(Hi everyone.This is my first fan fiction so please don't be too harsh with me…don't make me walk the plank.First let me apologize for spelling mistakes,grammar and vocabulary mistakes.And also let mesay thatI own no character, all is from J.M Barrie's wonderful stories and the 2003 film with astonishing Jason Isaacs'performance as Cap.James Hook.For more about me and the things I do please visit my site.(see in my profile)

I'm preparing more chapters for this,but it will take me time since English is not my language and I have tons to do at university.

Enjoy and let me think what you think about this!)

Sweet dreams.

Old. Alone. Done for.

He opened his eyes to the darkness of the room, bathed by the moonlight and barely revealing the eerie familiar shapes of the mirror and closet. The room he always sleeps in. his home. His breath fast and unsteady, clutching desperately the sheets and blankets to his side and gazing around totally confused. When the childish uproar of chant faded away from his brain he sighed. It was again. It was again that nightmare. The shape of his wife, still sunk in her sleep, moved just slightly, groaning in her dreams. His wife. And his…hand. Ok, it was a dream. He took his glasses from the drawer and placed them in his nose. Then all turned into focus. He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to erase the last drops of fear and unsettlement in his mind. It was only a dream, a nightmare. The invention of your brain and the co-operation of a too large dinner, you silly...he muttered to himself trying to regain courage in the darkness. the only aspect that got really on his nerves was the fact that it was a recurrent nightmare and that he could not recall all the incidents in it, only pieces and sensations. Every night ever since the children's return from their escapade to who-knows-exactly-where-but-don't-even-dare-to-try-to-know he had had that dream. He had tried to fight back in the dream once he noticed that there was no escape to dreaming it all over once again every night. Honestly, he needed his sleep and he could not stay awake every night and then nooze in the bank over the accounts. Most improper and what would everyone think of his household?? He remembered a fight with swords. Swords? He had never brandished one of those! The first night it was...original in a sense. All so real and intense that when he woke up feeling the asphyxiating warmth of the croc's belly and the clinching of his fangs around him, he got up and stayed still rehearsing his movements in the shadows. Marvelling where on earth had he ever watched that to ever dream it. Maybe one of those silly theatre plays...

But, no that cost a lot of money and he rarely attended it on account of the expense. The second night it was...not that original but still he cherished all the dream till his defeat. He always lost, even though he had a good time till that deadly croc appeared...he felt always lost when he awoke, depressed and with the words still clinging in his ears .OLD. ALONE. DONE FOR.

After months having the same nightmare he had got more experience with sword fight, with dealing with...pirates? What...? How...?Ok, he thought, when I was little I used to read pirate stories...so that may be! I'm remembering those stories...Every night he fought only to loose over and over again. It was getting infuriating and he consciously got deeper and deeper into the actions, sensations of the dream. He pulled the sword even more furiously at the prat of that boy, he clinched his teeth and barked more orders to the pirates even more menacingly, he tried to kill Wendy first of everything instead of...Kill Wendy? He opened his eyes a bit ashamed and confused. What was that supposed to mean when you try in a dream to kill your children? to kill children anyway? To kill anyone anywhere anyhow? Definitely, he was going mad...or something he had eaten. Maybe he should give up the precious tea cups he drank everyday and try to soothe his nerves...But he had never commented on this to his wife, and he intended to never ever tell that to anyone. But he feared that someday somehow his behaviour would catch someone's attention and then people would begin wondering, posing questions and staring at him. But he could not tell anyone this! What would neighbours think about a maniac who in his wildest dreams kills all the children of an island and keeps on saying: there's no such thing as...??Fairies??

'Of course there's no such a thing as fairies!' he mumbled in the darkness, feeling silly at his own imagination. 'Whatever got inside your mind about that, George, to even have to repeat that to yourself all over again as if not believing...' He paused a bit uneasy. But of course there were fairies in his dream. What was the key to being in a dream with fairies and keep on with that phrase in your mouth spitting it all over and killing all fairy being and all children who DID believe in them? But they existed in his dream? 'Oh, poor me...'he sighed. Definitely he was going mad. Afraid that closing his eyes again would incite another rehearsal of this his eternal nightmare, he got up and went down the stairs, just pausing a bit uneasy at the nunnery door. He looked into and saw the children peacefully asleep, his eyes fixed on the children's innocent faces. It was only a dream…It had to be only a dream.

Man in the mirror

But if it was a dream,then it should be better called a nightmare.George,night after night,faced the same story.From beginning to the well-known end of death,demise,darkness and the rest of a restless night with open blue eyes. He would wake up as a lonesome, dashy, valiant and revengeful pirate who happened to have no right hand. Instead of a hand, a hook. Instead of a treasure hunt, a boy hunt. But in a pirate vessel, with a pirate crew who respected and feared him. But instead of sailing the seven deep blue seas he was condemned to fight with a boy of…ten? eleven? twelve? no more than that. The first night it was amusing, then it got boring and depressing. The fact that his very own children were in that story didn't make things better. It was frustrating to lose every night to the clamorous joyful chant of OLD. ALONE. DONE FOR. Worse still if they are your own children the ones singing in while you, the provider for their warm beds, food and silly games, is struggling for impossible happy thoughts. Happy thoughts? Have a croc there with open mouth just licking its lips wanting every drop of blood and inch of flesh from you and then tell me about happy thoughts! He could not,he simply could not go on struggling the inevitable end.Time was calling, eating him up at every moment. He would wake up all in sweat and anguish after having sealed his fate with a mournful, but noble expression, spitting the same words staring at the children who seemed to rejoice at his end. Old, alone, done for. And he lost again, and again and again. It was affecting him, and his attitude towards his family, especially the children. But, whenever he caught himself reflecting on his offspring's behaviour in his dream, he would repeat to himself with self-contempt: 'Stupid…it is JUST a dream!'. But morning after morning, after nights and nights he found it simply difficult to convince himself that it was only a dream. Every morning he would gaze at the man in the mirror. With a hand instead of a hook, with a bank clerk job instead of a ship; with a bundle of noisy and irreverent children instead of full command over stupid crewmen. He paused his thoughts, looking intensively over every feature of his face, every small wrinkle and defect on his skin. Old.The voice rang in his mind 'Old codfish'.

'you, flying scum' he grunted in his breath and to the blue eyes that looked back to him from the mirror 'sooner or later I will clip your wings'

(TO BE CONTINUED...)