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WHILE PETER AND Wendy slept, Annabelle Tinker snuck around the London night, keeping to shadowy alleyways and dark corners. Her blonde hair was tucked into a black hoodie and if you looked closely, you could only see two shiny sapphire eyes peeking out. The rest of her features were shrouded in darkness.
"Belle, Belle, Tinkerbell, should I shush or should I tell?"
She hummed to herself as she turned into one alley, not afraid of the eyes peeking out of the corners. Were there even eyes there? Whenever Belle turned her head, they blinked out. She ran her hand along the dirty wall, not sure if she was feeling teeth or jagged brick.
"Belle, Belle, Tinkerbell, are the monsters even real?"
The girl was not jealous of Wendy. Yes, she was. No, she wasn't. Tinkerbell was, Annabelle wasn't. She had been at Peter's side since they were kids. She had been replaced by a doe-eyed, innocent little girl. Belle's hand snagged on a sharp claw or stone, crimson blood dripping down her pale wrist. She watched it trickle down, seeping into her black sleeve.
"Belle, Belle, Tinkerbell, is it real, can you tell?"
Annabelle had voices in her head. Her parents had expected her to grow out of it, but when she had calmly carved go away in her stomach with scissors, age twelve, her parents sent her away to be hospitalized. The voices only grew louder, festering inside her like an infection.
Belle giggled as she looked up, deformed faces or fireworks lighting up the sky. Her hand stretched up, wanting to see what they felt like. A drop of blood fell onto her nose, painting her pallid skin scarlet. She didn't notice a police car pull up in front of the alley.
"Miss?" asked the driver. Belle only craned her neck back further to observe the lights in the sky. No, of course they weren't faces. They were flowers, blooming in the night and wilting just as quickly.
"Miss," the driver repeated. "Are you all right?"
"I don't think she's all right," whispered his companion.
The policeman was about to adjust his prosthetic hand and open the car door when the girl met his eyes, smiling pleasantly under the hood of her jumper.
"Quite all right," she said, voice high and dreamy. Her hand steadily dripped blood onto the stones beneath her feet. The policeman frowned, sharing a knowing look with his partner. Wordlessly, he stepped out, opening the back door of the car.
"Miss, why don't you step in. We'll give you a ride to the hospital."
Belle nodded, an eerie smile still glossing her lips. She hummed a lullaby-esque tune as she stepped into the car, stroking the material of the seat. Fur or fabric? Was it breathing or laying still? The policeman closed the door for her, getting back into the driver's seat.
"Hook, hook, Captain Hook, do you want to take a look?"
Sheriff Jones's hands stiffened on the wheel. Only one group of people had that nickname for him. The Lost Boys, they called themselves, led by none other than Peter Pannora. This must have been one of the children in the gang.
Belle, unlike the better part of the Lost Boys, had never been arrested. She preferred keeping to herself, making pixie dust in the underground part of Neverland. She was the only one who knew how to make it; shh, secret recipe, no telling.
"Take a look at what, dear?" Sheriff Jones asked hesitantly. The way she spoke, the faraway look in the girl's eyes— she was not of sound mind. Belle merely looked at him through the rear view mirror, cerulean eyes wide. Her facial expression betrayed nothing of what was going on inside her head.
She was livid at Peter for replacing her. No, she understood that he wanted something more than just a friend. She wanted to bring him to the alley of eyes, watch if they would tear him apart like they did to her. Yes, that's what she wanted to do. What was her name again? Tinkerbell, right. She grinned again, looking at Captain Hook in the mirror. She had a secret to tell him.
"Hook, hook, listen to me, I know where Peter Pan may be."
