I can hear Henry's footsteps slowly descending down the stairs of my treehouse. I slump even further back into the pillows of my bed. I cover my face with my hands and groan. I can't believe I've just lied to Henry, to convince him of Pan's morality, to make him believe. I know exactly what believing gets you and it's so far from what I'm making him believe. I feel a knot in my stomach beginning to grow. How am I to remain in Neverland if I don't remain good?

I hear the floorboards creak and I don't even have to look to know it's Pan. I uncover my eyes and glare at him. He grins back. "Well done, couldn't have played the part better myself," he says appreciatively. He leans against the foot of my bed. "Very convincing, Wendy. Excellent job."

I sit up in bed and refuse to meet his gaze. "I don't like lying to him," I say vehemently.

"Oh, don't think of it as lying," Peter drawls out. "Think of it as providing motivation." I toss back the covers and slip out of bed. The floor is almost unbearably cold on my feet . I stroll over to the table in to corner with some bread and water. I rip off a piece of bread and chew it. It tastes like dust. "Don't you want to know what he needs motivation for, Wendy?"

I already know and it makes me want to know even less. I remain silent and stare down at the bread in my hand. A breeze from the window across the room whips through me and tosses my hair and nightdress around. It's uncharacteristically cold for Neverland. "I know all too well, Peter, what he needs motivation for," I grind out.

I hear Peter laugh and then the creak of the springs of my mattress. He's made himself at home here. He's here often enough for this tiny little treehouse to be his second home. I don't know why he comes so often. I don't want his company. I'm fairly certain he doesn't want mine. We often just sit in complete silence, which gets hard for him very quickly. He always needs to be talking, prattling on about some terrible deed he and the Lost Boys have done. When he's feeling particularly wicked, he mocks me. Taunts me about my family, all the stupid things I've done that led up to me being trapped here. More often than I'd like to admit, I take the bait. I retaliate. Screaming, yelling, cursing. Once or twice, I've even smacked him across the face. It was satisfying for all of five seconds before he had grabbed me by the wrists and snarled into my ear that I was going to regret it. And I did. Those were the times he'd leave me out in the forest all night long, being taunted and chased by the Lost Boys in some sick version of hide and seek. The vast majority of the time when I had upset him, he'd just lock me up in that awful cage up in the trees. The branches its made out of are spike and thorny. They leave my whole body covered in scratches and bruises. I rub my palms and look down at them. Sure enough, they're covered in scars from that cage.

I shake my head. Convincing Henry to believe in Pan has only further secured more scars from that cage and nights trapped in that godawful cage. I should have told him the truth. Told him every single terrible thing, finally told someone besides Peter what it's like to live on this hell of an island. God, it would have been so satisfying. To have someone care, or empathize with me, or just to be a decent human being. It would have been like breathing after almost being drowned, toss off the weight of the world from my shoulders. But what good would that have done? I would be punished and Henry would be trapped here forever, just like me.

"Come now, Wendy," Peter croons. "Say the words, I know you know them." I remain still and silent. I can't choke out those words. I hate them too much. They make me remember all those years ago, how I signed my death warrant. I can't believe how trusting and stupid I was back then. Willingly offering up my heart to Peter. I had trusted him with my heart. It makes me sick to even think it. I had believed him, cared for him, kissed him. I feel like washing my mouth out with soap just thinking about it, thinking about how safe I felt, how loved I felt, how good it tasted. I don't know why Pan needs me to convince Henry of giving up his heart, when all it took were a few strategically placed smiles and an acorn.

But I suppose Henry isn't a foolish girl looking for her brother on some mad quest. He's much smarter and quicker, but possibly just as kind as I'd like to believe I still am. That's where he'll fall down, he's too kind to let poor helpless Peter lose his island.

"Bird, talk to me," Peter commands. "This is a very dull conversation." His whims fall on deaf ears. I don't want to have this conversation, I won't. It's like running my mind and soul along the thorns of the cage.

I stand rigid, my hands gripping the back of the chair. I can't relieve those days, when the memories of my brothers, my mother and father, my home were so fresh. Why can't he just leave me alone? I hear Peter let out an exasperated huff behind me. "Fine, if you won't say it, I will," he says coolly. "The Heart of the Truest Believer. That's why I needed you to lie to Henry." I roll my eyes. At least he'll admit that he got me to lie. I've got to have the small victories at least. "Do you remember when you gave me your heart?" he taunts.

I grip the back of the chair so hard my knuckles turn white. My heart beats loud in my ears. "No," I grind out finally.

"No you don't remember? Or no you don't want to?" Peter taunts again. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down. My heart feels like it's being dragged over thorns and spikes.

"Just leave me be, Peter," I say quietly. "Just get out."

"Oh, no," Peter says with a fake pout. "Is this conversation too painful for you?"

"No, it's not." Yes, it is.

"Then why do you want me to leave?" I hear the floorboards creak and I know that he's standing right behind me, looking down over my shoulder. His breath is hot on my neck and I feel his gaze in the back of my head.

"Because I hate you," I say simply. Hate isn't even the right word. It's so much more than that. It's far past loathing and anger and hatred. It's so much more. I can't seem to grasp the words.

Pan humphs behind me. "Well, that's not very nice." I let out an aggravated sigh. He never takes my bait, never reacts. I never get the rise out of him the way I want. I feel like shaking him or hitting him, just for him to get angry with me the way I do with him. It means that I have some power over him, some ability to make him see that he's a bastard.

"I don't care. Get out."

"You know, bird, it's very hard to have a conversation when you're not facing me."

"I don't want to look at you."

"No?"

"No, I don't."

"You can't tolerate the sight of me."

"No, I can't. Not when all of this is happening."

"All of what is happening?"

"This repeating of history, Henry being the… the-"

"Truest Believer, you can say the words. Remember how easy it was for you to hand it over?" He steps closer and I jolt away. I stomp towards the window across the room and lean against it, looking out into the dense forest.

"Go away, Peter. I already have to live with this, like this. You don't have to remind me," I let out quietly. I don't hear the floorboards creak and I'm relieved that Peter has stayed in his place.

"Complain all you want, Wendy, but you were the one who gave me your heart,"Peter grouches out.

I whip around and glare at him. "Yeah, I was and I wish you had kept it so I wouldn't have to live like this!" I burst out. Hot, angry tears prickle the back of my eyes and I wipe away at them, furious. Peter stands at the table, leaning against it, as if for support. He seems to have no words so I continue. "And I don't even know why you didn't use it. It was the perfect time. You wouldn't have to worry. It would have been so easy. Why did you drag out this hell?" I rake my fingers through my hair and bite back the lump in my throat. "Every day, I wake up and live out this torture with you and the Lost Boys, knowing I've failed my family, that I gave up a chance at a normal life, that they went to their graves thinking I abandoned them. And I don't even know why you did it. It makes no sense. What made you keep me prisoner here? I never did anything to you. I just wanted my brother back." By this time, tears are rolling down my face and Peter is still standing rigid at the table, silent as ever. I sink down to the floor and lean my head against the wall. I'm angry with myself that I've let this go so far, that I'm such a mess in front of Peter, giving him the rise he wants, but part of me is proud that I've finally said the words both of us have been thinking for centuries. I close my eyes and rub my temples. I hear the floorboards creak once more and when I open my eyes, Peter has knelt down in front of me with a curious look on his face.

"Well, that wasn't like one of your usual outbursts," he says absently. "It's very funny how you spiralled out of control so quickly. You usually just throw things."

I meet his gaze and glare. "Get out."

"I must say, it was actually a lot more entertaining," he prattles on. "The next time I see you, I should like-"

"Get out!" I cry. I coil my hand up and slap him hard across the mouth, harder than I've ever done before. My hand makes a satisfying crack against his cheek. We both stay still for a moment and try to grasp just how hard I've hit him. I begin to prepare myself for his retaliation but it never comes.

I watch him slowly stand up above me, rubbing his bruised cheek all the while. He brushes himself off and turns quickly on his heel. He moves quickly across the room to the stairs and jogs down them. I hear the door to the treehouse slam behind him and hear the crunch of his feet on the rocks outside.

I sit in the silence, with my hand tingling from the slap and more confusion and hurt hanging on my heart than ever.