Between Sleep And Wake

Truth and Lies

Despite her suspicions that Tinkerbell was not dead, Wendy was still irritated at Peter for purposely withholding that information until now. Rage lit up within her, but she tried to suppress it. She knew how Peter could be when his temper surfaced; she did not intend to instigate any arguments tonight.

"What do you mean she's alive?" Dorothy inquired.

Wendy turned to gouge her reaction, and she saw the girl's face was lined with a frown that suggested curiosity, but not anger. She couldn't recall ever witnessing Dorothy acting incensed about anything and it left Wendy wondering what precisely did infuriate her.

"I mean . . . she never died," Peter replied.

"Why would you lie to us?"

"I was afraid you would leave if you knew."

The response was not directed at Dorothy. Wendy knew it was about her. It always was. He had to have known she would leave if she was aware that Tinkerbell was alive. She was Wendy's only access to return home.

"I would never!" Dorothy exclaimed. "I'm sorry you had to lie!"

Wendy looked away briefly to roll her eyes. Peter was very manipulative and calculating; seeing him rationalizing his behaviour by making himself a victim in the situation was typical. It was so laughable that Wendy inadvertently released a smirk.

"I am sorry for lying. I should have never lied. I deeply regret my decisions; I hope you can both forgive me." Peter's attention switched back and forth between the two them, a glint of sadness in his fiery blue eyes.

"Of course I forgive you!" Dorothy exclaimed.

"I forgive you as well," Wendy said, straining a smile.

Peter grinned at her. "It is the last of my lies."

"Well, good." Wendy was certain it wouldn't be the last, but she had been pretending so long; she could not break this false front by showing her doubts. Yet, she was beginning to feel less confident about keeping up this facade.

She walked outside and sat on the green grass, staring up at the setting sun—the sky cast with bright lines of such a lush pink they looked almost red. Like blood. Wendy would have thought it looked beautiful if it didn't cause an unease to bubble in her stomach.

There was a brief flash of Emma in her mind, in her room, asleep, with Peter hovering above her. Another quick image of him choking her riddled Wendy's mind—Emma digging her nails into Peter's hands, as she fought for breath. And Wendy imagined Peter's grasp getting tighter and tighter.

Wendy wasn't certain Emma was dead but fleeting thoughts of it keep surfacing. She had no way of knowing if Emma was unharmed and Peter was too unreliable to believe. He could have been telling her the truth when he said he didn't kill Emma, but Wendy would have to see it for herself.

"Why are you sitting out here?" she heard Peter ask from behind her.

"I wanted some time to myself," she said. "I used to sit by the window of my bedroom and think about things. Anything. Or I would lie in my bed with my eyes closed. I would not sleep; I would simply lie on top the covers. The solitude was . . . calming. I have not experienced it since I have been here."

It was true that she was being emotionally suffocated. Peter or Dorothy were always around her. Either one or the other, or both. She was tired of it. They were inescapable.

"You used to admire company," Peter pointed out.

"When I was a child. I have changed." She turned to look over her should at him. "Like you have changed." How he thought he changed.

"Do you think I have changed?"

"Of course you have."

"Did you know Tinkerbell was alive before I told you?"

The question surprised her. She did not believe he'd had any speculations about her distrust of him, though the inquiry filled her with doubt. "I did not."

"You hesitated."

"I was just . . . shocked."

"I know you, Wendy. Your response was preceded by hesitance."

"That is not true."

"It is true."

She could not keep lying. Peter was no fool. He was intelligent, more intelligent than she wished he was. It did not help that he knew her so well, that he could determine her thoughts by her nuanced reactions.

And now she was scared.

"I do not know what you want me to tell," she said.

"Tell me that you are not afraid of me."

Vacillating at his question, her eyes dropped to the ground before she swivelled back around to stare at the sky again. She could not endure seeing the sadness on his face. What made her hatred of him difficult was his ability to feel such authentic emotions. He was genuinely hurt. He felt sad and happy and angry, but he killed people in cold blood. Nothing about his behaviour made sense to her.

Peter didn't seem to understand the basic difference between wrong and right. He acted impulsively on how he felt, whether it was content or rage. Desite everything he done to prove his maturity, mentally he was a child. The books he read could not rectify that.

Wendy was certain before that at his core Peter was evil, but she didn't know if he could be defined in such a simple way anymore. She could see that he cared deeply for her. That was why it pained her when he was disheartened. But she could not force herself to love him the way he wanted her to. And she knew she never would, either.

"I am not able to tell you that," she admitted.

He said nothing else and went back inside. Wendy couldn't shake out the expression of wretchedness on his face before he did so.

She stared back up, fixated, as if her concentration on the warm hues of colour coating the air would give her a direction. An answer. As if it could help her find her way back home.