I'd never been a big fan of dinner parties. Or parties. Or dinner. At least, not with a gigantic amount of people. Even at parties, I didn't really eat so much as snack. No - I preferred to eat alone. Ever since landing in this shithole, I was obligated to join in the nearly-Satanic dinner feasts that the boys had. I was entirely confused by 'manly' behaviour and the like. The only male I was ever around was Steven, and he was old enough to be my grandpa.
I picked around my makeshift plate, carefully plucking out the least-suspicious looking foods. As far as anyone else knew, I wasn't even hungry, but aside from being a fairly picky eater, it felt like playing Russian Roulette whenever I was eating. Was it poisoned? Would it make me drowsy? Was it expired? Was it entirely fine and I was just being paranoid? Who knows? I sure didn't. Eating became a grueling task, as such.
"You need some meat on those bones, girl," chided an unfamiliar face, stuffing his cheeks full of fruit, "A strong wind could blow you away."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, and instead returned my rather lifeless gaze to the fire. I'd never been too self-conscious about my body, and I could guarantee that any doctor would agree that I'm at least physically healthy, if not pretty athletic. Sadly, the doctor would also recommend that I see a psychiatrist and get some anti-depressants. Neverland was pretty well-stocked with food, but my mentality was quickly deteriorating into oblivion.
The lost boys had begun their usual antics; their telling of stories and rowdy games. I usually went to bed at this point, but it was a fruitless effort. Incessantly loud, they were, and it usually was more than enough to leave me lying in my tent with my eyes peeled open. So tonight, I would watch. It would probably lead to misfortune on my part, but I was resigned to having a shitty time. That was bound to happen in a place that you didn't want to be at. Especially one where a raving lunatic made the rules.
Speak of the devil, or at least think of the devil, and he shall appear. A calloused hand was laid on my shoulder, just the right amount of force to know that they meant business. It was, as you've already guessed, Peter. It wasn't all that hard to work that out.
"You know, your participation is awfully poor, Melinda," Pan acknowledged like he'd only just noticed that I only do the bare minimum around here, "Why don't you share something? Tell us a story."
His little minions chimed in, clearly excited at the idea of me saying more than 'yes' or 'no' to them. I could feel my blood boiling, like I'd been publicly humiliated in front of a high school class. Peter's grip on my shoulder tightened beyond the necessary, a silent reminder that this so-called participation wasn't optional. He was in charge here. I relented, scooting the tree stump that I had been using as a seat closer to the fire. All eyes were on me.
Surprisingly, the lost boys were nearly silent, only a hushed whisper being passed between them. After a long-withheld roll of my eyes, I clasped my hands together and began my 'story'.
"A long, long time ago, there was a young boy named Icarus. He and his father, Daedalus, lived within a city ruled by a benevolent king that would not let them leave.," I paused for a moment, feeling completely noxious at my poor story-telling skills, "His father decided it was high time to make an escape. So, he started collected feathers from the birds, and candle wax in order to make a pair of wings for both him and Icarus.
"When the wings were finally ready to be used, the two perched themselves at the edge of a cliff, poised to jump off. Before taking flight, Daedalus warned his boy, 'Do not fly too close to the sun, for if you do, your wings will melt'. Icarus did not heed this warning, and slowly flew himself higher and higher in the sky - ecstatic about his newfound ability to fly. Daedalus did not have the time to save his son, for Icarus' wings had already begun to melt, and he was plummeting towards the sea below."
The lost boys were at least slightly attentive to my sad excuse for a story, or at least one that I'd plagiarized from the ancient Greeks. I suppose there was no real reason for telling this specific story, aside from the fact that it had been one of my favorites when I was younger. "Icarus didn't make it, sadly, but his father carried on. Daedalus reached land, soon enough, and hung up his wings for good, vowing to never fly again..."
That was it - I was done. Whatever they had been expecting of me, I don't know, but they didn't look entirely disappointed with my ancient myth. A couple of them nodded, unfortunately seeming to be comfortable with me in their midst, like story telling was some bizarre right of passage. Pan's presence behind me was toxic, I could almost feel him grinning at me, and it made me feel even more ill than I already was.
"I'm gonna go throw up now," I murmured offhandedly, getting a few snickers in return. Several steps later, I was a little ways into the forest, trying to find a proper place to clear my head. It was amazing the stupid things Peter could force you to do when you were trying to mind your own business. I can't believe myself. I've spent weeks, probably nearing two months now, on this God-forsaken shithole of an island. What has it gotten me? Nothing. In fact, I've practically been branded for life.
Why am I not fighting back more? Why am I just giving up? I should be kicking and screaming, but instead I'm out here palling around with these assholes. What the hell is wrong with me?
"I can't believe it. I am a complete, and utter idiot. I'm an idiot, oh my god," I groaned to myself, slumping against a tree and rubbing my eyes roughly, "Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid and probably going to die here, for nothing."
"Talking to yourself isn't very flattering."
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Pan. Jesus Christ, can't you leave me alone for two seconds?" I spat, glancing up to a rather shocking sight.
"Mel, I'd be offended if wasn't entirely sure that the last few weeks have been hell for you," laughed a voice that sounded like a choir of angels to me. Jackie Brown, what a godsend. She engulfed me in the biggest hug I've had to date, very nearly breaking me in half. A good kind of pain, though. "I'd ask how you are, but for the same reasons, I'm not going to. Before this gets all touchy-feely, I need to tell you something really important. I found your brother."
If Jackie is a godsend, then God must love me.
"Because when you find yourself the villain in the story you have written, it's plain to see that sometimes the best intentions are in need of redemptions. Would you agree?" - Death Cab for Cutie (Your Are a Tourist)
AN: Surprise bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. No, but, if you don't even bother to finish this story, I understand. I've been terrible to you guys. I hit a bit of a rut, and couldn't seem to crank out this worthless chapter. I didn't even bother to proof-read this one. (So if you catch any mistakes, please let me know, and I'll fix them.) This is a bridge into greater things. I've had this chappy worked out for a long time, but I wasn't happy with it. I promise I'll do better with the next one. Anyways - season 3 was a doozy. (Read: I didn't like the way it ended.) Gonna miss Pan. And Robbie Kay. Gotta love that kid… Ciao, guys.