Between Sleep And Wake

When Peter Met Tinkerbell

She left him behind.

He was three. Old enough to remember.

His mother told him, "I shall be back for you." A smile appeared on her pale face as she lifted his chin. "You stay right here, Peter." She had that look in her eyes—the one of motherly trust.

He waited, and waited. Sat on the bench at the park, watching the stars above him. Watching and wondering about how still they were. If he reached up, or flew high enough, could he touch them? Feel their light and their magic with his hands?

No one else was there. Peter was alone. Too late for anyone to roam the path of tall trees, their natural greenness dimmed by the darkened skies.

It eventually began to rain, soaking his clothes and drenching his already cold skin. However, he couldn't move. She said that she would be back for him. A mother would not allow such a lie to escape her lips, would she? Didn't she love him?

He didn't know, but he did know he felt lonely and scared. He began to cry, yearning for his mother to wrap him up in her arms and say, "Don't cry, Peter. You are safe. You are with me now." Everything would then be fine and he wouldn't cry anymore. They would go home, where she would change him into dry clothes. She would tuck him in bed and read him a story until his eyelids became too heavy to kerp open.

Alas, she did not come back for him. His heart broke into thousands of tiny pieces, each pulsing with grief for parental abandonment.

There came a flickering, glimmering firefly charging towards him. Once it got closer, he saw it was no firefly, but a small, woman looking creature. Her eyes were a bright, intense blue, her face glowing and her hair so blonde it was almost white.

She whispered in his ear that she was here to take him to a better place. "You are safe now."

They were the words he wanted to hear. The words his mother was supposed to say.

The little woman's wings shone, luminous and beautiful. It made him stare with utter fascination and intensity; she was just so breathtaking. Peter sat still, simply looking at her, wondering how she could be this bewitching.

She grinned at him and blew something in his face that tickled his nose, causing him to sneeze. Suddenly, he could fly like she could. He flew up and up and up.

"Peter!"

His eyes opened, and there before him stood Dorothy

He hadn't dreamed of that night in a long time. He tried to bury it, erase it, but the memory would not ever leave. It was too painful a realization. It was a long, long time ago but the aching was just as sharpe as it was then.

"Are you all right?" Dorothy asked.

"Yes," he replied, forcing a smile and sitting up.

"Are you sure?"

The smile dropped. "Yes." There was no hint of conviction on his voice at all. Perhaps he needed to be momenatrily alone with thoughts. Or would that only make the pain stronger?

"Let me cook something for you. Would that make you happy? I can cook anything you'd like," she said. "What about a chicken?"

"I am—" He stopped midway. If he informed her he wasn't hungry she might toss more questions at him. "Chicken would be good."

She smiled like an ecstatic child who was just informed by her mother she could have playtime.

Was that how he was perceived by Wendy?

That thought drew concern. "Where is Wendy?" he inquired.

"She is sleeping. Like you."

"Is that why you were watching me sleep? We were both asleep and you wanted company?"

"You never said anything before," she said, sitting on the foot of the bed where he lay in his room. Her brown eyes darkened with hurt.

He sniffed, lowering his focus down to stare at the ground. The aching in her face was both saddening and irritating—a conflict of emotions that left him utterly confused.

"I see you watch Wendy all the time."

"I do not watch her," he said.

"I understand why you do. You would talk about her always before you brought her here. I sometimes thought you were in love with her."

"I do not watch her," Peter repeated, raising his head to look at her. "Did you hear me say that?"

"I did," she replied, grinning at him.

"Why are you grinning at me?" he asked. "Is something funny?" He was grinning at her seconds earlier; he had no understandable motive for his annoyance, yet he was unable to properly contain himself. Dorothy smiled too much. She was too happy. No one was as happy as she was. It was not normal.

"I'm showing you that it's all right if you do. I don't mind. You watch her like I watch you." She leaned forward, which prompted him to pull himself back and away from her. "I think you were—are in love with her."

"I am not."

"If you aren't, why did you bring her here? You wouldn't have talked about her all the time. Isn't that  why you read all those books?"

"No," he replied.

"All right. If you say so. Maybe you aren't in love with her." The corners of her face didn't fall once, not even when she stood on her feet and walked out of his bedroom.

Peter would have assumed nothing of this conversation if Dorothy has shown some level of intelligence since he had known her. However, this was not the case, which left Peter wondering.

Was Dorothy smarter than she led him to believe? Was her mental detachment less natural and more calculated?

He lay back down and contemplated the possibility of it. If she pretended to be stupid, was she pretending to be content living in the hut with him?

In his pondering he ultimately fell back asleep, dreaming of Tinkerbell and the way she would tell him stories of princesses and pirates and magic creatures like herself.