'Consumed by madness,
swallowed by grief, &
possessed by longing.'
Wendy Darling knew a thing or two about rejection. Whispers would caress her ears, dripping with sweetness that was more faked than not, and Wendy would smile as if dazed and pretend she couldn't hear a word of it.
'Such a poor, misunderstood little thing.'
Wendy Darling would fix her eyes on the window, and let herself be carried somewhere else. A happier place, perhaps, but it wasn't always so. Some days, she was met with lost boys she cared for and who loved her in return, and some others, she was nothing but a captive locked in a cell of the Jolly Roger.
She remembered the smell. The smell of sweat, piss, salt and more often than not, bile. The memory was so vivid on her mind, it brought her to gag.
The nightmares haunted her more than anything else, though. The hook sliding down her skin, the hair whipping her face as she fell, fell, fell, and the memories of a boy who refused to grow up. Peter.
Peter Pan. The name seemed like a scar in the back of her mind, that she couldn't allow to heal. Like a cut she kept scratching open, over and over again, until it bled, until the skin was torn open and only then she would be satisfied.
Wendy Darling longed for him, no matter how much she willed herself not to. She had so badly wished to return to this real world that offered so many wonders, and yet, once her wish was granted, she realized Neverland wasn't as easily erased from her deepest desires as she had thought it would be. The longing only changed, until it was something sinister that made all those around her question her sanity.
John and Michael were the last willing to accept the truth of it. It was easy for them, Wendy realized, because they had moved on - they had forgotten - and almost all mentions of Neverland were but a fragment of Wendy's imagination to them. It was a dream, a funny notion of a make-believe land they had clung to as children.
But they were not children anymore.
The oldest Darling envied them for it, and yet, thought that to be a hollow existence at best. She could hardly hold it against them, though, because she pitied them.
Funny, the only one that ought to have been pitied was herself, but she was still coming to terms with that fact.
Peter had promised to come back, for her. So wait for him she would.
But he didn't come, and Wendy would toss and turn in the squeaky old bed of the nursery she refused to part with, the memories of him haunting her. The neighbors expected it when she would scream, cold sweat tricking down her spine and wails of agony resounding through the whole block. Her parents would apologize profusely, blaming the night terrors of their unwell child, but there was little that could be done for the poor little thing that was Wendy Darling.
Wendy Darling knew a thing or two about rejection. She would ponder it, as she sat in her much beloved window seat, the soft wind caressing her face as she listed all those who had turned her back on her since she had returned from Neverland.
The list only went on, and on, and on.
At one point, Wendy decided it would be easier to just try and list who hadn't.
But the cruel realization that there was no one left was more painful than any other thought. So she tried not to think about it. Too much.
Her mother came in one day, carrying a tray with a cup of tea that was meant to put Wendy to sleep. She so desperately needed it, and that much was clear with only one look at the prominent, purplish bags under her eyes, yet the notion of it had her squirming with dread. Her mother smiled, kindly, as if she was handling a petulant child. She could be awfully persuasive when she willed herself to be so.
She only nodded in return, lifting the cup up to her chapped lips, and braced herself for the nightmares to come. She remembered her mother stroking her hair, singing her to sleep.
Next thing she knew, Wendy was wailing and tossing, desperately trying to flee the pirates that chased after her. She called for Peter, for him to save her, as he had done so many times in the past.
But he never came.
Wendy Darling sobbed. Sobbed until there was no energy left in her to drain, until the uncontrollable shaking of her body became painful, until the shivers that arose goosebumps all over her skin had her hiccuping pathetically. She gripped her head, willing the awful images to go away, rocking back and forth on her creaking mattress.
By the time her mother and father came, she had vomited all over herself, and what a pitiful sight she made. Her mother, not unfamiliar with such, still brought a hand to her mouth in an attempt to hide her shock, yet her eyes said it all. Wendy thought to herself, 'what an awful daughter I am.' With her own reproach, as her mother fought back tears as she helped her out of her ruined nightgown.
The young girl had never meant for things to be so. She didn't want to be ill so. Was she truly? Was Neverland a figment of imagination that a mentally ill, delusional young girl produced? That's what all the doctors told mother, she pondered with a grave face. And surely, if any of it had been real, anything at all, Peter would've already come for her, as he promised he would.
Yes. That is it.
Wendy conceded at last, one day as she sat in her window seat, thoughtful eyes contemplating the second star to the right that she had always fancied shined only for her. Now, she was not so sure.
Now, she clung to the fantasy of what once was. If it had ever been at all.
What a poor little thing, they said. Poor little thing indeed, consumed by madness, swallowed by grief, & possessed by longing.