I don't own Peter Pan

I can't feel it anymore.

The pain.

I still hear it, of course.

That awful clap that his rough hand makes against my face. Every time I hear it, my heart jumps into my throat.

But I haven't felt the pain in years.

It's still there, but I've learned to push it away. Into the farthest reaches of my mind. I have more important things to worry about now.

Grown up things.

I'll be twelve soon. That's nearly grown up.

I'm not quite sure what I think of this. I don't really like being a kid. I can't stand up for myself. As soon as I'm grown up, I'm sure father will stop, but he'll keep going as long as he can. As long as it takes for me to strike back.

But I've seen what growing up does to people. It makes them boring. They're no fun anymore. It happened to my sister, Anne. She used to be lots of fun. Now all she does is talk about her new baby and finances and proper manners.

Proper manners, my boot.

If I could, I'd go someplace where I'd never have to grow up.

Away from my father and my sister.

I could be a boy forever. But that's foolish. That sort of thing only happens in storybooks. None of it's real. I need to stop daydreaming and face reality before it's staring me straight in the face.

In a few years, I'll be a grown up with grown up thoughts and grown up responsibilities. And my father will continue to beat the living daylights out of my grown up body, long after I've left it behind. It's the nightmare that I can never wake from no matter how hard I pinch myself.

That is, until she comes along.

I don't know exactly how to describe her. She's beautiful, that's for sure, but I couldn't tell you what she looks like. She's bright and golden. Everything about her makes you feel good inside. Especially her laugh. It reminds me of a creek. Bubbly and refreshing. Lighthearted. Good intentioned. Not things I'm used to at home. Not things I'm used to anywhere. She's smaller than my hand. I've never held anything more delicate. I have a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach whenever I see that familiar trail of pixie dust flitting through the air.

And I just want to thank her. For saving me. For convincing me that everyone needs a bit of foolishness. Who's to say the things in storybooks aren't real? Who's to say I have to grow up?

Thank you, Tinker bell, for giving me faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

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