- NOTE : THIS STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING AND USES CONCEPTS OF SELF HARM -

My Aunt Jane told me the story when I was six. The ginger-haired boy who saved her from the dangerous pirates, the boy who taught her to fly. I believed the story for a while, until I turned twelve and I started to hate the idea of magic or fairytales. My Aunt Jane began to grow sad; depressed and upset all of the time, anxious and worrisome, barely speaking and eating. Whenever she visited the family on holidays, I would try to talk to her but she'd always find a way to get out of conversation. Several years later she moved to the States and we were only able to talk to her over the phone, which wasn't often. The reason for her depression and anxiety was unknown to the entire family. My mother told me she simply snapped; she'd been depending on make-believe stories for so long that once she realized they were all simply dreams she became sad.

My mother is Jane's adopted sister. Jane and my mother got along pretty well, but my mother didn't get along with Uncle Danny, though. They always end up fighting. He stopped believing in fairy tales at a young age (which my mother always said was surprising since he loved pirates so much) and he became angry and sad, just like Jane.

For a while, the boy who could fly made them happy and cheerful and he saved them from the terrible reality of the War that was happening during that time. But when they stopped believing, it was like they died. They became cold as ice.

I suppose he does that to people. His name was Peter Pan. I refuse to believe in him any more, because if I continue to believe then I'll break like Jane and Danny and I don't want to be sad and cruel and cold.

I nearly forgot about Peter Pan until the night I turned fifteen. I sat on my bed in the darkness, staring out my window. Things were becoming bad for my family. My father lost his job and mother was stressed. They fought often and I couldn't remember the last time she kissed him. And my birthday had been forgotten; no cake, no presents. No laughing and smiling and blowing out candles. I didn't mention it. I wouldn't want them to fight more over the fact that they had forgotten something silly and stupid, like a birthday. It's just one birthday. I'd have another next year and the year after that and the year after that.

But I was still sad; upset and slightly angry. It was slightly my fault; I hadn't reminded them or dropped any hints. I barely talked to them at all, and when we did talk, they were yelling at me because of my bad marks in school or because I didn't come home from school on time. But who would want to come home from school (which was hell) when all they came home to was pain and sadness (and an even hotter hell)?

I stood up and tip-toed to my desk, rummaging through the drawers until I found what I was looking for. A small pocket knife, sharp and shiny with a nice pointed tip perfect for cutting. I hadn't harmed myself in months; I'd forced myself to stop when my mother nearly saw the cuts at dinner one night. But now she didn't notice me at all; she practically neglected me, like I was some kind of pet she could just forget about. She wouldn't notice. She never noticed.

I closed the drawer and locked my door. I walked to the window and sat down on the window seat, looking outside at the cold town. Snow drifted down from the clouds, blanketing the city. I rested my cheek against the glass as I rolled my sleeve up and began to make them; short, deep cuts. Ten of them, evenly spaced out along my arm, all covered in tiny bubbles of blood. I let a tear roll down my cheek as I grabbed a tissue and wiped the blood away, wiping the knife down. I closed the pocket knife and threw it across my room, watching it slide under my bed. I rolled my sleeve back down as the tears began to flow, faster now, until I was sobbing quietly in my room, the hours ticking bye until it was two in the morning.

I turned to the window again, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my right forearm. I looked up at the sky, my eyes scanning the empty, black surface. Well, almost empty, except for the moon and the two glittering stars next to it.

'Second star to the right.'

I pushed the thoughts away, looking back down at the city. That stupid fairytale from my childhood. What was he called? Peter Pan?

As soon as I remembered his name the story flooded back to me, filling my mind. Ginger hair, flying, fighting pirates, friendship, fun, smiling, happy, lost boys, paradise.

I choked back more tears as I unlatched the window, pushing the windows open. The cold January wind blew into my room, causing my eyes to sting. A snowflake landed on my hand as I stared out at the city, my eyes slowly going upwards until they rested on the second star to the right. I scanned the sky, looking for any other stars, but no. Just those two.

And then a shooting star. I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut, quickly making a wish. 'I wish to be happy.'

And after minutes of watching the sky, those minutes turned into hours and I laid down on the window seat, curling into a ball and falling asleep, my window open, my air becoming as cold as the winter world beyond my bedroom.