[DISCONTINUED] I Believe

Chapter One- Peter Doesn't Come -or- Who The Heck Is Jack Frost?

"-and stay there!" he roared, kicking my side and knocking me back. I crumpled to the floor, my head swimming. My stepfather slammed the door and locked it, the numerous bolts and chains rattling and clicking loud enough for me to hear over my pulse in my ears.

I lay there for a moment before planting my hands on the floor and pushing myself to my knees. I stopped, panting heavily, before crawling over to my bed and hauling myself into it. I steadied my ragged breathing as I assessed my injuries, counting up the number of old ones still healing first, then fresh ones accumulated since Sunday, and finally new ones from today. I stripped down to my underwear, knowing no one would see me. Once my bedroom door was locked, it didn't open until morning. Food was passed through in a flap near the bottom of the door at mealtimes.

Old: The super-sized bruise on my thigh was still purple, but it was turning slowly yellowish. The gash along my shoulder blade either needed stitches or way more bandages, it had been slowly oozing blood for over a week. The mark on my stomach was almost gone.

During the week: The broken blood vessels in my wrists and forearms were too dark to miss, blue blood pooling beneath the surface. The papercuts on my hands were scabbed over and about to peel off. The cuts and bruises along my arms were fresh and painful; note to self, get more bandages. My calves and thighs were black and blue in the shapes of various... things. I was sure I had a bruise on my tailbone.

I craned my neck to look at my back. I almost puked at the sight, but I forced myself to focus. Most were old wounds; there were only a few newer bruises. Fine. Fine.

New: My side had an imprint in the shape of a boot. I touched it with my shortened fingertip gingerly; the pain nearly made me scream. I probably had a broken rib, way more than I could fix on my own. I rotated my ankle gingerly and gasped. It was most definitely twisted, if not sprained. I had bruises everywhere, so many I didn't even count them. Same with small cuts, like the thin lines littering my inner forearms. I looked down at my neck, angling my head weirdly to see. I had a slice along my collarbone, perfectly following the ridge, and the hollow at the base of my throat was scratched lightly. I sighed and reached under my thin mattress, my fingers searching until they found the almost empty roll of bandages, and the only one I had.

I set to work on the worst spots first. I did my side carefully, folding up an old and bloodied undershirt for a cushion and using duct tape to secure it. I used small amounts of bandages on my arms and duct-taped them in place. I used the rest of the roll of bandages on my shoulder blade and sighed, tossing the empty tube into a corner of my 'room'. Even that small motion hurt. I groaned thinking of the pain I would have to go through when I put clothes on, so I tugged on an oversized t-shirt of Ethan's that was too small for him but came to my mid-thighs.

I laid down on my hard bed, the only bit of furniture in the entire room, and I drew the threadbare 3x3ft blanket over my shoulders, trying to make myself as small as possible to fit. My teeth were practically chattering. It was like fifty degrees in my room, which was really just the dusty attic with blackout shades over the windows and boards nailed over that so I couldn't see out, no one could see in, and the plain boards weren't suspicious. There were absolutely no lights. I got up when the sun rose and went to bed when it got dark. I shivered, thinking that the blanket wasn't enough.

It was only eight o'clock, but most people were asleep, seeing as it was the middle of winter. I stumbled out of bed, limping over to the largest window, hidden away in a dark corner. I knelt and tore at the boards, which I had weakened greatly over a few months of work.

Before I opened the blackout curtains, I crawled back go the bed and grabbed the other thing under my mattress.

I drew the shades and swung the window open, perching precariously on the windowsill with my bare feet hanging over the edge. I breathed "I believe," into the cold air and waited a moment.

Nothing. I grunted in frustration and looked for where I had left off. Oh, that's right, my left wrist. I peeled the bandage back and lovingly unwrapped the knife I had used in Neverland for seven years, fighting Hook and calling it a sword. I laid the sewn-together rags aside and placed the blade against my wrist, my now-long blond hair- though so dirty it seemed brownish- blowing in the strong wind. I breathed deeply, and on the inhale, I pulled the knife cleanly across my wrist, making a shallow slice. "I believe," I whispered, and cut my wrist again, yet another tally mark for every time I said the words and believed with all my heart, but no one came and brought me back. No one came to find me. Peter never returned. I supposed he forgot about Lee, his top lieutenant for a little while.

Now, I was Lilliana, the freak, the maid, the weirdo loser who disappeared for seven years and reappeared the same age she left.

I looked at my wrist. Over two dozen thin tallies, on each forearm and another few dozen on each of my biceps. Time to move on again. Each time a scar healed, I replaced it with a fresh one. I moved to my exposed upper legs and started just above the knee. "I believe, I believe, I believe, I believe," I chanted, calmly counting off in my head.

The pain hit me all at once and I gritted my teeth. I cleaned the knife and rewrapped it. I ripped a wide strip of fabric, an old rag I had stolen from the pantry three years ago, laying it over my legs and duct-taping it in place. I scooted backwards and stood weakly, staring out the window. "I do believe. I really do," I said in a regular voice level. "So why haven't you come?"

My voice echoed in the silence, the wind throwing my words back in my face.

"Well, it's about time," a male voice said from behind me. "Took you long enough to realize we were real."