Between Sleep And Wake

Play Pretend

She wished she could go back.

Wendy knew adamant resistance and hostility would not help her. Accepting this, she decided to put on a facade instead, pretending she enjoyed living in Neverland. This was a play and she was a theatre actress. She was committing to her role as a helpless young woman, now grateful to be in the company of her captor. Happy to be away from her job and her home.

She was even beginning contribute to making dinner some evenings. "I cooked frequently at home, and it is only fair that I partake in an equal amount of cooking here as well," she'd said.

For the food she cooked, she headed out alongside either Peter or Dorothy to fetch her meat of choice, even reaching as far as scrounging for seasoning to add flavor.

It took hours. It was gruelling, but she suppressed her physical distress. Anything to make her performance believable.

She and Peter would speak of books and things, while some nights they would go see the beautiful mermaids with Dorothy.

During previous visits, Wendy only watched while Dorothy spoke with the mermaids like they were her friends.

Now Wendy was conversing as well. The one named Salina truly did have strands spun like gold, as Dorothy described. Her locks were shiny and blonde, perfectly complementing her wideset, large amber eyes. Like the other mermaids, she was naked; however, her thick, long hair seemed to conveniently conceal her otherwise exposed skin. Clothing was not an interest for their kind.

Wendy lay by the rocks, on her stomach and propped up by her elbows, a mere inches away from the water.

"Would you be able to read me a book?" Salina asked, her eyes glowing. "I love hearing stories!"

"What book would you like me to read?" Wendy inquired.

"Which one is good?"

"Journey to the Center of the Earth. Have you heard of that one?"

"It's by Jules Verne, isn't it?"

Wendy smiled, thrilled that Salina was familiar with the author. "Yes."

"Oh! You should have this," Salina said, removing a marcasite flower shaped pin from her mane, tilting forward and slipping it into Wendy's own hair. "You look lovely!"

"Thank you," Wendy said.

"Oh, how is the fairy doing? Tinkerbell? I haven't seen her in a long time! I miss talking to her!"

"Has Peter not told you?" The question surprised Wendy. She didn't know exactly when the population of fairies completely depleted, but Dorothy had said it happened a long time ago. Wendy wasn't sure if Dorothy's statment was accurate, but if there were no fairies when she had arrived, Wendy approximated they had been gone for at least several months. "The fairies, I'm afraid, are extinct."

The grin on Salina's face vanished. "Oh no! That must be why they don't fly around here anymore. I haven't seen them at all. I wonder what caused it?" Her voice had gone an octave higher in readeable sadness and shock.

"I don't know," Wendy lied, hesitating.

"Those poor littlr fairies! That is terrible!"

"It is. Truly terrible." Terrible that she was burdened with the truth—that Peter was responsible. She felt remorseful for her fibbing, but Salina did not to be broken by the reality of Peter's malevolence.

Still, Salina's demeanor shifted and her gregariousness was overruled by obvious mourning; the smile was gone and the twinkles in her bright eyes faded. It made Wendy even more awful. Perhaps omitting it would have been a better option.

Although, Wendy's mind was convinced that Tinkerbell was alive and living in the hut. Presumably the only fairy left. The last one. The grimness of it was heart-rending.

She knew she had heard Peter speaking with someone occasionally when he was alone in his room. It did not sound like a silly one sided conversation. Unfortunately, Tinkerbell was never anywhere in sight while Wendy herself was in the bedroom.

What she needed to do was get Peter to trust her enough to be more autonomous, so she could venture to his room without him looking over her shoulder.

Alas, he didn't. Never. Was this his idea of freedom?

Wendy wasn't tied by ropes any longer, instead she was being watched with observant eyes. By Peter and by Dorothy.

"Why did you not advise the mermaids what happened to all the fairies? Did you not worry that they would eventually find out?" Wendy asked Peter later at night when they were strolling back home.

"I did not think it was my responsibility," he replied.

"If anyone were to tell them, it should have been you." Her voice was successful in its calm.

However, Peter had clearly detected the discreet insinuation. He stopped walking, turning to her, his face red. "I already told you! They perished!" he yelled. "I did not kill them!"

She was taken aback by his uncontrolled rage. Blinding lighting touched down nearby before roaring thunderclaps rocked the sky. The torrential downpour that followed was sudden and strong.

Wendy had seen adult Peter irritated; she had seen him despondant and angry, but never this angry.

"I am not saying you did," she said. Except she had said it. She had accused him of single handedly causing the demise of all fairies.

"Why is it raining?" Dorothy questioned, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her skin and her clothes were drenched in water. "It's freezing!" She stared up, using her hands to shield her face, but it was evidently too late. "I've never seen it rain here! I thought it didn't rain."

"I'm sorry, Peter," Wendy said, hoping he would take her apology. She was not sorry for pointing out the truth, but sorry for rehashing a buried topic that Peter would never admit to.

If it hadn't rained during the time Dorothy was in Neverland, it indicated that no one had outraged Peter enough for a negative impact on the weather. Wendy worried all the progress she'd made was fully estinguished. "I—I did not mean it."

"You did mean it, and you are not sorry," Peter muttered.

"She seems sorry to me!" Dorothy exclaimed.

"I am. I am sorry. Allow me to make dinner tonight. I will cook anything you like." She hated pleading. She hated having to feign this pathetic weakness and need for his validation. However, she was thankful Dorothy had defended her.

"All right. You may cook dinner tonight," Peter stated.

The thunder and rain both began diminishing—the rumbling grew weak.

And the storm was gone.