Gentle winds blew playfully through the windows curtains, but nothing could quell the war being waged inside poor Wendy's pathetic head. Who could describe that woman's brutish hatred for anything that pixie dust would fall upon and light brilliantly with a glimmer of clarity drawn from the depths of the endless wells of innocence? No one could. Not even the boys who were betrayed by her cloak of deceit so cleverly worn. The switch to loving sister, who would spare no cost at all to cuddly the silly lost boys when they had hurt themselves to decorous lady, was peculiar in itself. What thread of doubt had finally snapped?
So now she sits feeling no warmth from the setting sun, trying to comprehend the demons that control her mind. "What has happened," she murmured to herself holding her legs to her chest, as if to protect her from the horror that surrounds her everyday. "I remember nothing of what used to be, only dread. It fills my mouth with a taste so vile I almost attempt to spit it out, but what is the use." Wendy slowly picked herself off the bench and staggered to the mirror to look into it, or rather through it to see the past that had once held so much hope for a young woman coming of age. "It was all because of him." A knock on the door forced her to check herself quickly over and straighten her back, heavy with the burdens that constantly weighed her down. "Never a moment of peace," she murmured bitterly at the shadows. "Come in."
"Pardon me Madame but Mr. Pan is waiting for you downstairs and would like you to join him."
"I'll only be a moment," Wendy replied as the maid curtsied, shut the door and once again left her in the room that should have given any lady a feeling of dignity and worth, but not Wendy. It was nothing but a prison she must go to perform tasks that tortured the defiance she should have in her soul. Wistfully she looked for any shadow that could hide some form of magic that used to move her. Speak, sing, dance, or call out her name and beg for her to perform some motherly duty for the Lost Boys. Perhaps they'd beg for a series of fairly tales, and then she could tuck them in their tiny little beds made of leaves woven with pale flowers that faded over time. "Rock the little ones gently," she whispered to the cool night air. "Where does one turn when there isn't any hope? Just a wall you must climb without a rope to pull yourself up with. Who would dare to understand these changes? Chatter that won't silence itself, no matter how hard you concentrate to block it. Mental walls mean nothing when you have no brave night to defend you when your knees become weary with constant disappointment. Oh to travel to the days of peaceful starry nights that shone so brightly against the dark night." Falling once again onto the bench, Wendy fell into the pattern of thoughtful recollections. So many hours she spent trying to remember what had once been and what motivated her to hurt herself and distrust the wild animal inside that society frowned upon. Who could dare to judge such spirit? Doesn't everyone see this cruel injustice everyday in their lives and cringe when they must destroy the beautiful rebellious nature that nurtures the soul?
"It is more then I can take at times." Poor pathetic Wendy. Who could comfort her now in these times of need? Anywhere she turned the cold gaze of her husband followed her and ordered her to train herself to be an obedient wife. A poor trade indeed from a life filled with adventures. Oh how those promises where thrown to the ground as soon as Peter had obtained a place in the high class of society; properly seated and comfortable on Wendy's expense. This is not how the story was supposed to end.