TW: This chapter contains some racial slurs against indigenous people. These

slurs are said by antagonistic characters in the story and therefore not meant to be

interpreted as positive, but still, I put a warning just in case.

26. Trespasser

How long had he stayed seated there, on that bed, just… sitting? Doing nothing but savoring in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had an actual room? No painted ceiling, no attic, but... a room. One just for him? Given to him?

It was a bittersweet moment. He was happy, yes. And overcome with childish enthusiasm and gratitude at the mere thought of having a bedroom. But the time he spent sitting on that bed also led him down a path of realization.

Because… it only now dawned on Peter Lake that he'd always been a trespasser.

He'd trespassed upon Humpstone John's life. Taken what little he had. When he'd been small enough to be wrapped completely into that blanket, the one he had left behind, he hadn't been that much of a burden. John could afford the milk and he could spare enough room for a baby. Not much. But enough. He would carry him on his back. Take him to sea. To the docks. When little Peter's teeth grew, then John could give him clams and porridge.

When he had stopped being so small, at the age of seven or eight, then John had no choice but to send him away. He kept the "City of Justice" banner, the blanket. He swore to give them back to him someday. And he had kept his promise. Peter Lake trespassed on. Orphanage after orphanage.

And every one had large, large rooms with rattling beds and thin mattresses. And every one had smoke-smelling kids with miserable eyes and tremulous, devilish voices.

"C'mon, Peter! Peter Pan!"

He had stood on the rooftop so many times. Looking through the skyline of New York. Past the trees and the clouds. Searching desperately for the docks and Humpstone John. Sniffing the air. Struggling to catch a hint of salt.

And the voices echoed across the patio each day.

"What're you doing up there?"

"That's Peter Pan, that's why he's up there."

"Huh, no kidding!"

"Hey, c'mon! Yeah, I mean you, Peter Pan! Fly on down! We know you want to jump!"

"Jump!"

"Jump! Jump! Jump!"

And Peter would look down at their pebble-looking faces, so far away, so distant, and try to grab them and rub them between his fingers. But the wind would rise and his clothes would swell and he would quiver in the breeze. Instead, he would shout.

"I don't want to jump! I just want to see John!"

"Aw, ya do?"

"Open your eyes! Your injun daddy isn't coming for you!"

"Don't you call him that, you rat!" Peter would shriek.

"Ooh, he's angry, boys!"

"Look at how flushed his face got. Maybe he is actually an injun!"

"I will beat you to a pulp, you hear me?" Peter would shriek.

"That still won't change the fact that daddy John is dirt-poor and can't afford you! Why else do you think you're here?"

"He's getting real angry, boys! Should I be afraid?"

"Oh, you ought to be shaking in your boots!"

"What, you wanna fight, Peter Pan? Then fly on down and fight!"

Peter would later fly. Later in life. But not just yet.

Back in those days, he would stumble downstairs all the way from the rooftop, with his heart in his throat and embers in his eyes, and he would always want to fight, but every time, by the time he got down, he would find many of those pebble-faced kids under the shadow of a caregiver.

Their voices belonged to devils, yes, but devils spend a long time in Hell. Peter Lake figured that devils had much anguish to unleash if they hoped to remain sane.

He'd later trespassed on corners. Streets. Under lamplight and spotlight. He'd trespassed on wanderer's ears. He tried singing for a while. He would sing the national anthem. It was one of the few songs he could memorize off the top of his head. He was asked to dance once or twice, and those requests had thrown him off initially, maybe even frightened him, but he'd done it anyway. And he'd gotten coins for it. He'd trespassed on wanderer's pockets. His hand had skulked into many. He'd trespassed on purses and suitcases.

And… who had trespassed on whose life, when Pearly Soames came to him that day?

"Hello there, little Peter."

Pearly had. He trespassed. Peter was, for once, being the one whose existence, whose space, was being trespassed upon. He had been unaccustomed to it. So, of course, his first impulse had been to lie.

"Who're you talking to?"

"You, of course. You're Peter Lake, are you not?"

"No."

"No?"

He could see him now. Pearly's white face, cloaked in a veil of shadow, hidden under the flap of his fedora. The twisted shape of his mouth. The scar crawling, root-like, from his Adam's apple to his earlobe. In his youthful imagination, Peter Lake had imagined trees sprouting out of that flesh. And he had wanted nothing to do with that.

"My name is Pan. You got the wrong guy."

That had been a stupid lie. Not worthy of him. He was better than this. And Pearly… Pearly had known.

"Aren't you a little young to be so proud?"

"Sir?"

"What makes you think you can lie to me, boy?"

"I'm not lying."

"You're Peter Lake, fifteen years old," Pearly Soames had said. "You were found in a boat by fishermen when you were a baby. One of them raised you until he couldn't keep you anymore, an Indian, think his name was… Never mind. His name doesn't matter. What matters is you. You've been skipping from place to place and now you're in the streets, picking pockets and singing like a magpie. Don't lie to me, Peter Lake. You know better than that."

His voice was a humming rumble. An earthquake. An earthquake taking place far away, far enough to give Peter the opportunity to run, but also close enough to frighten him into a frozen trance. And that's what he had done. He had frozen. And Pearly had laughed.

"Aw, don't give me those eyes, little Peter," he'd said. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Like hell you're not," Peter had whimpered.

"You may be a liar, but I'm not. The name's Soames. Pearly Soames. See? I'm being honest with you."

"Don't you come any closer!"

"You may be a thief, but I'm not."

"Stop that."

"I want to make you an offer."

"I'm not interested."

"I bet to differ."

"You don't know me, Mr. Soames," Peter had said, snarling. "I'm doing just fine on my own."

The coins danced in his pocket. They were all he had. He had thought them so important, at that moment. He would have killed to keep them. Peter Lake admitted it now. He would have killed to keep them. And he could remember, too, that Pearly's jagged smile had deepened, as if he had sensed this desperation, this dark lust he'd felt, and seen it as a sign that he was heading in the right direction.

"No you're not. I mean, just look at yourself. Famished and hideous and snarling like a stray. All you have are those coins in your pocket. You can do better than this, little Peter. You've got talent, can't you see that?"

A talent. A talent to trespass. A talent to skulk into people's lives and people's pockets. Pearly had chosen him for being a trespasser.

And Peter Lake had let himself be taken away into the shadows. He had let himself be moved, like he had let himself be moved all his life. By the wind, by the caregivers, by poverty, by hunger. He'd let the world shape him into whatever it needed him to be. The wayward son. The wallflower. The singer. The dancer. The thief. The criminal. The scum of the earth. Pearly took him.

And twenty years had passed since then. In twenty years he had trespassed on so many homes. So many rooms. So many lives. He'd made friends he no longer remembered the names of. He'd believed falsehoods that he now could never see himself believing in the first place.

And then, all at once, he'd come to realize that the night had deepened and the stars had dimmed down in the sky and the weight of it, the sheer terror of that empty canvas, crashed down upon Peter Lake. And somehow he'd believed he had been responsible for it, this dark weight, this horrifying sky. And it haunted him. And Peter had left. And so had begun Pearly's pursuit.

When that happened, he'd trespassed back on John's life. He had run to him with his hands reeking of guilt and his eyes puddled in black. And John had embraced him and embraced him and Peter had broken down in tears like a child.

"Why are you hugging me? You don't know what I've done. You- You have no idea-"

"Oh, shut up, Peter." And his voice had been soft, so soft. John had clung to his clothes and his hair with all his might. He had buried his head on his shoulder. Peter was taller than him now. "Just shut up."

He'd tasted the sea again. Held his blanket and the little golden banner again. He'd felt a sliver of happiness at last, after so many years.

And he'd then trespassed again. John couldn't hide him. He couldn't do it. So Peter trespassed on Grand Central Station. Slept in a sky of paint. Put Cecil in danger countless times. Trespassed on his stables, his home.

And, finally… he'd trespassed on Beverly's home. Drank her tea, eaten her breakfast, found her heart, lay there, stayed there.

And trespassed, now, on this bedroom. Given to him willingly, yes, like Cecil had given him room, like John had spared some space, but not his, regardless. Not earned.

And now that was the question he had come to, after the minutes he'd spent sitting on that bed... How could he ever earn it?

If there's anyone here today, thank you for reading. It means a lot to me.