My Own Peter Pan Story

P R O L O G U E

Prologue

        Here is a story never told, one I never thought would go as far as it did. A green eyed boy came and saved me, from myself, from my life, from all my troubles. It may sound like a fairy tale at times, though I can assure you it was far from it. Never did I thank him properly for what he did, I am sorry to say. Now where to begin?

        At a young age I was told to keep my maiden name, just like my mother and grandmother. This was an easily accepted concept when I was four, however as the years had gone by I’d grown quite curious. The memory of my mother explaining that it was all so we could be found by someone we had never met, was still fresh in my mind. Not any less confusing sadly. 

        To get on with my tale I suppose some other background information may be nice. London has been my home for the whole of my life, at least until 2014, when I finally escaped. I was nearly fifteen, heading straight into my teenage years, and I was not spared the difficulties of growing up, precisely like everyone else.

         From what I remember, I had always wanted to grow up as a child, I hated being treated differently and not being allowed do the same things as my older brother, Brett. Of course now that I was growing up I had wished to return to childhood more than ever. We live in a bitter, ugly, but truthful world, which was a world I didn’t want to live in.

        No more fairies, princesses, and princes. Dragons, pirates, mermaids, magic, and no more Neverland. I had yearned to turn back time, be a child again. When I would never have to worry about anything, what people thought of me, school, love, pain, disappointment, all grown up things. But alas, childhood must end and so it did.

        Sadly, saying that I wanted my childhood back more than anything would be a lie. When I was six my parents were kidnapped, they disappeared from my life just like that. I had wanted them back and still long for them everyday. Since Brett and I had no other relatives to take us in, we were exposed to the foster care system. We roughed it out together, taking every chance we could to leave on our own. After the sixth time of being caught, it was decided that we couldn’t be kept together any longer. That’s how I ended up stuck in the hell hole I called home. 

        These circumstances meant that I had to mature sooner than most, and by that I mean the age of 7. My foster mother was awful, she raised me to think I was dirt and would only ever be her slave. When I was first put into her care, at age eight, I still believed in childish nonsense like happy endings. However, that beautiful folly vanished from my head rapidly. Whenever I brought up fairytales or asked her to tell me a story, like my mother had, she would beat me. It started with a single slap when I was young but each year it got worse, she would sometimes hit me with pieces of furniture or sometimes she’d lock me in my room and starve me. 

        The only thing good about that was I loved my bedroom, I actually lived in the old Darling family house. Never had I lived here before, yet it still made me feel special, like I was at home. My quarters had a huge window with a small balcony I climbed on occasionally. Sometimes I would go out there to think or just to gaze up at the stars. The second star to the right. That’s where I used to dream Neverland was. Whenever I looked at it all I felt was bitterness and regret for ever believing. By believing in Neverland I allowed my guard to be down and only disappointed myself. Now there were no more childish things in my life. I had grown up, I regretted it but it had to be done. 

        When my brother was still with me I could still be a child, he protected me from the hideous world we lived in. He would tell me stories of Peter Pan like mother did and went to every possible length to hold together what was left of our broken family. We even tried to run away a couple times. The key word is tried. We either got caught by our foster parents or the police caught us within a few days. Eventually they figured they had to separate us so Brett was sent to the states. That’s when reality smacked me hard in the face. I was all alone. I hadn’t any parents nor my brother anymore. Just myself.

        I had to look out for myself. Protect myself. I didn’t even have any friends, I went to a private school for supercilious rich girls. My schooling was paid for by the government so I was practically forced to go. I hated it there. Everyone acted too old. Wearing too much makeup, dressing certain ways, just everything about them turned me off. Here they were, trying to be older than they were while I just wanted to go back in time and be a kid again. 

        I hated to be surrounded by these girly girls, it was just a different world for me. I was a tomboy. Hated dresses, makeup, anything like that by the age of nine. At one point I was girly; I loved dresses and princess, when I was like that everything seemed magical and I didn’t have a care in the world. Whether I changed for the better or for worse I didn’t know. On one side I always had bitter thoughts and never found much happiness. On the other hand I was always on guard, ready to protect myself. I wouldn't have changed myself if I could because I figured it was better to know everything than to have too much innocence.

        I envied the little innocent children who had yet to be exposed to the harshness of the world. They got to play pretend and believe in fairytales as I once did. I was pathetic,  envying little children. I was just a coward who didn’t like to hear the truth. 

        The only things I did like were music and running, the only ways to escape my shambles of a life. Running let me clear my head, it was time away from the people and the pressures and I was able to just think. Or, if my day was bad, it allowed me to just focus on what was ahead and breath without thinking about all of my problems. Music was my other liberation from everyday life, whether it was the lyrics or the melody I didn’t care. Singing and playing music was just as therapeutic as listening for me.

        Those were my only saving graces in life.

        They kept me grounded.

        They kept me sane.