What if...? Book One, Part 2: The Game Begins...(A Peter Pan rewrite, by Jae)

24- Concussed

Her P.O.V.

It's all pain. Skin, sore. Muscles, terrible aches. Nerves all through out, ripped and damaged. Any sense of being able to wake up is just pain. Confusing, dizzying pain that left no room for any thought. No time. No thought. Just craving for relief until my slow and thick breathes are allowed to clear the fog

My sore eyes open and then thought was allowed.

Registration of what I'm seeing, allowed now.

Above me, the brown wood, black dents, and warped texture make the ceiling. The blurry ceiling. Blurry ceiling and blurry room around me as I lift my head, blinking sickly and exhaling pain. My vision a double of the room meshing with each other making me feel cross-eyed. Another moment before I can see straight and make sense of the room. It's the one Pan gave me. And the villain stands there, by the window, leaning against it.

Alarms go off through out my mind and body, but pain drowns them all out when I fail to sit up. The head rush compels me to fail at lifting my figure up off the bed and it doesn't just pulsate me into a dizzy spell, it leaks pain down my entire body. I gasp and then groan, desperately trying to get a hold of my composure or at least some thought. I can't stand being so helpless while Pan stands on his feet, perfectly healthy, untouched, calm and cocky.

It's sick.

"Concussion." he says.

I take a second to remember what the word means until I remember it's a small pastry. "I'm not hungry," I say slowly.

He huffs a laugh, turning his head to hide it or take it back. "Concussion." he taps his temple, looking back at me.

Then I realize, a croissant is a pastry and a concussion is a head injury.

Oh, shit.

"Shit." I mumble, rubbing my aching eyes.

Another moment of confused pain and dreadful irritation and then I shove my hands underneath myself. I force my mind to focus on getting up and ignore all the agony drilling through out my body, some bones, but mostly the headache. I've never known a headache like this before. My mind wants so badly to shut down, it just wants to sleep but K still needs to be found.

"Where is K, Pan." I demand once I'm upright, legs just coming off the bed, tired eyes meeting his.

He doesn't answer. He only tilts his head, his eyes studying me. Golden shining, green stricken, brown meshed eyes taking apart whatever they can of me. Memories are brought up of when those eyes last drilled into me, trying to figure me out. At the beach, when I laughed at him, bombs dropping and debris raining.

Being reminded of what happened last I begin to inspect myself. I'm still in the silk soft and skin tight tank top and small shorts. Every last body part of mine sits in it's own different type of horrible ache, muscles, skin, bones. My skin is beaten into some spots of black and purple, others are big green patches edged with brown tints. Thick cuts and wide gashes are crusted over with dried blood and others are just open welts.

I inhale through my teeth and shake my head of my own discontent. I'm not important, K is. I stand to my feet.

"Bad idea," Pan says.

The floor underneath me tilts sideways. My hand reaches back to balance myself on the bed. "Where is he..." I utter in my own hollowing and dying voice.

"I think I might know how to help you,"

I shake my head, scoffing, hair falling over my face and not even bothering to look at him, "You'd have done it already, you just want something for it,"