Between Sleep And Wake

Peter Pan

The scream rang in her ears and strained her throat. His presence had her so startled she found herself stumbling backwards, but she managed to regain herself by pressing a hand against the wall.

"I would have thought you would be happy to see me," Peter said, an eerie calm in his tone. He didn't even seem perturbed by her actions.

Her consternation grew as her mind wondered to Emma, who would have certainly heard her scream. Had Peter done something to her?

"Why-Why are you here?" she stammered.

"I'm here to see you. I missed you," he replied. "Didn't you miss me? It's been such a very long time. You're as beautiful as ever." He raised his hand and reached out to her.

She moved back, aghast at the thought of him touching her skin. "Don't."

His smile diminished. "Are you afraid?"

Was she afraid? Of course she was! How could he not detect that? Had her scream not made it staggeringly obvious?

"You must leave," she said.

"I'll leave only if you come with me."

She let out a sour chuckle. "Come with you? Absolutely not."

"Why? You aren't happy here. You know I've been watching you. I see how wistful you've become."

"I'm not wistful." Maybe she was. She yearned for her old childhood -- to be carefree and blissful. But that was the childhood she had before she met Peter. The childhood after was one she yearned to erase entirely.

"You know that's a lie, but I can change that." The grin slipped back into his face. "You'll be more content with me in Neverland. I only want what is best for you. Does anyone else? Even your own mother doesn't appear to."

Her eyes widened. He'd been watching her when she was with her parents too?

"You won't have to be a mother. You won't need to marry. We can experience many adventures together, Wendy.  Don't you remember the ones we once had? Remember the fun we had?"

"I'm certain I do not remember it the way you do," she snapped.

The grin vanished again and his eyes slightly narrowed. "You would rather stay?" He spoke the last word with anger and disdain.

"I would rather die than return to Neverland with you!" she exclaimed.

He blinked, then stared down at the floor, hurt. In that moment, he looked very much like a child. So seemingly innocent and faultless. "I really thought you would react differently. I thought you would be . . . thankful that I've returned for you. I only wanted to help."

Why? Why was he so charming? It was easy for anyone to see his saddened expression and feel their heart shatter. She could sense hers breaking, and her face softened. Then she remembered what horror he'd inflicted on her. The constant fears. The trauma. And that sorrow then went away. This was how he fooled people.

She took another few steps back, opening the distance between the two of them.  "I want you to leave. Go away! I don't ever want to see you again! Stop watching me!" she yelled. She was beyond the point of attempting to be quiet. If Emma was awake she would have shown up after the scream but she hadn't. Wendy was certain now Peter had hurt her, maybe even killed her; he was fully capable and possessed no mercy.

He stared back at her, a deep sorrowful, frown, on his face. "Is that what you want?" he asked.

"Yes. I've made that clear," she replied through gritted teeth.  She wasn't going to fall for his games this time.

Very slowly, he walked over to her extensive bookcase, stopping to retrieve one from a middle shelf. He stared at the cover briefly before he flipped through the pages. "Did you ever write one of these yourself?" he asked.

She watched him carefully. "No, I did not," she replied, her muscles still rigid.

"Why not?"

"That's not of your concern, is it?" Yes, she did wish to be a writer once. One who would write a three part novel that outlined her numerous adventures. Alas, she had fallen out of interest several years ago, but she wasn't going to disclose that to him.

"That's disappointing." He strolled back towards her, crossing her path to turn her lampshade on. It lit up the room in warmth as he sat down on the bed. Apparently, he hadn't graduated from fashioning his clothes out of autumn leaves and cobwebs. They were different hues of green, orange and yellow trailing around his body and over his loins.

With the book now open in front of him, he began to read, "Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures." He stopped to look up at her and grinned devilishly.

"You can read?" Wendy asked, astounded.

"Does it impress you?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

Of course she was impressed. Peter wasn't raised with access to formal education; for him to acquire any skill on his own terms was remarkable.

But she wasn't going to admit that to him. "No," she lied.

"You don't have to lie. I know you're impressed," he said, closing the book. "Please come with me, Wendy. Please. You don't like it here." He stood up and walked towards her, book still in his grasp.

"I didn't like it there either," she said.

"So you would really choose to stay here? With an unfulfilled life?"

She pursed her lips. His comments were agitating her, if only because they were sadly accurate. She wasn't satisfied with her life, but Peter himself had instigated her negative outlooks. "I told you I would rather die than leave with you. Didn't you hear me?" How many times did she have to repeat herself? This conversation was going around in circles.

"But I told you I missed you, Wendy. I flew all the way here for you! I learned how to read for you! Don't you understand?"

"I do understand, but I did not ask you to do any of those things," she pointed out to him.

He stared at her for a moment, unblinking. It made her heart pound in her chest again. The despondence drawn into his features made her livid. He was good at acting as a victim. Too good.

Lowering his eyes, he stared at the pages of the book before shutting it. He held it tight in his hands as he wound his arms back, like he was preparing to swing a bat against a baseball.

She saw the book forcefully hit her face; she was unable to react quickly.

And everything went black.

I normally don't leave author's notes, but I felt it was needed just for this chapter. What Peter read was from Frankenstein.