Peter had slept the afternoon away. The painkillers combined with the lack of real sleep over the last five days had finally caught up with him. Even now, consciousness was a slippery soap in the bathtub of his mind. He knew it was evening, the colour of the light filtering through his eyelids informed him thus. He knew there was a terrible event on the horizon, he could feel it, like the flashes of lightning from distant thunderclouds. Most of all he knew he was warm and comfortable and disinclined to move, because then he would be not-warm and not-comfortable. The gathering storm could wait.

But, unfortunately what couldn’t wait was his bladder. Cursing the biological imperative that drove him from his nest, Peter stumbled next door to the bathroom. Afterwards, he washed his face as well as his hands, the cold water bringing a little clarity with it. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his face pale and eyes sunken. This must be what happens when you die too often. He thought to himself. “Wait. Wrong world. Ha!”

“Peter, is that you?” his mother called from the lounge room. “Could you come in here please?”

Peter didn’t answer, he just stumbled down the hall like a zombie. Reaching the lounge he flopped into a waiting armchair. In doing so, he banged his arm, sending a sharp spike of pain through his body. Looking at his bound arm, he remembered exactly what it was that he had been dreading this whole time. He looked up in shock, both of his parents were sitting together on the sofa wearing matched expressions of worry.

His dad looked at his mother and nodded. “Peter, I know this has been a difficult time for you. Getting beaten up at school is never a good start to the week. I know that you know your mother and I are having a bit of trouble too. It’s nothing to do with you, and we know you’re feeling some of the side effects.” He looked at Peter’s arm. “I’m sure that was just an accident. It could happen to anyone.”

His mother leaned forward. “Honey, we know you’re letting your studies slide. Yes, it’s only been a couple of days, but this is a critical time for you. Mid-year exams are coming up and you are spending your time playing online games.”

“Peter,” his Dad continued, “you know I’m in favour of gaming as a stress relief. Your mother and I know this is a stressful time. What we don’t understand is why you’re playing a game where you die so much. Is there something you need to talk about?”

Both of his parents were practically radiating concern. They both kept stealing glances at his arm. Suddenly it clicked. “Woah! No! Uh-uh. You’re thinking I did this on purpose? No, no, no, no. I was just washing up and dropped the pan on a plate, it scared me as it broke and when I pulled my arm out it got cut. It has nothing to do with games or school or nothing.”

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Peter’s dad reached out and took his uninjured hand. “Son, if there’s anything you need to talk about, we’re here. There’s also school support services if you feel uncomfortable talking to us. Your mother said the school nurse is a good lady.”

“We just don’t want you to get hurt anymore. The realism of games these days lets kids engage in risky behaviours that, when we were kids, they’d have tried in the streets and ended up in hospital. What they don’t tell you is that just because it’s virtual, doesn’t mean it’s not harmful. We, your father and I, would like you to stop playing these games if you’re going to use them to hurt yourself.”

Peter took a long, deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Mum, Dad. I’m not using games to hurt myself. It’s a fantasy game where combat exists, and sometimes you die. I prefer making things, the crafting system is incredibly complex and fun. And I’m not letting my studies go. I only play a little bit at night when everything else is done. I promise.” Peter laid his hand on top of his Dad’s, and looked into his mother’s eyes.

“Well...”

“Honey,” his father interjected, “we have to start trusting our son. He’s in high school now. If he says that he’s not trying to self-harm and this was just another tragic accident in a really bad week for him, then we shouldn’t be making it worse by not believing in him.”

“But you were the one who...”

Peter’s dad cut her off again. “Peter, your mother and I have to talk about this. How about you pop up to the garden and hang out for a bit. I won’t be too long.”

Peter took the opportunity and fled. The angry whispers started before he had even left the room, and followed him out the door. Inside the elevator he rested his head against the cool metal and wondered how it had come to this. His mum was losing her mind more and more often. He couldn’t figure out what his dad was doing either, though. Had he been the one who’d convinced his mum he was trying to cut himself? There’d been a girl at school who used to do that. Cut herself that is, not whatever his dad was doing.

The ding of the elevator intruded into the fog of his thoughts. Peter wandered aimlessly in the direction of the far handrail, trailing his hands against the planter beds and benches along the way. There was a cool breeze wafting across the rooftop, bringing relief to the heat Peter hadn’t realised he was carrying. Reaching the edge, he leaned over to better catch the wind and noticed that he was back in the same spot where he had witnessed the vicious fight not so long ago. The balcony door across the way was still spider-webbed with cracks, and now sat off its runners as well. Peter gently lowered his forehead to the metal rail and let the wind ruffle his hair. He wondered briefly if the fighting couple had knocked it off the runner or if one of them had tried to remove it to get it fixed. Eventually he decided he didn’t care either way and just let his mind blank out as he enjoyed the cool of the evening.

Some time later, Peter’s dad leaned on the rail beside him. “Come on champ, we’re going to get some grub. You ready to go, or do you need some more time?”

Peter shrugged. Here, there, did it matter?

“The way your mum tells it, you lost a lot of blood today. The best way to replace that is with a big serve of god old red meat.” Peter’s dad turned his back to the rail and leaned on his elbows. “I know a great steakhouse nearby, it’s only one stop away by bus. How’s that sound?”

Peter rolled his head back and forth on the rail. “Can we walk, Dad? I need some fresh air.”

“Sure we can, champ. Sure we can.”