Between Sleep And Wake

Finding Weapons

She couldn't stop thinking about the lady Turk had called Red Hair. It didn't matter how many other musings Alice used to distract herself. She had halted her trips to Peter's hut, but now she regretted it. Because if she hadn't Red Hair might have been safe at home now. Or Alice would be dead herself, but for some odd reason, she was convinced Peter wouldn't kill her. Even if he had killed many Lost Boys. He'd had so many opportunities in the past.

How many women would he capture? One more? Two more? Ten more?

Alice thought, maybe, if anyone were to defeat him, it had to be herself. She had faced a malicious, murderous queen who held her prisoner. Why couldn't she face Peter as well? No one else was even trying to stop him! It was ridiculous. Why did a young man single handedly hold power over everyone else?

A plan was devised. She went out and began collecting various sticks, as well as other natural materials, to construct as potential weapons. Once she returned to the ship, she laid them all out on the floor of her designated bedroom. She sat beside the pile, and furiously began sharpening the tip of one of the thick branches she'd found with a knife.

Her room was simplistic, but comfortable. It contained a bed with white sheets, a small oak closet and a matching drawer with a small shelf. They were the most basic of necessities, though she did not mind it. Alice seldom spent time confined to her bedroom, anyway. She did enjoy reading; however, she always preferred to go out and live through experiences than read about them in a book. It was significantly more satisfying. Not that she still didn't like engaging in a novel before going to bed at night.

As a child she had thought stories without pictures were silly and boring. As an adult, considering the lack of independence she had at home, there was little else to do. Reading had been an escape for many years.

"What are you doing?" Hook asked her, apoearing in the doorway about twenty minutes after she'd started her task.

"Nothing," she replied.

"It appears as if you're turning that branch into a spear. Do you need your own weapons? I have many I can provide to you. What are they for?"

She looked up at him. "I am going to rescue Red Hair and Brown Hair."

Hook's face went grim. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Why on earth would I not do that? It's laughable how one young man has instilled so much fear in people," she replied. Her muscles were beginning to ache so she dropped both the knife and branch in frustration.

"It's not fear," he said, taking a few steps towards her.

"It is, and why? Because he has the ability to fly? Because he is sneaky?" She just responded to her own question. Staring down at the knife, she felt that recognition of defeat wanting to wrench her away from her intentions. Luckily, her adamance persevered, making her pick the knife back up. She had to ignore the pain in her joints.

"Have you forgotten your scars?" he asked.

Alice glared at him. "I will never forget them," she muttered. "They are symbols representing my repeated acts of valor."

"Failed attempts, I should remind you." He folded his arms across his chest.

This was a physical stance that Alice did not like. She  often interpreted it as a dismissal on one's ideas or presence. In this case, she associated it with the former. "I refuse to forfeit," she said.

"You know I can't stop you, Alice, but I will not support it."

"Then don't." Her kniving strokes on the branch became more aggressive; she had to express her annoyance towards Hook somehow. "You are correct. You can't stop me, so I will do as I please."

"Oh Alice, why must you be headstrong?"

Alice rolled her eyes. She knew he was only concerned for her safety, and the natural reaction was to discourage her from executing her plan. Yes, it was well intentioned, but Alice never did like being told what to do. Even by Hook, who had offered her a place to stay on his ship and rearranged the rooming assigments so she could have her own space. She had no obligation to be submissive towards him. She wasn't a slave to regulation.

"Place the fault on my parents," she replied. "They did raise me, after all." She stopped sharpening and stared at him. "You may go now."

Hook was shaking his head as he turned around to walk out. Thankfully, he said nothing more.

She dug the knife into the wooden branch, thinking about the last time she saw Peter. He had not been pleased by her appearance, at all. It was a contrast to the first few nights she'd spent in Neverland.

Those days she had felt enraged and alone. She became easily enraptured by Peter's physical attractiveness and his way of speech. She revealed the tortures she endured as a child; he didn't stare at her as if she were batty or unreliable. He listened; he understood. He was the first person in a long time.

Staying in a dirty, weakly built hut was a cakewalk in comparison to her life back home. Peter didn't watch her every move, fearful she would hurt herself or someone else.

Yet, what happened between her and Peter was a memory she wished she could forget. As she scraped the wood, flashes of those times flooded her mind. Images of his face and his unkempt blonde hair. Of his skin darkened from many hours out in the sun. Of what he considered clothes—leafs and cobwebs that left almost nothing to the imagination.

Peter reminded her of the young, handsome, magnetic intellectuals at lavish parties who won the hearts of women. He knew what to say. He knew when to smile. He knew how to act. Alice often saw through it, but after years of cruel alienation and mockery, she grasped at the positive attention he gave her. It was not as if she'd had anyone else.

One evening, she was staring thoughtfully out the window when he'd asked, "Do you miss your parents?"

Her response wasn't equipped with even mild hesitation. Turning to him, she said, "No. I do not. I never will."