A/N: You probably won't like this. But you never know.
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Progress
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Peter Pan never did grow up, but he did grow old. And when things grow old, they begin to fade as people forget.
One day, children began to forget about Peter Pan.
But he's still there now, in what's left of Neverland. He's cowering in his home under the ground, his eyes watching the shadows. He can't see anything, but he won't close them because he's afraid that they'll never open again.
The ground shakes violently, and he can hear noises loud enough to hurt his ears, but he doesn't understand them. As far as he knows they've been there forever, and that's all there's ever been because he doesn't remember anything else.
He doesn't remember his daily adventures in Neverland with the Lost Boys. He doesn't remember his beloved Wendy, and how he let her go. He doesn't remember his triumphant vanquishing of Captain Hook and his pirates.
And he doesn't remember the day the mermaids came to him begging for help because something had happened to their Lagoon. The water had turned dark and ugly and they could no longer move through it with graceful ease, but were struggling to swim. Then they struggled to breathe. And one day, Peter flew past the Lagoon and found dozens of them floating on the surface, their eyes open, their limbs still. But it doesn't matter, because he doesn't remember.
Nor can Peter recall the last desperate stand of the brave, proud Indians of the Piccaninny tribe. Their warriors cut down by projectiles so much faster and accurate than their arrows; their tomahawks and silent movements useless against an enemy that they could not see anymore than they could understand. Pan watched from the clouds as their blood-splattered bodies fell to the ground and their camp burned.
Nor does he remember the day the whole world stopped believing in fairies, and all the beautiful lights of the Neverland went out. When his dear companion fell from the sky and into his hands and he wept tear after tear after tear and screamed through he night that he did believe, but the world had stopped listening, because it didn't care anymore.
He doesn't remember his horror as the jungle began to rot around him, until it was black and filled with the stench of its putrefied vegetation. Or the fear he felt as nothing around him seemed familiar anymore, and he realised that all his Lost Boys and adventures were dead and gone.
And he doesn't remember his last happy thought dying as he fell to the ground and crawled home. Then arriving at the house under the tree expecting to find someone, anyone there. But it was empty and cold and dark. He tried pretend after pretend, but nothing could keep his mind from what he had seen outside, so he slept and hoped to forget.
Now he's cowering and afraid and alone.
As far as he knows, that's the way it's been forever.
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Progress
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Peter Pan never did grow up, but he did grow old. And when things grow old, they begin to fade as people forget.
One day, children began to forget about Peter Pan.
But he's still there now, in what's left of Neverland. He's cowering in his home under the ground, his eyes watching the shadows. He can't see anything, but he won't close them because he's afraid that they'll never open again.
The ground shakes violently, and he can hear noises loud enough to hurt his ears, but he doesn't understand them. As far as he knows they've been there forever, and that's all there's ever been because he doesn't remember anything else.
He doesn't remember his daily adventures in Neverland with the Lost Boys. He doesn't remember his beloved Wendy, and how he let her go. He doesn't remember his triumphant vanquishing of Captain Hook and his pirates.
And he doesn't remember the day the mermaids came to him begging for help because something had happened to their Lagoon. The water had turned dark and ugly and they could no longer move through it with graceful ease, but were struggling to swim. Then they struggled to breathe. And one day, Peter flew past the Lagoon and found dozens of them floating on the surface, their eyes open, their limbs still. But it doesn't matter, because he doesn't remember.
Nor can Peter recall the last desperate stand of the brave, proud Indians of the Piccaninny tribe. Their warriors cut down by projectiles so much faster and accurate than their arrows; their tomahawks and silent movements useless against an enemy that they could not see anymore than they could understand. Pan watched from the clouds as their blood-splattered bodies fell to the ground and their camp burned.
Nor does he remember the day the whole world stopped believing in fairies, and all the beautiful lights of the Neverland went out. When his dear companion fell from the sky and into his hands and he wept tear after tear after tear and screamed through he night that he did believe, but the world had stopped listening, because it didn't care anymore.
He doesn't remember his horror as the jungle began to rot around him, until it was black and filled with the stench of its putrefied vegetation. Or the fear he felt as nothing around him seemed familiar anymore, and he realised that all his Lost Boys and adventures were dead and gone.
And he doesn't remember his last happy thought dying as he fell to the ground and crawled home. Then arriving at the house under the tree expecting to find someone, anyone there. But it was empty and cold and dark. He tried pretend after pretend, but nothing could keep his mind from what he had seen outside, so he slept and hoped to forget.
Now he's cowering and afraid and alone.
As far as he knows, that's the way it's been forever.
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