Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I squint, leaning on my chair. The movement makes a low creak echo throughout the classroom, making a few of my classmates turn around to glare at me. I ignore them, still eyeing the clock.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I frown, watching the hands move. Time seems to be teasing me. I've stopped writing my essay completely, my pencil's eraser resting casually on my lower lip, willing time to stop.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I don't even flinch when the bell rings, liberating us. I cock my head sideways, glaring at the numbers some more. Why can't I have more time?

"Why won't they stop?" I mutter out loud.

"Is anything wrong, Mellie?" Mrs. Clarke enquires, looking over her small glasses from her desk in front of the class.

"The clock is," I answer, keeping my gaze locked on the clock as I stand up and grab my books.

"The clock?"

"It's mocking me."

"How so?" She frowns, craning her neck to look at it. I blink a couple times.

"I have to go," I realise suddenly, taking a proper look at the time the clock told. "See you next week," I say.

"Mellie?" She calls out as my foot reaches the doorframe. I pause, looking at her.

"I wish you a happy early birthday," she says, smiling, pointing her agenda. I squint a little. There's my name, Amelia Peterson, and a little balloon beside it.

Mrs. Clarke had always been a sweet teacher. A little stern at times, which I figured was due to her age, but always very positive and very thoughtful when it came to her students. She was the kind of teacher to bring small treats to everyone on holidays and put a sticker on your exam just because she felt like it. And she took interest to her students lives outside the school, wanting to know the individual before the grades. Which was very refreshing.

"Have a nice weekend, and I hope you'll enjoy yourself," she ends, knowing very well I wouldn't converse with her for much longer.

I smile, mumbling a quiet thank you before exiting into the crowded hallway. I hug my books to my chest as I make my way through the crowded corridor, keeping my head down. My hair falls in front of my eyes and I rapidly flick it away, pushing the strands behind my ear.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Bodies press against mine as students hurry out of their classes, eager to taste the weekend after this terribly long school week. I stop by my locker, picking up my scarf and jacket before shutting it determinedly.

I flinch as a clumsy foot steps on mine, but I turn to the exit, focusing on the floor in front of me.

The cold autumn air nips my cheeks as I finally manage to trudge through the sea of people and out of the suffocating building. Breathing in deeply, I tighten the scarf around my neck, pop my earphones in my ears and brace myself for my arrival home.

I had a pretty good idea of what would happen when I got there: I have an older sister after all, and my parents are very predictable. Why? Well because Harry and Amanda Peterson stick to their habits no matter what. God forbid they change up their schedules, their foolproof ways and their organized schedule. An impossible feat, even when it means leaving your bloodied daughter at the nurses office after a breakdown. That really happened, three years ago.

See, I cut myself. For many reasons. But first and foremost, I cut myself because it gives me control over a life I don't have any control over. A life where I can only do what my parents wish I do.

For the first fifteen-years of my life, I'd been my parents puppet, and disappointing them had never been an option. Not for me, and not certainly not for my sister either.

"You should stay another year in gymnastics sweetheart," my mother would say back when I was in my early teens.

"Mom, gymnastics is taking too much of my time. And my wrists can't take more tumbling passes," I whined. "I don't like it anymore."

"But your sister stayed until she was 're barely fourteen."

"Yes, and Lottie hated it with passion for the last three years!"

"I'll enroll you for another year. You might change your mind."

"No Mom, I don't want to do anymore gymnastics!"

"I know what's good for you. Besides, gymnastics not only helps you stay focused, but it also helps you manage your time. Time management is a very valuable asset in order to be successful later in life."

"Please, Mom. You're not listening to me: I don't like going to practices any more than Lottie did," I beg.

"You don't really think that. You'll change your mind. "

But I did think that. My schedule was simply impossible to manage. With three gymnastic practices a week, keeping good grades at school to make Dad proud and my own extracurricular activities, I barely managed to keep my head above water. Forget making friends in all that chaos. According to my mother, friends were a waste of time anyways.

I broke down a Friday before a big competition a year later. I had big exams coming up and the pressure I felt from everyone due to the competition the next day made me snap. A teacher found me crying the high school bathroom, my wrists a bloody mess.

My parents didn't bother to come get me when they got the call, but I was silently removed from gymnastics: there was no way Harry and Amanda would let the world know that their daughter was a cutter. A fact that anyone was bound to find out if I kept up with gymnastics, because my training clothes and my leotards rarely hid my wrists. I must admit that part was a good reason for cutting.

I turned to drawing after that, and my parents let me choose my activities from then on. But they stayed firm about keep up good grades.

My father never hesitated to tell me what he thought about my tendencies.

"You know cutting is stupid right? That it doesn't make any sense? That it won't bring you anywhere? This is not the right way to get attention. You need to grow up, act like an adult and find another way of coping with whatever is tormenting you."

"I know, Dad. I know I'm a disappointment. Leave me alone." My tone had been dull and emotionless, a mirror of my parents really.

Harry and Amanda Peterson were serious people. Both CEO's of their own companies, they had what I like to call 'grey personalities', rarely letting any emotion apart from disappointment show. They lived life as if it was a routine and truly believed that only the people who had everything planned out and gave their all had a chance at success. Since the day my mother forced me to enroll in gymnastics for yet another year, I began viewing them simply as the adults in charge of me. There wasn't much love, maybe a bit of respect as long as I was under their roof, but I wasn't their daughter; I didn't even feel like their daughter. I was everything they weren't: disorganized, dreamy and introverted. And I knew in a heartbeat the moment they were disappointed, simply with the way they'd look at me and shake their head. Maybe if I'd gotten more smiles and hugs rather than dissatisfied sighs and relentless "you could do so much better than that darling," would I have loved them a little more, but life decided otherwise. I'd learned to simply go with it as time went, keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself because I knew they weren't interested. In fact, nobody was interested. I was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

I used to have Charlotte, once. We were Mellie and Lottie , the inseparable sisters, before she left the household permanently on her 18th birthday, maddened by my parents. I couldn't blame her, really. I would've left myself too.

During our entire childhood, Harry and Amanda had told us repeatedly that we wouldn't get any birthday gifts from them. Why? Well because they planned to give us the total sum of our added birthdays on our first day as a responsible adult: the eighteenth birthday. Obviously, when you do the math and take into account our parents' salaries, you figure it's a pretty hefty sum. Lottie and I figured it was around nine thousand dollars, and Harry confirmed it was more than that.

So, expecting that amount, my sister got a part-time job on weekends and after school, spending less time on her studies in order to save as money to leave the household as quickly as possible. To have her freedom.

What we didn't know, and what we discovered on Lottie's birthday, was that there was a catch with our parent's lengthy promise: the money was exclusive for college. They would be the ones paying for college, depositing the money into a college's pocket, not ours, as the years of school went by. The thing is, Charlotte had never planned on going to college, she knew it wasn't for her : she liked fixing cars and learning how things worked hands on, not theoretically. Because of her dyslexia and her hyperactive nature, learning things by heart and staying focused on words for long periods of time was not an easy feat. School definitely wasn't for her. I knew it wasn't for her. Hell, even my parents knew it wasn't for her, but they just had to keep control.

I can still remember the heated discussion they had three years ago. I was upstairs, eavesdropping on the living room below from the staircase.

"Are you fucking serious?!" My sister rarely swore.

"That's not a way to talk to your father, Charlotte."

"I don't care, I don't believe it! This sum has kept me going since I've understood the value of money! Kept me going in elementary school as I watched little girls showered with hugs and gifts on their birthdays knowing I'd never get any of that. That I'd get cold hard cash instead on the day I turn eighteen!"

"Is pursuing your studies so bad? You can go to any college, in any program, we don't mind, we just want you to have a bright future ahead of you. You'll regret it later on."

"Dad, I know you probably haven't noticed, but I've dropped out of school. I'm not made for school. I hate it and everyone knows it. In the garage on the other hand, my work is valued and-"

"You just need to work a little harder—"

"NO! Enough talk of working harder! My only fucking regret will have been not to have made your lives a living hell, just like you've been making mine! I'm leaving tomorrow morning! I'll be making my own future from now on, with or without your goddamn help! I'm packing my bags tonight and leaving this hell of a household! And I'm taking Mellie with me! You've fucked her up really bad too! She's a bloody mess because of you unloving folks!"

"You can't take her! You're a bad influence! She needs to finish high school!"

"I don't care, I'll ask to be her legal guardian! She can finish high school in my home!"

"We won't have it! Our lawyers won't allow it! You'll lose all your money in the process if you dare try and take her away."

I started crying, but I wasn't sure for what reason. I ran to my room and screamed in my pillow, the urge to hurt myself abnormally strong. I could hear my sister screaming more obscenities to my parents, and it wouldn't stop. It just kept getting louder and louder and I knew it was my fault. I was the reason they were arguing. I was in a bad place.

"I'll get you out of here as soon as I can Mellie, I promise," Lottie promises before she leaves, later that night. She wraps me in a tight hug and kisses my forehead. "Just stay strong for a little while longer, yeah? I'll get you out."

"It'd be much easier if you forgot about me Lottie. Focus on doing what you love, I'm not really worth the effort."

"But you are. You are worth every effort Mellie."

And then I wasn't. Because I got no more news from her, apart from on my birthday, when she'd send me a postcard with kind words of encouragement. Nothing more. I'd send her one on her birthday too, but they weren't very cheerful. I didn't feel very cheerful, and I felt bad, knowing I was letting her know I felt like shit on a day that was supposed to be a good day for her. Nevertheless, the minimal correspondence between the two of us made me realize that she must've been better off without me.

So really, I knew what'd be waiting for me when I got home today: just like Charlotte, I'd get a nice speech about responsibilities, adulthood, college, finances and whatnot. A nice, formal speech, lacking of any emotion whatsoever. But, oppositely to Charlotte, I'd smile tightly, agree to going to college, finish high school, find a dorm and tough the next three years getting a degree in an art program. Hopefully I'd be happier studying something I enjoy, far away from Harry and Amanda. Maybe I'd feel better then. I'm not sure. As far as I know, I'm not good at much.

But truth be told, this step into adulthood scares me to no end. Sure, eighteen isn't a big number, but it still sounds intimidating. It's the number when you're finally legal, when you can end up in prison, when you can buy alcohol at the liquor store, when you can vote and when you have to take responsibility for your actions. Being the fuck-up that I am, I'm not sure I'm ready for that just yet. There's just so much judgement as you grow older, and I just know I'll be frowned upon repeatedly. I can already picture the conversations.

"What are those scars on your arms, Amelia?"

"Nothing."

"Were you one of those emo teens back in the day?" A chuckle. No, I was a straight A student, who always wore hoodies to school, no matter the temperature.

"I said it was nothing."

"It's alright, we're all adults here, it's okay to admit that we've made terrible mistakes when we were teenagers. It's just a shame you have to carry these scars for your whole life."

"Well, I don't think it was a terrible mistake." Because it's helped me push through my terrible teenage years.

I shudder at the thought. I walk up the couple of steps leading to my doorstep and I open the door, stepping inside the household without so much as a peep. Cautious not to make a single sound, I tiptoe my way up the stairs and head into my room.

I drop my school bag on the floor and heave a sigh, looking around at my bedroom. The bright lime green walls that used to have shelves of trophies and special mentions when I was a little girl were now covered with black and white faces staring back at me with angry lines. They'd been my attempt at a new escape as I desperately tried to find something to dim the cutting urges. I failed.

I catch a glimpse at myself in the mirror. My light blue eyes have dark rims under them, my coffee-colored hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. Random strands are sticking out here and there. I can hear my mother's voice, scolding me.

"Why don't you make an effort to take care of your appearance, Amelia?"

"Because I'm not trying to impress anyone."

"Not yet you aren't, but you will eventually."

"Then I'll make an effort when that'll happen."

I remove my Niagara Falls hoodie, throwing it on my bed. Grazing the uneven ridges on the surface of my skin with the tip of my fingers, I wince. Some of them still sting.

I shake my head, and pull my drawing materials out from my desk. I'm called down for supper as I end the last traits of another grim face. I pull my hoodie back on and step downstairs.

I'm finishing up with the last of the dishes when my parents ask me to join them in the living room for 'small talk'. Here it goes.

I dry my hands off with a towel, wiping the rest on my jeans as I join them and take a seat.

"So. What's up?" I commence. I keep a detached yet composed face as I sit in front of them, knowing exactly what they're about to say.

"Tomorrow is your eighteenth birthday," my father begins. "And we want your entry into adulthood to be memorable," he continues, his hand resting over my mother's like a rock.

"We really want to give you everything you need to start fresh Amelia," my mother nods, her position as void of feeling as her voice.

I frown. This speech wasn't at all like the one they gave Charlotte.

"I thought you we're going to ask me about college, and what I planned to do? Because I was planning on going to college."

"That's great, but we believe you've got a step to climb between high school and college."

"We've arranged for you to start going to a facility for adults who are kind of lost in life. Who need help finding the right direction," my father continues.

There's a loud buzzing in my ears suddenly.

"What?" I whisper.

Harry pulls out a brochure from behind him and hands it to me. I don't take it.

"Are you two serious?" I burst, standing to my feet. Of course they're serious, they've never been anything but. "This is ridiculous!" I add, frustration bubbling inside me.

"We're very serious. We looked it up and it has a great success rate—"

"I do not give a single fuck about success rates. I have time to sort myself out before the end of the school year, I'm seventeen years-old―"

"You're going to be eighteen tomorrow. You're going to be an adult. You need to start acting responsibly and take control of your future as soon as possible," my father denies. "It's only a year, and you can stay home during that time."

"This is bloody blullshit and you two know it!"

"Amelia, we can't possibly let you get into college in this... state."

"And what state is that huh?"

"You know what we mean Amelia," my mother replies, voice quiet. Embarrassed.

"Is this what you mean?" I pull my sleeves up, revealing the series of angry red lines criss-crossing my arms. "It's called self-harm! And it's made me feel more alive for the last three years than any one of you two ever have for the last decade!" I state.

"It's childish, that's what it is. Once you've gotten over your habits, we'll look into sending you to college for a business major," Harry intervenes.

"A business…" I'm at loss for words. "A business major? I have no interest for business at all! I wanted art—"

"With a bit a time, we could even let you in charge of our companies—"

"I do not want to live your life! It sucks! All you do is get up in the morning, go to work, cook supper, review your profits for the day, go to bed, and start all over again! You're no better than robots!"

"Go to your room young lady. We'll talk about this tomorrow morning," my father demands, insulted. I glare at him. "Go right upstairs now!" he booms, standing up to tower over me.

"Gladly!" I snap, flipping on my heel and storming upstairs. I slam my door and let out a loud scream before exploding into tears and digging my face inside my pillow.

It hit me like a ton of bricks: why was I even bothering with school, with life, with anything? What was the point? It was going to get even worse as I got older. Adulthood was going to drown me painfully slowly, numbing everything into a robotic routine. I'd eventually end up just like my parents: I was going to wake up early in the morning, go to work, make some money, come back home, go to sleep. Again and again until I won't be able to work anymore. And when that would happen, my routine would be shortened to waking up in the morning, moving around a little, going back to sleep and hoping, during every single minute of the day, that Death will come ringing at my doorbell quicker than it did for my Great-Aunt Jane. She'd gone crazy before Death took her away, always rambling nonsense about touching the stars and fighting pirates. I believe her mother had read her Peter Pan as a bedtime story too many times when she was younger.

I decide right then I would have to find a way to kill myself before I'd let that happen. There was no way I'd lose my mind and start having hallucinations about things that didn't happen due to old age. No way I was going to keep pushing through if my parents hadn't left me any room for my own decisions. Lottie wasn't even going to come back for me. Nobody was going to miss me. I was going to die before midnight tonight.

With frightening calm, I start unpacking the books out of my backpack, and place place them in a box in my wardrobe. Once that's done, I proceed to clean up the rest of my room, making it dust free. I even make my bed, thing I hadn't done for several weeks now. Somehow, the thought of leaving everything disorganized didn't seem proper. It didn't seem fair to force my parents to pick up their dead daughter's room. I owed them at least that, even if they hadn't exactly been the most caring and understanding people in the world. But behind my latest creation, Harry and Amanda would find a very grim note. And I hoped to God that they would feel guilty.

It's quarter to midnight when I sneak out of my house with the intention of never returning again. I tighten my scarf around my neck as I walk decisively to the cliff barely a kilometer away from home, knowing that these few minutes would be the last I'd spend on Earth. The last I'd spend suffering. I savour the feel of the wind on my face as I near the edge of the bluff, the pieces of rock and grass illuminated by the moon's pale glow. As I stare down at the jagged rocks below, I breathe in shakily. I was never one for heights. It's making me nauseous, and I can't help the tears from seeping out of my eyes. Somehow I didn't think I'd hesitate. That it would feel wrong. That I'd be this panicked. Come on Mellie. You're one jump away from ending your misery. Just a little jump and it's all over. I shut my eyes, a small sob escaping my lips. I take a step.

"Don't jump," a masculine voice says behind me, startling me.

"Why not?" I cry, not turning around. The thudding in my chest is loud.

"Because I think there are adventures out there that you haven't experienced yet," the voice continues.

I blink. Of course there are things I'll never get to do. But I don't care. I can't keep on living like this.

I shake my head, fat tears rolling down my cheeks. "I don't want to wake up every morning and go to work, only to come back home, go to sleep and do it all over again the next day!"

"But that's what adults do, " the voice reasons.

"I don't want to be an adult!" I snap in exasperation.

"You mean you're not an adult?"

I turn around, only to realize that I'm talking to a young boy, about five years younger than me. He's sitting cross-legged on a rock barely a few feet away from me, dressed in what looks like a handful of leaves and fabric. Everything about him is unsettling, from his attire to his attitude. His green eyes are seemingly gazing right through me, making me uneasy.

"You look like an adult," he continues, eyeing me up and down with a frown. "Are you sure you're not an adult?" He taunts, a smile on his lips.

"Yes."

"Yes you're an adult or-"

"Yes, I'm positive I'm not an adult!" I cut off dryly, getting annoyed with the boy. I take a deep breath, shutting my eyes. Jump, Mellie. Now. Or you're doomed to become an adult for real. But you can't jump in front of a child. Can't have him see you plunge to your death. "Go home..."

"Peter," he supplies. "My name is Peter."

"Go home Peter. There's nothing you can do to save me," I end miserably, ushering him away with my hands. "I've made my decision and I'm not going back on it. I can't go back on it. My parents have too much planned for me to head back."

He cocks his head sideways, pensive. The moon gives a reddish glow to his brown hair. Something about his appearance seems oddly familiar. Could he be—?

"So, you're willing to end your life in order not to grow up?" he states, breaking my train of thought.

I exhale very loudly, throwing my hands up in the air.

"You're too young—you don't understand," I shake my head, turning back around to face the edge of the cliff. My whole body is shaking. His hand grabs my arm, taking me by surprise. My heart drops to my feet as he spins me around to face him, my back to the edge of the bluff.

"Why—"

"There's a place that exists beyond the stars, where you never have to grow up. Where you do what you want to do, when you want to do it," he says urgently. "You could go there."

"Right, a place like Neverland," I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief. "Just go home Peter, please. I'll be fine."

"Yes, exactly like Neverland!" He agrees excitedly. "So you believe!" I shake my head some more.

"Neverland is a fairytale, Peter." My heart breaks a little as I take in his appearance. Clearly, judging by his clothing, he's a big fan of the story. "A figment of Sir James Barrie imagination and a playground for Disney. It doesn't exist."

Peter pulls away from me brusquely, as if my words had wounded him.

"You've stopped believing," he accuses. "You really are close to being an adult," he states, disgust lacing his tone.

"Peter I'm sorry to break it to you but there's nothing to believe in—"

"I'll prove you wrong. I'll take you to Neverland and you'll see just how much there is to believe in," he declares, taking my hand into his.

"No, this has to stop right now." I pull my hand brusquely out of his, unused to human contact. "You're going home. And I'm going home. That's it," I give up, taking a step away from Death's eager arms. There are other ways to end this.

"So you don't want to die anymore? You want to live and grow up?"

"Yes," I lie. "Now home you go Peter, it's very late and your parents will be looking for you," I continue, taking yet another step away from the cliff.

"I don't have any parents. And I don't care how late it is." He crosses his arms.

"What do you mean you don't have any parents?"

"I don't need any parents. I'm Peter Pan," he replies, pushing out his chest. I blink. Poor kid. He's got it bad.

"Peter, go home," I demand a little impatiently.

"You can't tell me what to do." he scoffs.

I look up at the stars in exhaustion, before kicking a rock at my feet. I watch it drop over the cliff silently, sliding my hands inside the pockets of my hoodie.

"Well I'm going home then," I state, turning around morosely.

"You said you couldn't go home." It's as if he's materialized in front of my face.

"I can't!"

"Then why are you trying to lie to me?" He crosses his arms again, but this time his legs follow. But his body doesn't drop to the ground : he's hanging in mid-air. He's sitting in mid-air as if it's the most normal thing ever.

I'm paralyzed in disbelief.

I take a good look at him. "Peter... as in Peter Pan? No. No it can't be," I deny, taken aback.

"So, you do know me?"

The clothing, the eyes, the hair, Neverland... "I'm dead already aren't I? You aren't real," I repeat panicked, taking a step away from him and closer to the edge of the cliff.

"I'm very real. I'll show you." He digs his hand in a little brown pouch on his belt, pulling a handful of gold dust out. His hand grabs mine once more. But my hoodie's sleeve slips as he tries to tug me upwards. His eyes zero on my wrists and a frown appears on his face. "I've seen those before: you can't think happy thoughts," he realizes. "You can't fly."

"This is nonsense," I reply, talking to myself. "I'm seeing things like Great-Aunt Jane..." I take another step backwards. I hear the earth rumble before I feel it drop underneath my feet, a scream caught in my throat.

AN: Hello all! I've hoped you've enjoyed the first chapter of this figment of my imagination! Please keep following and reviewing!