Author Notes: I've always been enchanted by the story of Peter Pan – the book was a delight, and the series from Fox was one of my favorite shows for many years. The recent live-action movie was beautifully done, much better than the Disney movie, and I even enjoyed Hook despite how far it deviated away from the book. Although you probably haven't seen me around this section too often (I leave occasional reviews, but I find there are too many Mary-Sues here), I do love Peter Pan fanfiction – particularly by those who frequent the Pirates Cove, though I daresay they don't know me.
This is just a short piece inspired by the part of the book that mentions how Peter would take children up to heaven so they wouldn't be afraid and the idea that there must be many who, like Wendy, were entranced by the notion of Peter Pan but never achieved meeting him, leading to wasting away after their dreams and taking them to insanity.
Disclaimer: This is based on the novel, which I most certainly did not write. J.M. Barrie was a master with words and spinning a tale, and I, simply, am not. Thus I shall not take credit for the creation of Barrie's masterpiece, although this particular story is mine.
I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review :)
Insanity
Written by Celestra (AKA El S)
His parents were worried. Oh, he knew they were worried, but he didn't let it bother him. When Peter came, he could show his parents and they would know that he had been right all along.
At first his parents hadn't minded his never ceasing chatter about the Eternal Youth. They were even pleased that their little darling had found a novel that he was so passionate about. It was always "Peter this," and "Peter that," and "how I wish I could be a lost boy!"
Therefore they weren't very surprised when their little boy became very adamant about seeing the new live-action film, although they started to become concerned when he became a little too agitated for their tastes when he couldn't see it the very first day it was released.
They got a little annoyed the seventh time he made them pay to go see it again.
Then came the time where he would immerse himself with research on Peter Pan, only leaving his computer when it was absolutely necessary. Often the only time he would speak with his anxious parents would be to tell them some new fact he learned about the play or the author or some obscure minute detail they really could care less about.
Smile and nod. Smile and nod.
Their obsessive son found other Pan-like items – illustrations and essays, the Disney movie (which he detested as in his mind the original magic had been ruined in a flash of music, scary tights, and nightmares), and a charming television series from the nineties that immediately had him enraptured. His parents became very worried indeed when their little dear threw fit after fit in anger that the show had been cancelled and he would have great difficulties watching all of the episodes.
Oh, of course his parents had attempted to quell this behavior, which was becoming more alarming by the day. They tried many things – feigning interest, ignoring anything that had to do with this infamous sprite-child, hiding the paraphernalia, among other things. But the worst had been when they had attempted to ban Pan altogether from the household – their little boy had been most beastly and destructive until they lifted the ban again the next week from sheer exasperation.
Although they disliked they idea of taking their baby to a doctor, they tried that also, with very few results. The boy would either sit in complete silence, twiddling his thumbs with his eyes out of focus, lips moving occasionally, or just ignore the doctor's questions altogether and chatter non-stop about his hero. When this happened with four consecutive doctors, they decided to quit that idea.
By far the most worrying phase was when their little sweetheart plunked himself in front of his windowsill and just stayed there. He would not move for anything – or at least, they never saw him move. There was evidence that he went to the bathroom, but other than that he stayed put and just stared.
His mother asked him once what he was doing, when this first started out. Surprisingly, he gave a real answer, or as real as he could – "I'm waiting for Peter to come take me with him," he said in his plain childish voice. His mother had frowned, disapproving, but unwilling to disturb him. He would move eventually, right?
Wrong.
He would not move for anything, neither meals nor playmates nor other enticing things. His parents tried many things to get him away from the wretched window – bribes, pleading, yelling, and that quiet disappointed speech that always seems to work so well on children . . . but not this time. Once his father even attempted to bodily move him away for school, but he would always wriggle away and scamper back.
His mother would bring him meals as he would not leave to get them himself, but eventually both parents decided that maybe if they didn't bring him anything eventually he would get hungry enough to come down himself.
They tried this for a while but never saw him leave in their waking moments. They came to visit at last and saw their boy starved for sleep and looking most unhealthily pinched.
"Oh, mother, of course I've eaten," he explained when she asked. But she saw no sign of a crumb anyplace and hastened to ask what he had eaten.
"Pretend food, of course. Peter is always saying how that's the best kind!"
"What?! You've had nothing-?!"
"Neverberries and gooseberry pancakes and-"
The father had to force-feed his child, who was wasting away in the midst of his own dreams.
Finally there came a time when they looked upon the windowsill and saw naught but the fluttering curtains. At first the parents were overjoyed and searched the entire house, hoping to see the smiling face of their son come back from the brink of insanity. But instead they found a little note, tacked neatly to a cushion with clear printing stating that he was on his way to London because it would be so much easier for Peter to find him there.
His parents fretted and fretted and went out, searching the streets and alleys and speaking to whomever would stop, all the while wondering how their little boy, who lived in North America, thought he could ever make it all the way to London on his own.
The police and the neighbors searched as well, but it was two days later when they found something – the newspapers, reading how a certain little boy was found curled up in an alley, frozen to death, with glassy eyes fixed determinedly to the right of a clock tower.
His parents wept and wept, thinking of all the ways they could have prevented this and most grievous about their loss.
"We should have stopped his obsession before it reached this insanity," they often lamented together.
Meanwhile, a little ghostly boy trudged along sadly, unseen, unfelt, and unheard by all.
'They'll never know,' he thought softly as a boy much more solid than he flew down from the star-kissed sky.
'I'm not insane . . . just patient.'
Peter extended a hand. "Don't be afraid now . . . you'll find that Heaven will be just as good as Neverland. . . "
'It's not quite Neverland . . . but I knew I'd meet Peter someday . . .'