Here we got, the final installment of Pixie. This started out as a whim, erm, how long ago? Whoa, a year and a half ago! I thank every single reviewer, especially the ones who've been sticking with this story after so long. I never would have stuck with this story if not for all of you.

And this what, my third story I've ever finished?

Gaara is from Naruto, Edward is from FMA, Warheads aren't mine (very yummy, but not mine). I believe that's all the copyrighted things mentioned.


Chapter Eleven

"What?" Did I hear him wrong? Why would he say something like that to me?

"You heard me. But I'll say it again anyway, because I like the look on your face. You are a stupid whore." He's smiling at me, and everything about him seems so normal. Except for those knife words spilling from his lips.

"Is this some sort of joke?" Of course it is! What else could it be?

"No. This is what I really think of you. The past few months have been hell. But it'll be pretty worth it. I think." He puts on a thoughtful look, and smirks at me. He's never smirked at me before. Why is he doing this? Are those tears running down my face?

"Padriac, what's wrong?" He must be in a bad mood. I know him, there's no way he could say these things to me and mean it. He loves me.

He growls and grips his hair in two hands, as if he's going to pull it out in frustration. "Don't you get it? Are you that thick? I was playing with you. I never liked you at all, actually. I always thought that group you embedded yourself in were all . . . scum. Including you."

Is this true? Have I been in his eyes simply a bitch to be toyed with on a whim? I'm leaning against the stones that make up the bridge, holding my face in both hands, as if by sheer will I can stop the tears from flowing.

"The only reason I stuck with it this long was because I got an ingenious idea for Juliette's birthday present."

I freeze. No. Juliette, too?

The girl who lent me anime to watch? The girl who squealed along with me at the hot anime guys? The girl who despite her small stature launched herself into a crowd of pushing people? The girl who could sit in her room and read the whole day away? The girl who taught me to stop caring about other people's opinions on me?

She hates me, too? Were all those moments just an act, a front she put up as she laughed at me behind my back?

"I don't believe you," I snap at him, my voice raspy from tears, but my tone firm. No. If there's anything Juliette is, it's true. "She would never do anything like that! She's not like that!"

"This is her birthday present, Pixie," he sneers, "she doesn't know about it y—"

"I know about it now, Padriac." Juliette. She's standing behind Padriac, and I can barely catch sight of someone with her. Her eyes are cold, too cold. They aren't her eyes, are they?

Padriac spins around to face her. "You're here? Well, that saves me time in explaining it. Don't you think it's—" His words wither away when he sees her expression.

"You thought this would make me happy? You thought seeing someone crying miserably after you take her heart out and step on it viciously would be estastic with joy? Is that the opinion you have of me?" Her voice is cracking, but no tears are on her face. I know how much she hates to have people see her cry.

"I know you hate the kind of person she is, Juliette. Ignorant of everyone's pain but her own, which is practically non-existent. Snobby towards everyone who isn't like she is. Horrible taste in music. Those kind of people have tried to make your life hell for years, and you don't hate her?" He's pleading with her to understand his reasoning? He doesn't know him as well as he thinks he does, I think triumphantly. It doesn't make me feel better, though.

"You know, what a twist of fate that, yes, I probably would have disliked her a lot if I hadn't read If I Should Die Before I Wake. I . . . I wasn't feeling up to hating anyone. So I decided to be nice to a stranger. How could I possibly know what she was like, anyway, if I just hated her off the bat. And . . . " she stops, and looks down at the ground for a moment, before returning her steady gaze to Padriac. "Her taste in music isn't that horrible. She likes Asian Kung-Fu Generation. "

Still trying to lighten the mood, Juliette? It's too late, the mood is like those huge pianos in the cartoon, just falling, ready to land on us all and squish us flat.

"Why, Padriac? When did you start thinking you were God, that you could play around with her as if she were a toy?"

"For . . . for you, Juliette. You didn't seem to notice what I thought of you, did you?" He sounds nervous, so nervous. This whole time . . . he's liked Juliette?

"I guess I was too absorbed in liking you?" She chuckles dryly, running a hand through her hair. The chuckle fades, and we're all quiet.

"Let's go, Juliette." It's Kristen, I realize, the person who had arrived with Juliette.

"I love you." Who said it, Juliette or Padriac? Did it matter? This was all falling apart around me. If I hadn't been such a stupid, snobby bitch, none of this would have happened. Peter was right. I wanted to grow up too fast. Even Juliette, even Padriac, everyone wants to grow up too badly, and this is why we trap ourselves in these mazes, with the walls made of the lies we tell and the feelings we hide and hurt we inflict.

"No you don't, Padriac. You don't even know me, if you think something like this would make me happy. Pix is my friend." She walks away, away from me, despite me being 'her friend.' Kristen takes her hand, and they leave, and I wonder if my eyes are deceiving me, or if Juliette's shoulders are shaking.

And it's Padriac and me are left alone again. Everything has been put down plainly on table, and I'm lying there, my heart pumping out blood all over the cards. We don't say anything. And then he leaves, and then I leave. I hope I never see him again, because I don't know if I'll be able to hold back.

I'm shaking from anger, from hurt, as I stagger down the streets. I don't notice anything around me, at least not until the shouts cut through my broodingly thoughts. I would have ignored them if the words hadn't caught my attention.

"Faggot!"

"Peter, you're such a little faggot boy!"

"Cocksucker!"

Peter. No. No, goddamn it, this is more than I can take right now. I've had my heart split into two pieces and now they're beating up on Peter.

Peter. I think back on him, on his innocent smile, his carefree existence. He's the best of all of us. He's stuck to me, like gum on the bottom of my shoe, despite my bitchiness. I owe him.

I follow the voices, the yelps and screams getting louder, and each cry of pain makes me run faster. They're in an alley, and it's a group of five guys. I know them all. I've considered them friends, and I've gone to parties with them. But as soon as I see them, hitting the small figure splayed on the ground with sticks and their fists and rocks, I don't care. They could have been my brothers for all I cared at that moment.

I'm sick of this. Why did this happen? Peter never did anything bad at all. Sure, sometimes he was cheeky, but never spiteful, never cruel, never violent. He was like a child. Who could throw those words at him, hit him so angrily?

I throw myself into them, all fists and nails and teeth. I want to kill them, and they're all Padriac to me in that moment. I don't have a lot of strength, but the fact that Pix, one of them,is fighting with them is enough to make them pause. When they've stop beating on Peter, I crawl over to him. He's bleeding, and unconscious, and black and blue, and I can see the tears still drying on his cheeks. He looks like angel.

"What are you doing?" I snap at the five guys towering over me.

They share confused glances before one of them answers me. "He's a fucking faggot. What's it matter?"

One of the less confident guys pipes up—his name is Jim—"You're not going to tell, are you?"

"Of course she isn't, stupid! We know Pix, guys. She wouldn't—"

"To hell I wouldn't!" I scream, facing them, rage making me see red. "You're beating up a defenseless boy who's never done anything to you!" With sticks and stones and fists and bones. It sounds like some sort of bittersweet lullaby.

"He's a faggot, he deserves to know that what he is wrong." Thomas is saying this, and I realize how much a stranger he is. Or maybe he isn't. Maybe I've just been ignoring this side of him, this side of everyone. Even of Holly, and Hannah, and Brenda. Would they laugh tomorrow when the guys updated them on their activities of the day before?

No, they wouldn't. I was telling the police.

"He's not a faggot! Even if he were, what does it matter? He's never lifted a finger against you!" I feel a hand lift me off the ground by the throat, and I begin gagging reflexively.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you Pix?" His voice sounds sugary nice, but his angry sneer and fist say otherwise.

"Fu . . .CK . . . yo . . ou," I choke out. I would have spit on him, but that sort of thing only happens in the movies. I can barely speak. He drops me on the ground, and I think that he's letting me go. That is, before I feel the foot in my back, and the air leaves my lungs.

And suddenly they're all on me, hitting me instead of Peter, angry words and angry hands beating at me with equal passion. I feel the blood, and I'm drowning in it, it seems. It's in my eyes and I can't stop screaming.

"If you tell anyone we'll kill you."

Then they're gone and hear voices.

Then I don't see anything else for a long while.


Where am I? I ask Peter, who's sitting on a cloud lazily. He's grinning easily, and all his bruises and everything is gone from his body.

Neverland. I'll let you stay here, if you want. Neverland? My mother's invisible land, full of children and magic?

You live here? I'm on a cloud myself, and the fluff beautiful and soft beneath my fingers. This place is wonderful.

Not here. Below. I look down, and I see an island and a large beautiful ocean. It takes my breath away. This place is amazing. Do you want to stay?

I look around at the air that doesn't smell of smog and pollutants—Juliette would love it here—and down at the oceans with waves that fall onto the clean sand deliciously, and at the plants which grow strong and tall without humans trying to control them.

But I know I can't live here, this isn't my place, I don't belong here. This is a land for the innocent, for the believers. Even me, someone who's had a relatively good life, if too jaded for this place. I'm too old. I shake my head at Peter, and I think he knew what my answer was going to be. Thank you for asking, Peter. Thank you for . . . everything.

I didn't do anything, Pixie. He's wrong. He's changed me completely, and I know that when I go back home I will never be able to go back to being that same girl I was before I met him. He gave me courage, and he showed me loyalty.

I'll miss you, Pixie.

I'll miss you, too, Peter. Good-bye.

The cloud he's lying on is being swept away from me, and he's fading away already, now only a smudge of green. I wave at him, although I'm not even sure he can see me. The tears are flowing down my cheeks again, but they're not so much tears of sadness, as happiness. Peter really is the best of us all.

When I open my eyes, I see the white ceiling above me, and I can hear the steady beeping of the machine next to me, reading my heartbeat. I'm in the hospital.

And then it all comes back to me, and I feel the ache in my limbs. I try calling out to someone, but my voice isn't listening to the demands of my brain. Finally, after when feels like hours, I hear a loud crow of happiness.

"She's awake, Jack!" It's my Granola. I close my eyes, but I can't stop the smile from spreading across my face at the sound of her voice.

A stampede of footsteps come closer and I turn my head slowly to gaze at them. I see the obvious ones, Granola, and father and brother. "What a shame, your friends just left, too," my father says in a nonchalant tone, but he doesn't say more about that when he starts fussing. "Does it all hurt an awful lot? I'll get the doctor if it hurts too much, okay, honey?"

"It's okay," I manage to rasp out.

Peter.

"Where's Peter?" I vaguely remember the dream with him in it—because it was a dream, I know it, my inner self just related the Peter of my mother's stories to this Peter—but I remember him lying limply on the ground much more vividly.

None of them look at me at me in the face. A feeling of dread begins to grow in my stomach.

"He's dead." Juliette is standing in the doorway, leaning against a side of it. She's trying to look casual, but one look at her red eyes disproves that. "Who did that to him, Pixie?" She's direct, and she's not shielding me from the truth. I don't know if I love her for this, or if I want to kill her for being so blasé.

"What do you think you're doing? She's relaxing, and she'll get asked these questions back professionals, once she's better." My father is so worried about me, I think with a smile. It feels nice. But this is more important.

"Their names are Jim," I have to stop and regain my breath, which causes a sharp pain in my chest, "Thomas, Harry, Niel, Christopher."

"Christopher Morrison?" My father asks incrediously. "That boy that was always so sweet towards you? That you went to that dance with last year?" I don't want to talk anymore.

Peter is dead. That one fact is weighing down on me so heavily. I should have been there faster. I should have done something more. And then he might still be alive.

"You tried to help him, Pixie, which is more than anyone else did." Juliette walks out without another word, and the rest of my family is silent.

"Rest, Pix," Granola murmurs soothingly, and patting my head with her thin, wrinkled hand. Yes, that sounds nice. In my dreams I can pretend I saved him. I can pretend I'm not a useless bit of space.


A year later

I'm sitting in the cemetery with Juliette, and we're sharing a bag of Warheads. I wish Peter were here. He would have loved them, and we could have scuffled with them in our mouths to see who could hold that sour taste in our mouths the longest. Juliette would have won.

Instead, Juliette buries a Warhead on the dirt over his corpse.

"How's Edward?" she asks me casually. It's our little joke for when things get too heavy.

"How's Gaara?" We chuckle.

What I really want to ask is how Padriac is. I'm over him, but eventually I got sick of his expression he wore every time I passed him in the hall. I told him to stop brooding and try to earn back Juliette's respect.

In fact, for a long while Juliette and I were a bit sour towards each other. Kristen told me that Juliette felt guilty over what happened, but that didn't make it all better. Eventually, I went over to her house and asked her to borrow some more anime. We rarely talked about it; we just pretended it never happened. That was our way of dealing with it.

And now we're here, and I talked to Padriac the week before. Forgiveness was a concept I learned from Peter. He would have never held a grudge against anyone, so I wouldn't hold one against Padriac.

He says he regrets doing what he did, and I believe him. Juliette isn't quite so sure, she's told me, but she says she's willing to give it a shot, if I'm willing to forgive him.

Padriac's not the only one that I've forgiven. I visit my mother once a week now. I talk to her about a lot of things, and I think Granola's proud of me. Sometimes Mrs. Landon comes with me. My father has told me that he's talked to my mother and that she agrees that we both need a mother, especially Danny. So Mrs. Landon lives with us now, and I don't mind.

I've also forgiven myself. There really wasn't anyting I could have done. Peter wouldn't have wanted me to beat myself up over it.

And every so often I have an odd dream where we go flying through the clearest skies, and swimming the cleaning seas, and running through the loveliest forest in the world. And I feel at peace.

"I can't believe I loved someone that could something so horrible," Juliette says softly, and I almost miss it.

"He's trying to make up for it, Juliette. What I can't believe you became friends with me even when I was going out with the guy you'd been lusting after for years." Even though I say this casually, I mean it. I would have hated her if our roles had been switched. She beats herself up too much, is my opinion.

She doesn't answer right away.

"The worst part about it all is that maybe I might have laughed at what had happened if I hadn't been friends with you," Juliette whispers as she pops another Warhead into her mouth. "I was so stupid. I would say I didn't like to label people, and then hated people just from one glance."

I put an arm around her, and we're silent for a long time. "It's okay, Juliette. You're not that girl anymore, and I'm not the girl that would make fun of people just because they're not snobby bitches." I chuckle, and she joins in half-heartedly.

When I think about it, not much has really changed. Juliette still hasn't changed the world, and the emo singers still write lyrics about not having a girlfriend. But at the same time, everything's changed.

For the better.

Thank you, Peter.

Fin.


I once again thank all the reviewers of this story. How was the ending, good, bad, in the middle? Now I am off to go watch Naruto! Au revoir!