Neverland [ ✓ ]

Day 11

ENTRY:
5:55 AM

While I was a second year in High School, I began to ask Peter questions, a solid first for us. It was derived from my need to know more about him, sprung from thin air, but something that had long been lingering on the tip of my tongue. I knew virtually nothing about him and- due to the several disappearances that had ensued over the last year- I had a lot of time on my hands because of the town's curfew. 

I loved books, but books were getting old- Peter would suffice.

ENTRY:
9:31 AM

After repeated evasion, Peter came around to my overdue inquires a few weeks after they'd been verbalized. He acted just like every other shy boy in my school, you know, soft spoken and mildly unsure of himself even if the things he did were decisive. It seemed like he just didn't want to talk about himself more for modesty than privacy, ignoring me because maybe he thought I didn't really want to know, like I was only being polite after all these years of knowing him.

I just thought it was cute.

ENTRY:
7:48 PM

He accepted my request to ask him questions one day in a decided sit-down conversation. He sat on my tattered sofa, I sat in a torn forest green recliner. That day was rainier than most. No snow, only rain pattering against the window. The reminiscence of soft, tranquil taps against glass and a thin roof are very distinct from that particular day.

"How old are you?" I asked him, practically at the edge of my seat with anticipation. 

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he beckoned me closer, waving his arm as if to sweep me to him. Compliant, I followed, replacing myself onto the sofa next to him where his long arm wrapped my shoulders easily like rope. He had felt warmer than usual, I noticed, pleasantly so. I sank into what I could of him. 

"Sixteen, at heart." He answered, he might as well have been reciting a fairy tale line. "You don't want to know my real age."

"We're the same age, now?" I was surprised. It was a weird concept.

Peter's head turned, I could only gather that he was looking at me- maybe- though he has no eyes. The only features I could manage to describe him with were taller than I was, lanky and a translucent pitch black.

"No," He told me. "I was sixteen when I died, but I'm long past that now, very long."

"How did you die?" I ask.

Peter grew quiet.

"I think that's enough sharing for today." He dismissed me, looking away and pulling me closer to him.  

The conversation ended abruptly. I fell asleep leaning against him. When I woke hours later, he had gone; I was left only with a blanket draped over my frail body and the taps of raindrops resonating through the small cabin.