A/N: I adore this chapter. It makes me feel a lot of feels, and I wrote it. For full experience, listen to the actual song Lost Boy by Ruth B. While reading. Once again, if you can't concentrate, TURN DAT MUSIC OFF AND READ THE STORY INSTEAD.
Review?
I am a lost boy from Neverland
Usually hanging out with Peter Pan
And when we're bored we play in the woods
Always on the run from Captain Hook
"Did you see Peter Pan this morning, freak?" said a girl, one with pretty gold hair, much like Peter's. Cara glanced at it before answering.
"I only see him at night," she replied calmly, turning away from the girl to collect her belongings.
The girl and her friends shrieked with laughter. "Did you hear that?" they screeched. "A grown up girl— believing in fairies and a boy who can fly!"
Cara whipped around furiously. "I haven't grown up!" she snarled venomously, and the girls were struck silent.
The quiet went on for a blissfully long time until a boy said, "Well, obviously not," and the girls started up again. Cara didn't understand what was so funny.
She saw Peter in her dreams, a beautiful boy with eyes like diamond and a smile like the morning. If she couldn't find anything else good in her day, she'd focus on the smile she saw in her sleep. The smile she loved.
She put her things into her bag and hurried onto the bus home.
She stared out the window most times, and today was one of those times. She stared forcefully up at the sun, wondering if it outshone the one in Neverland. Then she scowled at it. All she thought about was Neverland. That was why she was so alone.
She quickly got off the bus and started the long trek home, her house being one of the farthest ones away from the village. The ones that had used to be around it, during her great-grandmother's time, had been torn down. No one lived in them anymore. No one, it seemed, but her.
The door was unlocked, as usual. Her mother never thought anyone would try to rob the old house, since it really had nothing of value. Nothing, her mother would say with a shining smile, but Cara herself.
"Mother?" Cara called out. "I'm home!"
No answer.
Cara looked confusedly at the top of the stairs, dropping her bag near the dining table. "Mum?"
She went upstairs, her heart beating unusually fast. Her mother was always home around this time.
Gently, she pushed open the door to her mother's bedroom, only to see Miss Leanne, her horrid old nanny, sitting by her mother's bed.
Her mother herself was asleep, looking like an angel. She always looked so pretty when she slept; away from her sadness and worries. She may have been dreaming of Neverland too.
Cara felt herself exhale a sigh of relief. "Miss Leanne." she said respectfully, nodding her head in the woman's direction. She scowled back at her. "Child," said Miss Leanne. "come with me."
Cara obediently followed the old woman out into the hallway, far from her mother's room.
"Your mother is sick." said Miss Leanne suddenly.
Cara blinked. "Well, I'd expect so, she's in bed after all. Do you recommend chicken soup? Shall I stay home to take care of her?"
Miss Leanne gave her an exasperated look. "No, no, not that kind of sickness. Very sick. So sick she may die."
Cara felt something inside her twist, clenching her stomach, and she fought to swallow. "What do you mean?" she asked harshly, as if blaming Miss Leanne.
"I mean, that she must be taken to the hospital." Miss Leanne ground out. "And you are not old enough to take her. You do not have any money, nor family. You are alone."
Alone? How dare she call Cara alone! She was not alone, and her mother would not die. "I-I can take care of her. I have no need for school, for I have all my books at home. I will learn here, and take care of her."
Miss Leanne glared at her. "You know nothing! This is no mere disease for a child to combat with chicken soup! This is something that must be dealt with, and quickly."
Death. There it was again, that unspoken, inevitable word. The word that Peter Pan was free from, the only joyous soul in the universe.
Cara felt her heart cry out, and she took a sharp breath, needing air, needing starlight.
"She won't," she managed to get out bravely. "She can't die."
"If she is not to go to the hospital, she will." said Miss Leanne firmly. "And when she does, you will have nowhere to go. You have no living relatives or family. What will you do, Miss Darling? Where will you run to?"
"I shan't run at all!" Cara burst out. "I won't run, I'm not afraid! I can take care of myself!"
"For goodness sake, child, don't shout!" hissed Miss Leanne. "You'll wake your mother!"
Cara stared at her nanny, willing herself not to cry.
"Fine," she whispered. "I don't know. I don't know what I will do."
Miss Leanne frowned deeply. "Well, I will tell you what you must do. First, you will sell this hou—"
"Never." Cara stared Miss Leanne straight in the face. "I will never, ever, ever sell this house, no matter what you say will happen to me. I will not sell this house, and I will not sell any of our belongings. These are my things, this is the Darling home."
"How else will you pay for your mother's treatment?" snarled Miss Leanne. "I try to help, but you're just as stubborn as your mother and grandmother! They never listened to reason! Always going on about an island in the stars, never having any sense!"
"And neither will I!" shouted Cara.
The two glared at each other, panting.
"Cara?"
Both their heads whipped towards the bedroom door. Her mother's voice was tired, too tired.
Cara gave Miss Leanne a final angry stare, then hurried to her mother. "Yes?" she asked quietly, not allowing her emotions to show upon her face.
Margaret Darling yawned. "What—are you fighting with Miss Leanne about?"
Cara's face fell.
"Mother," she said instead. "Are you sick?"
Her mother's face fell as well. She said nothing.
"How could you get sick so fast?" asked Cara desperately. "That doesn't happen, never!"
"Cara," her mother said quietly. "I want you to understand something."
Cara looked at the ground. Miss Leanne stood by the doorway, wearing a hard expression, her back as straight as a rod.
"This is not an easy disease," Margaret said carefully. "Truly, it's quite the opposite. If I—" She bit her lip. "—am unable to take care of you, Miss Leanne will take you into her house." She took a shaky breath. "You must do what she says."
Cara's jaw dropped, looking over at the old woman, who looked at her with an empty expression. Empty of love, of compassion. So different from the only person who loved her in the whole world.
Her mother looked at her warningly.
Cara shook her head over and over, wishing she'd wake up from this terrible, horrible nightmare. "You can't—" she breathed sharply, and ran.
No no no no no, her mind repeated, as she raced into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her, breathing hard. She couldn't run away from her problems, she knew, but she could try. She locked the door behind her and sunk to the ground, covering her face with her hands in an effort to hold back the tears.
When she'd cried her fill, she looked up at the inky black sky, dotted with stars.
"Peter," she whispered, hurrying to the window. "Peter, I know you're there."
One of the stars twinkled at her, as if to laugh.
"Peter, my mother is dying. Please, I cannot stay here anymore." Cara begged desperately. "Please take me with you. I'll do anything, I swear to you."
She waited, her tearstained eyes darting across the sky. But no one appeared. There was no boy with a beautiful smile.
She sank to her knees again, and again started to cry. She cried because of her mother, she cried because of herself. She cried because of her horrid, horrid life, because of the students who teased her at school. She cried, because it was stupid to believe in a boy made of stars. "I should never, never have believed in him." she said, a flare of anger and pain bursting in her chest.
When she looked up again, she saw something. Something so quick and wonderful, she could've missed it, except she didn't.
It was the shadow of a lean boy, with curly hair and clothes made of skeleton leaves. He had a sword tied about his waist, and he held a pan flute. He held a finger to his lips mischievously.
She stood up, almost afraid to believe what was happening.
The shadow danced about her, leaping and flying and soaring, and slowly, Cara began to smile.
And then she laughed, surprising herself, and wiped away her tears, chasing the shadow about the room. Her sadness was replaced by a joy so incomparable that it is impossible to describe, no matter how many lovely words I use.
Suddenly, the shadow flew to her desk, seemingly perched on the shadow of her chair, and her pencil began to write of its own accord upon her paper.
Gasping, she ran towards it, drinking in the marvelous sight.
"Do not cry," said the writing in beautifully messy script.
"For I give you the power of youth, the power of truth. Fight, fight! For the day is almost done, and a new morning has broken. My name is Peter Pan, and I promise you that you will never again fight alone."