How Neverland Ceased to Exist
Or,
When Peter Cried
A Short Story
(Disc.: I don't own Peter Pan.)
Everyone knows the story of how Peter Pan, the boy who wouldn't grow up, cried when he thought he'd lost his fairy companion, Tinkerbell. But no one knows the story of what happened after the story they all know. It is a very sad story, be warned. I am here to tell it, and tell it I shall.
I am Nibs. The only lost boy who stayed with Peter when everyone left Neverland to grow up with the Darlings.
It all happened the second he returned to the beloved island of Neverland. The tears started flowing, and they didn't stop. I hugged him, and told him everything would be alright. He cried for Wendy. He cried for Captain Hook, even if he was his arch enemy. He cried for Tink, he cried for John, Michael. He cried for the Lost Boys who were to grow up. But I believe, saddest of all, he cried for all the children who would come to Neverland over the years and not get to hear the Wendy Lady's stories.
He didn't comprehend love, didn't realize that all of the Lost Boys and Wendy loved him, although in two different ways. He didn't understand the way I loved him. Oh, how I loved him so. His story is a tragic one, yes, full of adventure and fun, but also of woe and angst. The angst of a little boy trapped in a teenager's body. He believed himself to be a little boy - he wasn't. The emotional part of him, the mental part of him, now in that respect he was a little boy. But physically, he wasn't a little boy. He refused to acknowledge this, and did quite the contrary. He tried to prove to me that, yes, he was so a little boy, pulling pranks, scraping himself up, bothering pirates, doing pointless stunts. He almost drowned once, but I couldn't bare to see him that way. I pulled him out before he had a chance to leave me.
He didn't know it at the time, but he attempted suicide. He cut himself, and hid it from me, making excuses, telling lies. He scraped his leg on a tree, or got into a duel with Hook, or he slipped on a rock. Always with the excuses, always with the lies. He couldn't deal with the emotional strain that was set upon him so strenuously.
They say he couldn't love. But did he not love Wendy, after she kissed him? And yet, he still claimed that he always wanted to be a boy and have fun, and that was all. How can one be in love, yet have the mind of a child? He was cursed. Although not by a magic spell, not by a fable… in truth he cursed himself, when he ran away from his mother as a baby. He cursed himself for a loveless life. After all, who would want to grow up anyway?
Then Wendy came along. She got the meaning of love through to him, sort of. She asked him about it, he always denied it. But after she left, it was all he ever spoke about.
'I miss Wendy, Nibs, shall you come along with me to London and fetch her?'
'Peter, Wendy is gone. She has gone to grow up. It has been five years since she left here, she has got to be almost an adult.'
But he always asked, every once in a while, when he seemed really depressed at the state of his once adventurous island that had morphed into nothing more than everyone's fantasy land. That was all it was after the villains were defeated, after the children were gone, after the storybook had been closed, just a beautiful fantasy land, good as only a paradise. It became a dark and treacherous world as Peter's depression grew. Dark circles formed under his eyes, in his sleep he called out,
'Wendy, Wendy, tell me a bedtime story',
'Wendy, why are you leaving me?',
'Wendy, come back!'
He was desperate. The trees lost their leaves, the water turned into a dark, churning wasteland, the sky crowded with so much rain and so many clouds that not even the gulls would fly. It became windy, and cold. Every living thing froze. The animals didn't want to come out anymore. It was hard to find food. So we went with hungry bellies, but Peter didn't care. He only cared for himself. He didn't even know how to care about me. Little children stopped coming. The fairies died. Peter went into rages, smashing things, hurting himself, a recluse into himself, into his own not-so-childish body. He ignored me. I was denied the warmth and happiness that he was denied, because, if Peter Pan wasn't happy, then no one was happy. The un-captained crew of the pirate ship plundered the little home under the ground one day, whisking us away into the dark, dank heart of the dingy ship.
Peter still didn't care. Up until the moment they slit his throat, he didn't care. But I cared. I clung to him like a spider, I refused to let him go. He fell, throat brutally sliced open, in my arms. I watched his eyes close, heard him whisper before he died, 'Take care of Neverland, N-i….bs'. I felt his heart stop, his breathing cease. I held him in my arms. I was spared.
And then I cried. But I only cried for Peter.
I became cabin boy. I was kicked around, a little ragged plaything for the restless crew. They never all slept at once. There was always one there, hovering over me like a hawk, whacking the backs of my legs when I lagged, endlessly polishing the silver, loading the weapons, sharpening the swords. I had no soul left, I never even attempted an assault on a single pirate, my mind was set on sheer survival. My hair grew long, wild. I was given different clothes, pirate clothes. I was made to wear shoes. Shoes that hurt, shoes that pinched, shoes that constricted. They all laughed at me, laughed at my obvious pain. Eventually I grew out of those shoes, and I never got a new pair. I thanked heaven for that.
I grew. I grew into a young man. I was once told you couldn't age in Neverland, but I guess this really wasn't Neverland without Peter. It was just… nothing. An alternate universe. Neverland had ceased to exist entirely.
One day I left. I up and left. Those pirates, they were so stupid. That fatefull day I discovered a pouch of pixie dust, tucked in with my old clothes. I put those on too, for who wants to escape from their own personal hell without the very possessions they were brought into it with?
I just up and left. I ended up in London. I was sixteen years old. I went to Kensington Gardens, the place where I was found by Peter as an infant. And then I sat down on a bench, under a fountain with a strange statue of a boy. It reminded me of Peter. And so I cried.
Now I cried for Peter.
I just cried for Peter. No one else, as he had, but just for Peter.
Fin.