Doesn T Know The Story Of Pan By J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Who doesn’t know the story by J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan? The lovely tale of a boy who never grew up, how magical. I trusted that man with my story, but so much was lost in translation I guess. Peter Pan he called it, why? Pan may have been the protagonist in his fairy tale, but in my tale, the true tale, he was a villain. He was the villain, he ruled over Neverland like a dictator rules over slaves. Yet, I still fell for him, I was young, my feelings were clouded, as well as my judgement. In my defense, he fell for me first. Young, lost, confused, innocent Wendy, then again, I was never innocent. And he knew that, otherwise I would have never been able to go to that wretched island in the first place. This story, I guess you could call it a love
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story, but true love isn’t true unless it is mutual, and I never loved him. I was intrigued, fascinated, entranced by the little bastard, but I never loved him, I knew what love was, and that was never anything resembling what I had felt for him. That was where he made his mistake, and he fell harder than I did. So let’s continue, onto what really happened in my not so brief time on that wretched island. You see, lost boys were not lost because they rolled out of their cribs as a baby. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful alternative to what qualified you as lost. In order to become “lost,” you had to kill someone. Now, it didn’t have to be a planned homicide, it could be a complete accident, but if you were under eighteen and someone died at your hands, well...welcome to the fabulous classification of the lost. In the famous story of Peter Pan, I travelled to the magical island with my brothers, Michael and John, maybe that would have been the case, if the only one I had hadn’t died. Michael was so young, we shouldn’t have been playing up on the roof, but we still did, like so many times before, how could I have known that one of us would fall that day? It should have been me.
We were playing indians versus pirates, and a fight began between us, I was the villainous pirate fighting the daring indian brave. All it took was one push, one little playful shove for the brave to come crumbling down. There the little brave was, looking not so brave and a lot more broken. He was dead, and it was my fault, it was an accident, but he was dead, and it was my fault. For weeks, I cried, I was pushed into a state of deep despair--maybe that’s what led me to Neverland. I never prayed to Peter Pan, I never whispered the words that summon his lost boys to come take you away.
I never said those two words, “I believe.” There were so many stars that night, it seemed so surreal, the stars shone brighter than they ever had that summer night, so I sat by the wide open window, watching the stars.
It wasn’t hard for me to drift off that night, the breeze smelled of summer, and had such a nice warmth to it, the warmth was magical, soft--acting like a lullaby--lulling me to sleep.
Wind rushed through the window, no longer a soft breeze, but a cold dagger, cutting through my slumber like glass. I jolted awake, my face still stained from the tears now freezing against my skin. Lights from the street lamps below shone into my room brighter than they had earlier that night, there were shards of glass all over my bench that sat next to the now broken window, the wind must have blown it open. A sigh escaped my mouth as I turned to go to my bed, I’d just have to clean up that mess in the morning. It was so sudden, when a hand clamped over my mouth and started to pull me to the window. My fingers grasped at the strong hand that had a hold over my mouth, muffling my screams. I bit down, hard. A sharp yelp escaped the person and I whipped around to see a very shocked boy standing there. He was tall, with dark hair, he was covered in mud, dirt, leaves, and about everything you find in the woods. Now, for those of you thinking about it, this boy was not Peter Pan; he was just a lost boy sent to fetch me. We both stared at each other, our eyes asking each the same question,
“why?”
The silence was deafening, we were both taken off guard with the events that just occurred, I grasped the necklace that my mother had given me, it was a golden heart, a symbol of her love. Finally, I decided to ask the unasked question.
story, but true love isn’t true unless it is mutual, and I never loved him. I was intrigued, fascinated, entranced by the little bastard, but I never loved him, I knew what love was, and that was never anything resembling what I had felt for him. That was where he made his mistake, and he fell harder than I did. So let’s continue, onto what really happened in my not so brief time on that wretched island. You see, lost boys were not lost because they rolled out of their cribs as a baby. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful alternative to what qualified you as lost. In order to become “lost,” you had to kill someone. Now, it didn’t have to be a planned homicide, it could be a complete accident, but if you were under eighteen and someone died at your hands, well...welcome to the fabulous classification of the lost. In the famous story of Peter Pan, I travelled to the magical island with my brothers, Michael and John, maybe that would have been the case, if the only one I had hadn’t died. Michael was so young, we shouldn’t have been playing up on the roof, but we still did, like so many times before, how could I have known that one of us would fall that day? It should have been me.
We were playing indians versus pirates, and a fight began between us, I was the villainous pirate fighting the daring indian brave. All it took was one push, one little playful shove for the brave to come crumbling down. There the little brave was, looking not so brave and a lot more broken. He was dead, and it was my fault, it was an accident, but he was dead, and it was my fault. For weeks, I cried, I was pushed into a state of deep despair--maybe that’s what led me to Neverland. I never prayed to Peter Pan, I never whispered the words that summon his lost boys to come take you away.
I never said those two words, “I believe.” There were so many stars that night, it seemed so surreal, the stars shone brighter than they ever had that summer night, so I sat by the wide open window, watching the stars.
It wasn’t hard for me to drift off that night, the breeze smelled of summer, and had such a nice warmth to it, the warmth was magical, soft--acting like a lullaby--lulling me to sleep.
Wind rushed through the window, no longer a soft breeze, but a cold dagger, cutting through my slumber like glass. I jolted awake, my face still stained from the tears now freezing against my skin. Lights from the street lamps below shone into my room brighter than they had earlier that night, there were shards of glass all over my bench that sat next to the now broken window, the wind must have blown it open. A sigh escaped my mouth as I turned to go to my bed, I’d just have to clean up that mess in the morning. It was so sudden, when a hand clamped over my mouth and started to pull me to the window. My fingers grasped at the strong hand that had a hold over my mouth, muffling my screams. I bit down, hard. A sharp yelp escaped the person and I whipped around to see a very shocked boy standing there. He was tall, with dark hair, he was covered in mud, dirt, leaves, and about everything you find in the woods. Now, for those of you thinking about it, this boy was not Peter Pan; he was just a lost boy sent to fetch me. We both stared at each other, our eyes asking each the same question,
“why?”
The silence was deafening, we were both taken off guard with the events that just occurred, I grasped the necklace that my mother had given me, it was a golden heart, a symbol of her love. Finally, I decided to ask the unasked question.