I do not own Peter Pan.
Summary: Playing pretend was always Wendy's favorite game as a child. Now, as an adult, she wouldn't have trouble either. Semi AU, Wendy is a Jewess during the time of World War II. She has been living in Germany for several years when the war breaks out. Jane hasn't been born yet.
She chewed down on her rations, stale bread breaking in half, choking on, biting down on dust, sipping sour soup, burning her tongue. She ate every single crumb, and soon she would be going back to work, to sew for the uncaged people, the birds who flew freely. Wendy recalled the time that she was able to fly. Her wings had been broken by war, and pixy dust would be of no help now. She was no longer gay and innocent and heartless. She wished it so, to fly away from her prison and back to Neverland. She wished it so.
She could pretend, pretend like when she was a little girl. She would play pretend. When she was a child, she would pretend that she could fly to Neverland without the help of pixy dust, and pretend that she wasn't melting when Peter smiled at her, and pretend that she didn't want to be much more than a mother. On some occasions, when Wendy was feeling especially hopeless, she would pretend that Peter had given her a thimble of his own accord, or that he would say that he would like it much if he could keep her all to his self, rather a wife than a mother. Now, seventeen, was she still heartbroken? Of course not, but how she longed to see him again! She wished anything to be free of this dreadful war.
But at least for now, she would pretend. The stale bread was delectable and melted on her tongue, like a snowflake, but not like the dirty ones that rained down on her here, in this ghetto. It melted so fast, pure, white, much like a snowflake did in her mouth, when she was but a child in London. The dust was French brie, smooth, delicious, cooling, and comforting. Her mother used to bake bread just like this for breakfast, and she smothered healthy, thick layers of French brie on the many slices of bread. The sour soup that burned her tongue was the soup her mother made her when she was sick, delicious, healing her from the inside out.
Oh, yes, how Wendy loved playing pretend. Playing pretend was always Wendy's favorite game as a child. Now, as an adult, she doesn't have trouble doing it. The only trouble about playing pretend as an adult is the bitter realization afterwards. Wendy was growing up, and neither pretending nor pixy dust or even Peter Pan could save her now. The war would never stop. She would never fly again. She would never be a Wendy bird, as she had been five years ago.
The Wendy bird is calling, crying, singing, inside, inside, forever caged.
I'd appreciate it if you would review, seeing as it's my first story in this fandom, but you don't have to if you really don't want to.