Between Sleep And Wake

Sleeping Potion

She heard her name multiple times and it tore her mind from the past, back into the present.

The boar was now ready to eat.

Dorothy did have great culinary abilities. It was surprising that she was able to make the bloody, dismembered mess look even halfway edible. The meat was burned through to a crisp, then cut into pieces, with as much bone removed as possible. What remained of it was placed on a large plate. The pieces piled up so high that Wendy had to wonder how it they didn't topple over to the ground and make a mess.

"Ready to eat?" Dorothy asked, setting the plate in the table beside her, where the full cup of water still stood.

"I won't eat it," Wendy said. Her stomach felt hollow, its desperation for food growing, but she wouldn't forfeit. Her refusal was partly attributed to her stubbornness and partly to do with the image of the deceased boar in Peter's hands. She saw too much red, and she couldn't force it out of her mind.

"We could eat it ourselves," Dorothy suggested to Peter.

"No!" Peter said, his freckled face reddening. "It's for Wendy. She has to eat it."

Wendy saw his eyes water again, hinting at the aching beneath his rage, and wanted to scream at him. She often thought that sadness was sincere as a child but seeing it now made her speculate how much of it was real and how much of it was used a mechanism to get others to feel sorry for him.

The low rumbling of her stomach made her tense up. She hoped Peter hadn't heard it, but when he turned to stare directly at her, the hope diminished

"You are hungry. You would let yourself keep starving only to spite me?" he asked, his tone now significantly softer. "You are a wise woman, Wendy. I know you wouldn't willingly put yourself in danger. Do you know how long a woman can survive without drinking water?"

"No," Wendy replied.

He walked over so he was standing in front of her. "Not very long. You haven't had anything to drink in nearly a day."

"If you were that concerned of whether or not I was in danger, you would not have hit me in the head," Wendy pointed out.

"I did not hit you with too much force."

"Then why was I unconscious for hours?" she asked.

"I knew you would have regained consciousness within a few seconds. It was enough time for me to feed you a sleeping potion I stole from Captain Hook's ship," he explained. "It was what I also gave your friend."

She was glad she hadn't drunk the water earlier; he could have slipped the potion in there too. "Am I to believe you didn't kill her?" she questioned. The thought made the heat return to her face and her eyes glaze over with tears. She did not want to cry in front of this monster.

"Yes. It is the truth," he replied, staring at her with utmost worry. "Please don't cry. She's alive and well. You don't have to worry."

"It's not as if you haven't killed before. Why would you spare one person?"

"She was your friend, was she not?"

She caught the word being spoken in past tense. Was. Or was she thinking too much of it?

Maybe it wouldn't have been such an irrational thought if it were being said by someone else. But it wasn't.

Her stomach rumbled again and her muscles tightened on instinct, as if that would make them stop. She shifted in her seat, hoping she could get herself into a position that would help conceal that sounds.

"You should eat," Dorothy said to her. "I don't want to see you so hungry!"

No. No. No. No.

She was not going to eat the boar.

"I killed a Lost Boy to get this," Peter spoke up. Casually. No hesitation at the words, no ounce of remorse. Only exasperation. And impatience. "I could have shared this but I decided not to. You deserve more than half."

Wendy didn't know this Lost Boy, but knowing he had to die for such a trivial matter hurt her heart. She breathed out and turned away from Peter, unsure now whether it was solely the boar's blood he was soaked in, or if some of it belonged to the murdered Lost Boy. It made her sick.

"I cannot look at you," she whispered, though loud enough that it was audible from where he stood. "That . . . blood."

"Oh, I should wash up," Peter said. Again, with a nonchalant tone.

She heard the sound of bare feet against the ground, then the creak of the door, indicating he was now gone. Then she looked at Dorothy. "We need to leave."

"Why?" Dorothy asked.

"Peter--" Wendy stopped, trying to quickly think of a believable enough excuse for them to step outside together. She glanced around, hoping something within the confinement of this dull home would give her an answer. "Peter advised me that he would like us to pick some flowers for his hut. To make it more . . . welcoming to visitors."

Dorothy frowned. "When did he say that?"

"He said it before we flew here, when we were conversing in my bedroom. He said he loves flowers tremendously; they're beautiful and would bring some much needed colour to his home. He thinks it's a bit drab now."

Dorothy looked very confused for a moment, but to Wendy's relief she gave a smile. "That . . . is a great idea! It would bring colour to this place. I agree!"

"You must, of course, untie me, otherwise I'm unable to fulfill his request."

"Yes, you're correct," Dorothy said, reaching out to unravel the ropes around Wendy's wrists, then bent over to loosen up the ones tied to her legs.

Wendy pushed through the soreness in her muscles as she stood up. "Thank you!" she exclaimed. "We should leave before he arrives and find those flowers quickly! He would be delighted to come back and see them adorning his home. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes! That's very thoughtful! He will be so happy!" Dorothy exclaimed, practically bouncing on her feet like an over-energized child. "There's so many pretty flowers we can pick for him!"

The two of them walked out and Wendy instantly breathed in the freshness of the air. The horrors she'd faced years before could not diminish that magic of this land, of giant, luxurious trees and celestial skies of rainbow colours.  She pressed her feet against the dense green grass, moving forward, with Dorothy right behind her.