Lost and Found (A Peter Pan Fanfic)

Chapter 6: I Fall Back Into Old Habbits

Sephora's POV

I stretch, yawning, wincing as I strain the scabbed over wounds on my leg. I look around, seeing that Peter isn't here. Sitting up silently, I slide out of bed and crawl down the ladder, grimacing with each step. I go to the bathroom and shut the curtain, putting upholstry tacks in it to keep it closed on both sides. I sigh, leaning my head back against the wall. What have I become? A waste of fucking space that deserves nobody. I should be rotting in Hooks ocean, not being pampered like some sort of goddamned princess by the kindest, most attractive boy I've ever met. Reaching my hand under the sink I find the shard of glass that I hid. Taking it out, I look down at my thigh, the gash barely scabbed over. What's another scar going to do? I already have plenty. I look down at the glass clutched in my hand, smiling as I catch my crazed expression. I press the shard against the tender skin surrounding the wound, placing it flat against my thigh. My breath hitches at the familiar sensation.

I lift the blade from my leg and grip it firmly in my hand, holding it over the appendage. I bring it down, slowly, gracefully. I reach the skin, pressing ever so slightly as I slice away at the vulnerable material. The blood drips down, the color of roses, the color of love. I bite my tongue to hold back the moan behind the euphoric release of the pent up pain spilling out of my body. I close my eyes, smiling, my head leaning back against the wall.

The door opens. My eyes shoot open.
"Sephora, are you in here?" Peter calls, his face undoubtedly holding an expression of confusion, surprise, and most likely worry.
"I'm in the bathroom. I'll be right out." I call back, scrambling up and hiding away the blade, finding a bandage and wrapping it around my leg to accompany the other one covering the wound that wasn't self made. I wash my hands, cleaning the blood off of them and pull my pant leg on my pajama bottoms back down. As quietly as possible, I wrench out the tacks, breaking a nail in the process. I suck in a sharp breath to keep from crying out and continue with the curtain. I finally retrieve all of the tacks and put them back in the jar in the medicine cabinet holding my womenly necessities. I pull back the curtain and limp out, trying not to wince too much. He looks up at me from the table and smiles warmly.

"How did you sleep?" He asks, standing and pulling a chair out for me.
"I slept well actually. For once." I say, smiling in thanks as he sits back down.
"I have some breakfast; oatmeal with cinnamon sugar, apples, and butter. There's some cream if you need it." He says, gesturing to the tin flask next to the small cauldron. He takes a bowl and scoops some of the mush for myself, placing it in front of me. I murmur a thankyou and take the cream, pouring a bit of it in and mixing the meal before taking a spoonful of it into my mouth and chewing slowly, before swallowing. I get a quarter of the way through the bowl before I start to feel sick. I get up, walking hurriedly to the toilet and kneeling down just as the sick starts to rise in my throat. I vomit as Peter holds my hair and rubs my back. I finish and sit back, leaning against his chest, panting.

I open my eyes and look up at him, silently asking if he can bring me back to bed. He nods, picking me up and flying me to the loft before laying me down and sitting next to my weak, frail body, running his fingers through my hair as my eyes droop closed and I fall into an empty sleep.

Peter's POV

I look down at Sephora, her amethyst hair splayed out across my lap, her almost heart shaped lips parted ever so slightly as she sleeps. My heart aches for her. The poor broken girl who seems to think that she deserves nothing, but really deserves everything the universe has to offer. It's only been one week since she got here and already I can feel myself falling, plummeting for her. I want to save her. I need to keep her safe. I need to make her feel loved. I have to help her. Already she has gone from a beautiful, lonely stranger to someone as amazing and spectacular, if not moreso, than Wendy. She's perfect. I bend down, kissing her head lightly, taking in her scent of black raspberry vanilla body wash and books. I reach down to pull the blankets over her when I feel something wet. Looking at my hand I see that it's covered in blood. Her scabs must have reopened.