Dead and Loving it

The first thing Patrick registers is someone poking at his face, but his sleepy mind just shrugs it off as his sister and rearranges his limbs so he can roll away. As the other side of his face collides with his pillow, he suddenly remembers the events leading up to the annoying poking, which has now relocated to his hip. Bolting up and out of the bed, he gets tangled in the sheets, successfully making him topple off the mattress and fall flat on his face. He’s so busy turning red at the laughter coming from the bed that he almost forgets his plan for escape. Well, if he had one, he would’ve forgotten it.

A grinning face pops up from behind the bed and tells him, “Oh, Patrick, you’re so much fun!”

“It’s your fault,” Patrick huffs from his rather undignified spot on the floor

“How? It’s your fault for trying to run in sheets!” Another laughing fit follows.

If possible, Patrick blushes even redder at his captor’s renewed laughter. “Still your fault,” he mumbles.

A thought comes to his mind as he sees Peter spread-eagled face down on the bed, laughing hysterically into the sheets. Taking a deep breath, Patrick jumps to his feet and runs.

Out the door. Across the landing. Down a flight of splintery stairs. His eyes alight on a large door a few yards from the bottom of the staircase and all he can do is try and reach the door before Peter catches him.

He reaches for the door as he hears, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” called lazily from behind him. Ignoring the sing-song voice, Patrick grabs the slick brass handle and opens the door. Heart hammering, he peers out into the bright sun outside, only to find five large wolves staring back at him.

He slams the door shut.

“I told you,” is whispered right into his ear, making him jump.

“How did you get down the stairs so fast?” he squeaks, rounding on the tiny man beside him.

Peter rolls his eyes, still grinning. “Wasn’t that fast,” he says, almost like it’s a secret. He grabs Patrick’s arm, dragging him from the door. “Let’s get you some breakfast!”

Patrick’s a little too confused about what just happened to put up a fight, so he just allows himself to be dragged along like a doll. Like an overexcited six-year-old, Peter leads him into a small, almost too white room that Patrick supposes is the kitchen. Humming some off-key tune, Peter pushes his captive into the sole chair at the rickety table in the centre of the room, then bounces his way over to the fridge. Frowning briefly at the contents, he moves this and that about until he finds what he’s looking for; a carton of milk that seems surprisingly ordinary for this bizarre situation.

“I’m going to take such good care of you, Patrick,” Peter grins, placing a bowl in front of Patrick and sloshing about half the milk carton in along with the cereal inside. Patrick regards the bowl dully for a moment before Pete chirps, “Oops! I forgot a spoon!”

Patrick continues to stare at the bowl before him as he replies, “I’m not staying here.”

Peter drops a spoon into the bowl with a painfully loud clatter. “Not staying? I beg to differ.” It comes out almost like a growl.

“I’m not staying here, and you can’t make me,” Patrick tells him, voice severely lacking the venom he wants behind it.

“I can’t? How about we make a deal?” Peter smirks, resting his hands on the table and leaning dangerously close to Patrick.

“What kind of deal?” Patrick whispers, the quietness of the room making his ears ring slightly.

“If you can make it back to your family’s house, I’ll leave you alone. But if you don’t, you have to stay here. For good,” Peter says smoothly, calmly raising a spoonful of cereal to Patrick’s lips.

Patrick takes the spoon into his mouth, slurping up the cereal and chewing as soon as Peter pulls the spoon back. Weighing his options, he realizes that if he takes the deal, he at least has a chance of making it back home. True, he could lose and live here for the remainder of his days, but the same will happen if he doesn’t take the deal. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.

“How long do I have?”

Peter taps his chin, thinking. “Two days.”

How hard could it be? “Deal.”