A/N:
Written for a prompt on the LJ community
Nest of Spiders: My land is bare of
chattering folk; the clouds are low along the ridges, and sweet's
the air with curly smoke from all my burning bridges.
—Dorothy Parker
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It's done. It's done, he has done it. He, little Peter.
He straightens his back as he walks the silent street, he breathes in the crisp October air. He clenches and unclenches his fingers, stretches the muscles of his arms. It feels good.
He steps aside to let the woman coming from the opposite direction pass. She's a petite blonde with big blue eyes that rise at him from the tiny figure in the pram she's pushing. She smiles at him and he smiles back as they pass each other.
The pram.
Peter stops. Oh, but he can't turn around.