Neverland [ ✓ ]

Day 7

ENTRY:
5:34 AM

With my mother gone and no need for hide and seek, Peter and I eventually picked up a new habit of time occupancy.

Peter begun reading the American tale of Peter Pan to me. Not by his choice, usually; he'd only suggested it the first time, then I fell in love it. I began requesting it with frequency. The book was in English, so reading the English letters and translating it was beyond me, but Peter knew both English and Russian. Flawlessly, he was able to translate it into Russian so that I would understand, wording it beautifully.

I thoroughly enjoyed the idea of Neverland within the book; how it was possible to go somewhere far from those that hurt us and stay forever, an eternal home which becomes yours indefinitely, all full of people and adventure and infinite youth. Lovely. It all sounded so ideal that I often found myself wishing I could have that. I still do, in a way. But Peter Pan was only a book, of course, and it'd be ridiculous to hope for as much. But I could- can- dream. That's why I never got tired of hearing him back then, I suppose. In my mind, there with my shadow boy- as strange as it might've been, had I not grown up with him- it seemed at least a little real when he was describing it with such sincerity.

I don't believe I ever told him about any of that, but I think Peter knew.
He must've.

Peter thought it was a good choice, at least, in respects to his own enjoyment of the activity. He told me both he and Peter Pan had a lot of things in common. He never really went much further into specifying what they had in common besides their appearances.

I liked the thought.

ENTRY:
10:10 AM

I can't remember anything else. The memories of him are vivid, but I'm beginning to consider the possibility that he wasn't real. I mean, how could he be? It'd make more sense if he wasn't. I'd been through a lot of things during such a young age.

Maybe it was my way of coping as a kid?

ENTRY:
11:24 PM

No, I didn't make him up- there's no way that I did.

He took care of me for nearly all those years. He kept me sane, kept me healthy, kept me alive in the midst of such a shit filled childhood. I'm not making things up; he was not an imaginary friend nor was he an apparition to make up for the care I wished I'd had. He's real.

I want to see him, now; I'm only scared to say his name.
I shouldn't be scared, after all these fucked up memories.
Maybe I'm scared to acknowledge just how real he is to me.