Between Sleep And Wake

The Boar

Finding food in Neverland could sometimes be difficult. Peter would sporadically spot animals to hunt and kill for survival. But they ran freely in the wild within such a colossal space, where hiding places were common. They dug holes and buried themselves in the ground or found safety in trees, often in barks.

Luckily, Peter was often able to catch the ones that climbed up onto branches. They were stupid creatures, after all. They didn't know he could fly. He soared up, snatching them quickly -- little squirrels or birds -- and sliced them open to their deaths with a sharp, wooden blade he'd made himself. It was easier for hunting than his other tools.

The predicament arose whenever he scouted for meals at the same time as one of the many Lost Boys he'd captured and released over the years. The ones he got bored of and kicked out of his hut, until he wanted them back. It was almost like a perpetual game of hide and seek. A source of constant thrills. The Lost Boys, however, didn't always think it was fun.

His eyes searched cautiously for a moving figure. Anywhere. He had lowered himself behind an array of bushes, waiting as patiently as he could. He wanted to get something great for Wendy to make her happy; he wanted to see her smile and watch those beautiful eyes light up with gratefulness.

Her rage pained him. And he could still hear her livid voice and the expression of hate in her face. It was in his head; the words actively repeated themselves. I would rather die than return to Neverland with you. I would rather die than return to Neverland with you. I would rather die than return to Neverland with you.

How could she say such awful things to him? He had spent so many years trying to forget her, yet he sadly could not. Even in a land where it was easy to forget. He could not forget her. Never. He could not forget her pretty, curly crimson hair or the freckles dotting her pale face or those large blue eyes.

Dorothy had temporarily made him believe he could erase those remnants of Wendy, but that hope subsided fast. She was too dim-witted and didn't challenge him enough. Half the time when he spoke of the great writers he'd learned of, she stared at him blankly. She didn't know anything.

Peter had tied a large net to outstretched branches of thick, tall trees, but the boar chose to run across the open grass instead. Annoyed, Peter pulled out his blade from the belt he'd made of leaves and was about to hurl it. Before he could, the animal let out a large, painful squeak as an arrow broke through its skin, blood pouring out and soaking greyish-brown fur.

He frowned, lowering his blade, then he saw a Lost Boy scurrying towards the wounded animal. Quickly, he flew up and landed directly in front of the boar. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The Lost Boy widened his dark eyes, terror coating his grime and dirt encrusted face. "Peter, I--I didn't see you."

"This was supposed to be my dinner."

"We can share," the Lost Boy said. "What's mine is yours."

"I will not share my food with you," Peter muttered. "This boar is mine."

"But I killed it!"

"No, you didn't. You injured it," he said. The boar was still alive, squeaking in pain while attempting to move its body. Peter stabbed it with his blade numerous times until the shrieks stopped and he was certain it was dead. "And now I've killed it."

"Please, Peter, I'm hungry," the Lost Boy begged. "I haven't eaten in a long time."

"That's not my concern."

"If you let me have this boar I'll give you my knife. It's sharper than your blade."

Peter raised his eyebrows, intrigued by the offer. "You would give me your knife? Let me see it."

The Lost Boy withdrew a long knife from his strap sheath that looked like it was modelled from clothing fabric and handed it to Peter.

Taking the knife, Peter examined it carefully, running his fingers over its blade to feel just how sharp it was. Then he smirked. Did this Lost Boy really think he'd trade food for this useless tool? He glanced up and asked, "Did you forget?"

"Forget?"

Peter slit the Lost Boy's throat, basking in the look of shock he received. The Lost Boy feebly pressed his hands against the cut to stop the flow, but it was no use. Blood gushed out in rivulets down his neck and clothes, spurting over his shaking fingers. Peter watched the life fade from his brown eyes.

"I already have a sword. I don't need this," Peter said, dropping the knife on the grass and watching the Lost Boy collapse. "I don't like negotiating. I hope you've learned your lesson." Though it didn't matter now; he was seconds away from death.

Peter leaned down and seized the bow, as well as the bag of arrows, that no longer had an owner. "But I will take these. You don't need them anymore," he said. He slung the bag over his shoulder.

The boar would make Wendy overjoyed. He would cut it up and start a nice fire to cook it for her. Dorothy could help him concoct the recipes, since he wasn't that familiar with them himself.

Using his free hand, he grabbed the boar off the grass. It was a bit heavy, and it made the task strenuous, though he tried as much as he could to ignore the soreness in his arm. He wasn't accustomed to carrying animals big in size. He had caught deer a few times but he resorted to dicing them to pieces; they were near impossible to hoist whole.

The Lost Boy lay motionless with glassy, open eyes; he looked like he was forever stuck in a state of terror. Peter felt a brief pang of regret for what he'd done. All this boy had wanted was something to eat for the day. But Peter did what he had to do. For himself and for Wendy. He couldn't provide her with half a boar. Besides, if he caved in, word might get to the other Lost Boys and they'd assume he liked to share his food. And they would return to the hut he'd kicked them out of. It went against the game. He couldn't allow it.

This boy was also embarking on the greatest adventure of all: death. His journey had only just begun!

What was his name, anyway? Peter couldn't recall. Was it Geoffrey? Gregory? Matthew perhaps? Edward? No, that wasn't his name. None of those were correct.

He gave up and flew back to his hut.