*
Peter hugs her goodbye and tells her he loves her like any good uncle would. You may never see
her again.
This time it comes true.
*
She died two days ago, taking that strawberry scent to the grave, and Peter’s almost afraid
he’s lost his mind for good. Like he knew what crazy really was at that point. He thinks he’s mad to harbor a hunger to globetrot a la Sylar to find someone
who could rouse the heartbeats of the dead.
Nah. He doesn’t know what insanity is.
Yet.
*
He’s never had a ‘type’ in the first twenty six years of his life. Then it ran
into him in the hallways of Union Wells. Peter’s type is honey blonde waves and sunshine, sparkling blue eyes, and the
healthy shape of a strong woman. His type is also nine years younger, related to him, and suffocating in a wooden box seventy
two inches below his feet.
Fragile Niki would have to do.
*
On their one year anniversary, they watch a romantic comedy, one of those two star chick flicks
that little cheerleaders from Texas adore[ed] so much. Peter could go to sleep on the couch then
and there, Niki’s heart be damned, and he wishes he had. When a character named C-L-A-I-R-E comes on screen, something
snaps.
The next day, Niki grumbles and buys a new TV.
*
They make love at 1:02am and it’s the only time that she’s really Niki Sanders. Peter
reads her mind and scoffs. Like she could ever come close to being Her.
But it couldn’t hurt to try.
*
Peter takes the woman out to dinner because he has to, and gains pleasure in every little simple
thing he can. She wants Carrabba's but he takes her to greasy spoons three times a week instead. The 500 calorie chocolate
decadence is still sitting half-eaten on the table.
I’m full. You have it.
But it’ll go straight to my thighs.
He lies back that no, no it won’t, so she listens.
*
It’s a Sunday Morning and Niki’s checking her reflection in the mirror. This time,
no one’s looking back except her recent size six curves.
I’m going on a diet.
Peter looks up. No, your body’s perfect.
He smirks because he means it.
*
She wonders why he doesn’t want her, and he wonders how he ever could. For she’s too
hideous and he’s too irate to really build anything on. There are things both could wish for, but the falling stars
and lucky pennies play hooky. Niki needs love and Peter wants blindness and for his girlfriend to just talk goddamn Southern
already.
*
Niki goes to the dirty downtown Vegas salon on Labor Day for a half-off sale. Peter drives her
there silently, refusing to let her go alone, as if threats of death aren’t enough to keep that hair dyed golden and
the ends curled.
*
A sexy red and white cheerleader outfit was hanging from the rack at Bad Kitty.
It’s always in the hamper
*
Niki’s got a faux twang that’s more like trailer trash then Southern bell. She’s
blonde like a dishwasher and blue-eyed with not enough color in those broken irises. She’ll never even look like Her,
let alone act like it.
Peter takes a swig of his sixth beer and finally, Claire
starts to come into focus.
*
He’s got a drinking problem because of her and Her, yet Niki keeps pushing the love in a
bottle across the bar. All her other boyfriends hit her when they were drunk, but this one in a million says ‘I love
you’ and actually means it.
She pretends not to mind that he adds a ‘Claire’ on the end of it.
*
Ignorance is bliss and Peter’s accidentally-on-purpose stopped noticing when Niki disappears
in the middle of the night. It’s not her presence he misses. It’s the warm skin, strawberry shampoo, and the game
of make believe when he closes his eyes.
*
It’s three o’ clock in the morning, and somebody is kissing his Claire. He gets out
of bed.
*
The police never seemed to stalk Peter, just like they never really took notice of Sylar’s
beheadings. Good. Now all he has to deal with is Niki, who’s sobbing in the shower over her mysteriously dismembered
lover.
Shhh. What happened?
My f-f-friend…he was-s-s-…
It’ll be okay, Claire. You’ve always got me…
Niki smells his breath. It’s laced with blood, not alcohol.
*
He thought he knew what crazy was.
*
fin
