledge him at in the slightest, despite his pyjama clad appearance.

Now sitting outside his mothers old flat, more people passed by him, and a few passed through him. None noticed him at all, but if they had, they would have noticed the disconsolate look that now dominated his partly translucent face. The flat was still empty, as apparently new tenants hadn't yet been found, but it was empty, not a soul remained. He'd skulked around the three-room dwelling for an hour, hoping deperately to find some link, some clue that would help him make sense of his predicament. He didn't find it. He didn't find anything. He'd envisaged a tearful (if he was actually capable of tears) reunion with his dear mother, in which she'd tell him all about this new state he found himself in, and reassure him that he had nothing to worry about. But he always seemed to have something to worry about, and now more than ever he worried that he was alone in this non-corporeal state. The worry turned to anger, anger toward the world for not being the world his atheist beliefs told him it was, and most of all, anger towards himself for not listening to his doctor, who had warned him that his cholesterol level was dangerously high. He thought about the fish and chips he'd eaten for dinner the night before. His last supper, his last self-indulgent supper of death. He wandered aimlessly in circles on the footpath, the frustration seemed to worsten the more he thought about how he'd brought this on himself, he viciously kicked a can that lay on the footpath. The can skittled down the footpath and nearly scared an approaching elderly lady out of her wits.

Peter stood frozen. Again. This time out of bewliderment. He was starting to make a habit of this, but that didn't concern him at the moment. What did concern him was the can, which had rolled to a standstill in the gutter. Since when could he actually affect anything in the physical world? Walking toward the bent and partially collapsed can he ponderously reached out for the limb of a tree, which was briefly incorporated into his hand and then transitioned straight out the other side again. Now leaning over the can, wondering whether it was some special property of the aluminium that allowed him to touch it Peter reached out slowly. If that theory was correct, it meant that there was some link between him and a particular element of the physical world, a scientific link between him and the physical existence, a clue to what it was he'd become. As his hand reached the can, he closed his eyes, hoping to feel it, or to hear it move. Nothing. He fumbled and fondled at the piece of litter repeatedly, but as usual, his fingers just disappeared into it. What about his foot? He'd kicked the can before, maybe something about his foot was different to his hands. Standing now, Peter stood on one leg and tried to poke and prod the used cola can around the gutter. His foot went straight through. He tried again. His foot went straight through again. And again. Desperate frustration began to build up inside him, he kept prodding and tapping and kicking and his watery looking appendage just kept sweeping through the can. Still, obsessively he shuffled and hopped around the gutter, kicking this way and that, the anger began to build up more and more with each failed attempt to move the can. Finally, when the frustration had reached its peak he took one last vicious and furious kick at the can, releasing a primal grunt of angst as he did. The can then bounced off his foot, ricocheted off the gutter flew straight back through him and out into the traffic, where it was run over by a bus.

The events of a moment ago deeply confused Peter, but he was fine with that, because he at least knew now that he wasn't completely separated from the real world. Why he was only able to interact with real-world objects when he was angry or frustrated was another puzzle, but he was happy to see this as a sign or progress, a positive sign, given the circumstances.

The days events had taken their toll, and Peter had decided to retreat to his own home, where by now, surely someone from work will have raised the alarm, and the gruesome discovery will have been made by some poor sap. However, although that had been the case, when he rounded the corner into his street he could see there was still a hive of activity at his house. Obviously the discovery had been made, but only recently. There were cars and people out front, and the front entry was blocked by the police tape. Presumably, they were still deciding whether his death was due to natural causes (although he wondered if as much deep-fried food as he previously consumed could ever be considered "natural" causes), or something more sinister. He stood watching the activity at the bottom of his stairs, a policeman was speaking to another person in plain clothes (a coroner maybe?), and as he strained to see in the dim afternoon light, a street-light flickered into life above him. It was late in the day, Peter stood on the footpath, illuminated by the street-light and the last remnants of todays sunlight. He didn't want to go home yet, not while there was still a chance his blue and stiff former body might be there. Sure, it was probably covered up by now, but that really didn't seem to comfort him at all, the mere chance he might see himself again repelled him. He was going to have to spend the night somewhere else. Whatever "spend the night" actually meant. Could he sleep? Could he get cold? Would he need to find a bed, or is Peter now consigned to wandering, nay, haunting his neighbourhood at night for lack of a need to sleep?

He didn't really think about where he was going to go for the night. He knew immediately. Peters morning walk to work meant a trip through the local park, where the homeless spent their nights. He usually looked at them with pity, giving them an uncomfortable smile, as they sat amongst what qualified as their bedding, or under pieces cardboard as he passed on his way to work. Now he was homeless too, and it seemed appropriate that he join these people he'd smiled at, albeit in a reluctant way, every morning for years.
There was a time when Peter would never have considered spending a night in the park. It had been linked to stories of muggings, and even a murder in there in the past. This, as recently as yesterday, when he was still a living, breathing person had worried him even of a morning as he went through the park to work. But now, it didn't even bother him in the slightest. Many of his worries were gone now, all the worries associated with the physical world, of bills, work, and relationships clearly meant nothing to him. His only main worry was of his current state, and what his future might be in such a state, or as he'd struggled to refer to himself, as a ghost! Not being able to be seen or touched, meant that muggers, theives, murderers or, frankly, nuclear holocaust couldn't hurt him.

Peter had found a nice bench in the corner of the park, where there seemed to be almost noone around. This looked like a good enough place to spend the night. It was dark now, very dark in this secluded section, where presumably none of the homeless were game to sleep, preferring instead, the lit areas near paths and buildings in the park. It seemed that the threat of crime played on their minds as much as anyone else's.
Peter lay down on his bench, the wooden slats it was made of didn't feel uncomfortable at all, and he even noticed that his "body", such as it was, hung just a centimetre or so through the wood, so he appeared to have sunk partially into the bench. He pondered his predicament for a while, but eventually, after coming up with no obvious solution or plan for tomorrow, other than returning to his house, he just lay there, listening. He listened to the wind, and the scratching of nocturnal animals in the bushes, and the occasional voice, as a fellow resident of the park spoke to another. The occasional other voices passed in the distance as people, usually in groups, he assumed for safety, walked briskly along the paths through the park. For obvious reasons, not many people chose to run this particular gauntlet, and of those who did, a number of them appeared to be drunk, judging by the volume of their voices, and the apparent need to clumsily relieve themselves on trees.

Peter didn't know if he'd actually been sleeping or not when he heard the first scream. He may actually have been, but the sounds that were coming from within the park were enough to capture his full attention, pondering whether he could sleep or not was the least of his concern. He'd heard nothing for quite a while, so he could only assume it was now late at night, or early in the morning. The silence had become quite peaceful until it had been punctured by the sound of a woman screaming, and then yelling. It was distant, but the voice was initially very loud and left no doubt in Peters mind what was going on. It had been about thirty seconds since the last shout, which was a cry for help, and Peter found himself on the other side of the bench he'd been laying on. His initial reaction was to put something between himself and the sounds he recognised as someone being attacked. He was frightened. But the fear passed quickly. The fear had dominated his thoughts, and he'd forgotten about his current ghostly state of being, and upon realising this, fear soon gave way to a sort of morbid fascination. Peter now found himself moving in the direction of the screams, which had stopped, but the closer he got the more he thought he could hear muffled grunts, and the occasional voice. He didn't see any other park residents, who must have vacated at the first sign of trouble, and now as he came toward the main path, which was lit along its length he was sure he could hear sounds, in the direction of a cluster of large bushes, in another dark corner of the park. He proceeded towards them, not in the least bit worried, which was a first for Peter. Peter had once worried about walking past a couple of 10 year-olds in this park, fearing for his safety because he'd heard of someone somewhere in the the world being mugged by teenagers, and his irrationally panicky mind had applied that to all children at some stage. So, his current lack of fear was a testament to the newfound confidence he had in his new state. It was sort of like his worries had died with him that morning.

Nearing the bushes, Peter could make out three figures in the light that remained this far from the main path. The figures he could see obviously weren't too concerned with being noticed by anyone in a dark corner of a place that most people would never hope to find themselves in at this time of the night. They were going about their nefarious business with impunity underneath a small tree at the edge of the bushes.
What Peter saw was just what he'd hoped not to see. Two men, and one woman. The contents of the womans bag were scattered on the grass behind them. The woman, a young lady, probably in her early twenties, was partially undressed, and from what clothes he could see, Peter assumed she'd come from night out. Her face was bleeding, presumably from being punched, as Peter had seen an arm raise and come down with force as he had approached. Now he could see the young lady's face, and theirs too. The two men were laughing, and she had a look on her face of utter terror, her eyes fixed on a small knife held by one of her attackers, who was sitting on her bare legs while the other held her head and covered her mouth. Peter noticed her pants had been removed and tossed aside.
As if the knowledge of what was likely to happen here wasn't enough, Peter saw the man with the knife lean over and for no apparent reason cut the womans arm, causing her to let out a scream muffled by the others hand, he laughed saying to his accomplice "I needed to here her scream again, it was turning me on". He started to unzip his trousers.

Peter had been staring at this for a while, the morbid fascination that had brought him here had passed now, and the anger that had replaced it once he saw the look of fear in the young ladys eyes had also gone. Seeing one of these unspeakably vicious low-lives cut the woman for his own sick and twisted erotic pleasure had made Peter furious beyond belief. The rage that had suddenly overcome him was completely blinding, and consuming. He approached one of the men screaming "you fucking bastards", as he did he launched a foot toward one of the kneeling men and connected with the side if his face, sending him hurtling into the bushes. Peter immediately turned on the other man who had gotten to his feet, and launched a furious fist toward his head, connecting with him and also sending him backwards, falling at the foot of a tree, where he now lay unconscious. Peter looked around for the first man, who hadn't moved either.

The white rage that had driven him for those few seconds now subsided as he noticed that both men had travelled more than five metres from each of his single blows, and that neither was conscious. This line of thought was broken by the sound of someone running, he turned to see that the woman had hastily gathered up most of her clothes and belongings and was running in a slightly wounded fashion away toward the lights. He watched her stumbling flight for as long as he could, she disappeared out of sight just before the main gate. Peter felt a small sense of pride briefly in having aided her escape from these two evil men. He hoped, on looking at the two of them, that they stay unconscious until she could report them to the Police, who would come looking for them. That was unlikely though, even given the injuries Peter had inflicted. There was nothing more he could do now, he gave one of the rapists a bit of a final kick, which failed and went through him completely, and headed back in the direction of his bench. If could actually sleep, he was going to sleep well, knowing the park was just that little bit safer, and it was because of him.

Peter actually did sleep. Who would've thought it possible? Apparently the dead need their 8 hours as much as the rest of us! Peter wondered whether all those stories of ghosts haunting houses at night were mde up after all. What with the ghost needing a solid night's kip and all. On the other hand, maybe they were true stories and the ghosts weren't sleeping at night, which would make you grumpy enough to feel like haunting someone, and bored enough to do it.
During the rest of the night Peter had seen some Police come through the park, and leave quite quickly, presumably to make a quick assessment of the crime scene, from which the criminals had since fled. Today Peter was looking forward to heading back to his own house, if only to say goodbye to the old place. Eventually, it would be sold to someone else, and he'd be permanently relegated to places like the park. After all, he couldn't live in his own house with the new owner, if he ever lost his temper he'd scare the life out of them sending objects flying around the place.
Peter proceeded from the park, back towards his house. As he made his way back he passed a cluster of shops, including a newsagent, and a coffee shop. He used to stop there some mornings for breakfast and a newspaper. The coffee was terrible, but not as terrible as the newspaper journalism. As he passed, he noticed another coffee shop patron had also stopped for his morning coffee and newspaper, and sat back in his chair, outside in the alfresco seating area, reading the paper which he held up, open to the second or third page. Peter, approaching could read the other side, which included the front-page headline, "GIRL SAVED BY INVISIBLE HERO". Peter immediately ran toward the person holding the paper, and began to read the rest of the story, which he was so captivated by, that he didn't realise he was standing in the middle of another table:

Police are unable to confirm the cause of injuries sustained by the two men, who themselves described being attacked by an "invisible force". The victim of the attack was also unable account for her escape, but in a statement earlier, said that she did not remember seeing anyone else approach or leave, that her attackers were just suddenly swept away from her, allowing her to flee.

The story was based on a first-hand account of the events of the previous night, it turned out that the girl Peter had saved was a junior reporter for the local paper, and had given her account to another journalist that evening. Apparently, the criminals had been caught by the police almost immediately, due to her description of them, and the very obvious injuries they'd sustained. It was the final sentence of the of the article that intrigued Peter the most though:

If these reports are to be believed, you wouldn't want to be a criminal in this city, which it seems has it's own invisible crime-fighter!

Peter sat and stared, and a sly grin developed on his face. The worry he'd spent so much of his life feeling had subsided, leaving only one thought, that of the "invisible crime-fighter". Although that comment was probably tongue-in-cheek, Peter didn't care, he knew the truth. Whatever it was that had caused him to be in the state he now found himself didn't matter, nor did his previous existence. Peter had found a new purpose. A calling presented in the form of a rare opportunity to help others. Peter returned to the park to wait until he was needed again.