Between Sleep And Wake

Books and Bedding

These weren't silly delusions built up in his head. Peter felt something and he'd savoured it until Dorothy had disrupted them. Wendy's soured views of him were now turning sweeter.

On the days following the trip to see the mermaids, Peter let Wendy roam free around the hut without ropes. He wanted to show her that he trusted her, and he would continue to make his efforts to further prove it.

In turn, he noticed her becoming even kinder, more talkative. She ate when he brought her food, smiling with obvious appreciation. The plates cleared off. She didn't protest or resist. Sometimes she finished her food even before he did.

"Thank you, Peter. This meal was wonderful," she said one evening when they ate a large bird he'd shot with his many arrows.

The gratefulness made him grin.

He thought about her when he woke up and when he would go to sleep. Everything he did was for her. And she finally understood that.

The circles beneath her eyes vanished, her face quickly filling out. She was becoming healthier, drinking water without vacillation. And she would make proper eye contact.

"I'm happy that you enjoyed it," he said to her.

"It was delicious. I've eaten so much!" she exclaimed.

"One of the best dinners we've had!" Dorothy chimed in.

He worried one day he would find Wendy gone, but he cast that dread away. She would not leave. Where would she go? To reside with the savage pirates? The natives? They could not provide for her the way Peter could. They could not give her the attention she deserved. Not one of them cpuld love her like he could. He didn't want her to find that out the hard way.

He told her of all the books he'd read, books like Ulysses, The Time Machine and The Scarlett Letter. They were novels of interesting characters, some of whom experienced grand adventures. Every time, she stared with attentive eyes.

"Have you read all of these books?" she asked, her eyes scanning the array of volumes he had piled up in a giant hewp beside his bed. He wasn't organized like Wendy to have them lined up neatly on a shelf.

"I've read most," he admitted. "I only began to read them because of you. I had to wonder what attracted you to these stories. I made the right decision; they are marvelous. I'm very disappointed you never wrote one yourself. You are a talent."

"How would you know?" she asked him. "I never wrote you anything."

"You are articulate and a strong storyteller. That is enough for me to believe in you."

She smiled at him and he basked in her reaction. It showed her gratitude for his compliment.

"If there are any that you have yet to read, you are more than welcome to," he offered.

"Oh, perhaps I will," she said, leaning closer to the books, as if she were inspecting them. After a moment, she reached out to take one. "I will begin with this one." She had chosen Dracula.

"I read that one recently. I enjoyed it. I'm confident you shall like it too."

"I trust your judgement," she stated.

Upon her acceptance of his offer, they would routinely set aside time to immerse themselves in countless stories. They sat on his bed opposite one another, consumed by tranquil silence. Over the years he had accumulated proper, comfortable bedding, thus his room morely resembled what a room should look like. So both of them had pillows to lie on. He had stolen them all, killed to obtain them, so he hoped Wendy never inquired about any of it.

The books also came from a few Lost Boys. Half of them had belonged to a gangly boy with glasses who had stayed with Peter for short while before constructing his own hut.

During a visit to the boy's new home, Peter suggested they perform a trade off—a few useless utensils for books. The boy coldly refused.

Peter had taken a sword he'd brought with him and sliced the boy's head right off. It dropped to the floor as his bloody, decapitated body collapsed. Staring at the dismembered corpse, Peter shook his head; it was the boy's own fault for being so selfish.

Dorothy occasionally partook in the pastime with the two of them, purposely searching for the thinnest volumes, but would often complain regardless. "This is boring," she said. "I don't understand this book!"

"You do not have to read if you don't wish to," Peter told her.

"What'll I do then?" she asked.

"Why not go visit the mermaids?" Peter didn't take his focus away from his book as he talked.

"That's a novel idea! I've made friends with them! Salina is very nice. Do you know Salina?"

"No, I don't know her."

"Salina is very pretty! Her hair is like spun gold!"

"We should all go," Wendy suggested.

Peter's had snapped up at her comment. "Why would we go?" he asked. This was not his intention. He wanted to sit on his bed with Wendy do they could read together, even if in utter quiet. Why was Dorothy interrupting them?

"It is quite lovely by the water," Wendy replied.

The irritation was quickly seeping through the surface. He frowned at Dorothy, sharply inhaling air. Her constant need for attention was unnerving. And his patience was growing smaller and smaller.

Wendy had to have detected his aggravation, because then she continued, "You and I could bring our books."

He grinned at her. She was taking his annoyance into consideration and attempting to please him. It meant he was important enough to her. He was important! That realization pulled at his heart and defused his negative emotions.

"You are right, Wendy," he said. "We may go, then."

Dorothy gave that stupid grin of hers.

So when she grew bored, Peter and Wendy would find rocks to seat themselves on to read by the water. Sometimes Peter would glance up at Wendy, and she reciprocated the attention with a kind smile.

A smile that was for him.