A Porcelain Heart – A Neverland Story
Written by N.L.P.
Chapter One - Of Cold Walls and Disastrous Faults
February 2, 2006... Fe'camp, France.
If there is one objective in the entirety of the world that I am sure of, it is that I will never ever be perfectly and complacently happy. I'm not mournful or complaining about the fact, just stating it as sure of a fact as two plus to is four. Just as surely as porcelain will break when dropped; I will never be happy.
Many wonder at this I am sure, but family history always tends to repeat it's self, going all the way back to my great great Grandmother Wendy, whom all our miseries can be traced back to beginning. The insanity and incredibility of our family line started with her and followed hauntingly down the line through the daughters. All of their heads full of fairies and boys who never grew up. The fantasy encouraged by the book Wendy Darling wrote. It is to her that I can contribute without a doubt my present situation.
It is to her that I put blame upon for not having a mother.
I don't believe that she knew what she was doing, rest her soul, when delighting in her own non-existent world, how many lives she would ruin with her tale of flying out of the nursery window. No, the blame is upon her, but I don't think her purposes were ever ill.
As I write all this down, as you might be able to tell, I am not in the best of dispositions in the very least, Sitting in a crowd of people who have the most unfounded hate of oneself will do that to anyone's manner, whether purposely or not. This boarding school could have been the best thing that could have happened to my education, but beyond that it's favorable qualities are very few if existent at all.
Without saying as much as I should on the residents excluding myself here at Dalington's Academy For Young Ladies, I must state that every single one of them have that attitude of a small yappy dog on uppers. They are all fine boned and beautiful, and yet they bitch and complain about every single detail of their lives with those high pitched voices that make eardrums not so used to them as mine implode upon first hearing their cries of self proclaimed misery, chubbiness or impending doom.
I on the other hand, who never indulge them in denying them the comments of, "You're not fat, I am!" or "Poor darling, I'm sure everything will get better." And letting them wallow in whatever false misery they might have they have come to hate me with a passion that I can not describe. Their abuse to me is not physical for sure like boys who are beaten up over issues and the like. That I could handle with ease, and I doubt that any of them would stand much against me, growing up practically living on the streets of London an all...
But no, Their Abuse to me is all little tricks and misconceptions. Everything about the small details of hurtful comments not directed towards me, but about me to someone else near me. All the petty little lies and spending every day alone with only the comfort of books and writing down my thoughts add up to a sum much greater than a black eye would ever amount to.
My only solace here is that I am away from my Aunt, whose 'care' I had been entrusted to after my mother died. If every story must have a wicked stepmother who poisons apples or lets a girl prick her finger on a spinning wheel, she would be mine. Aunt Nikki's cruelty has been far worse than what my mother put me through the first ten years of my life.
Like a couple of run away bohemians she and I had gone from town to town. At least that's what I rember. Also that she had me at a very young age. At the time she was already far into the fantasy that eventually led her to kill herself. Growing up I was familiar with her often fits of insanity as she wished for a 'Peter Pan' to come back to her once and for all. Often had I tried to comfort her despite the dirt and grime we lived in, with pretty objects I would steal from people off the street. This put her at bay for some time usually, when I gave her a watch or a bracelet.
The last day I saw her she had gone into one of her fits, three watches, five very fine bracelets and by chance a rare pair of earrings could not bring her out of it, and I rember watching with horror as my own mother jumped off of the top of the run down flat complex we had recently been stowed away in. Hoping that she still knew how to fly.
At that point I was found and 'reclaimed'. Having no former education but reading, which my mother and I had done every day, I was given tutors and special classes until the age of twelve. Apparently the country wanted me to be their reformed poster child. Someone they scooped off the street and turned into a real lady.
When my Aunt came forward to claim me though All their hopes and dreams were shattered and I went to live with her in my inheritance, the Darling Estate. That was really the only reason she came forth I believe. The woman's disposition to treat me like her own personal slave showed that she had no real care for me...
I'm going back to her tomorrow. On bus, then ship, then bus again, the cheapest route to go by. Though I rather dislike it here, going back to that wretched house and that disgusting woman is far worse an alternative.
Hoping I will survive the morrow-
Roseiline Daniel Chester