The boy who wouldn't grow up, and when he did.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JM Barrie.
Major angst warning, I suppose. Pretty dark stuff, be warned.
Even Peter Pan could not resist the pull of curiosity.
Even he, wonderful and extraordinary as he was, could not help but pine for normality, every now and again.
He would find himself wondering what it would be like to grow, and fall in love, and marry. Not to be able to fly, but to go to work and ride on a train and talk about things like the weather. He would shake these thoughts away, telling himself firmly that he did not need those things, and firmly believing that he was above them.
But soon, they came back to Peter, those vicious niggling whispers. Biting at his ankles and his ears, causing him to sigh and become morose, though there was no-one around to notice. Never land had forgotten the lost boys, as had he.
One day, when he was bored (this was another new feeling- boredom. He had never been troubled with it before), he left Never land and did not return. He meant to, of course- he had never really planned on staying in London- but he hadn't been able to restrain his curiosity.
So he stayed, in that old house that none of Wendy's descendants lived in any more. They had all moved away, or died, and the house had been left to accumulate dust and mould. Peter stayed for one day, and then two. Two days became a week, and he forgot about Never land.
Weeks bled into months. Peter changed. A confused and caring old lady who had lived next door and had spotted him through the window looked after him. She took him to be a vagrant who had been living wild for a long time. She smartened him up, introduced him to the ways of their world, and got him a job.
Months collided- they became years.
Peter's innocence lay in ruin. Unbeknownst to him, Never land pined for his return. The island adapted to winter, and the darkness.
His body grew, his face lengthened and he grew adult teeth, one of which came in crooked. And soon a feeling came upon him which was unlike anything else he'd ever known- he was consumed with confusion, unhappiness and loneliness. He had known civilisation, and now he wanted to go home- the only problem was, he could no longer remember where home was.
Contact with other people became awkward and painful. He remembered why he'd hated it so much to begin with. Peter holed himself away in that crooked old house, hiding. He wasted away to nearly nothing, not understanding the pangs of hunger and thirst. His body became thin and his bones brittle, his mind crying out all the time.
Some people are not made for this world. They are not built correctly- like a broken cog in a wheel, they do not fit or function.
Never land returned to him one night when he was watching the stars. He remembered the way home, and the gleam from that star, the second on the right, called out to him. The sky whispered to him again, clamouring for his return.
And somehow, though he couldn't ever remember how, Peter made it back home. Perhaps by chance or luck, he recalled how to fly. The way was darker and more difficult than he could have ever imagined. It was painful, awkward to fly with his new body. Clouds would no longer support his weight- it was almost a struggle.
The night seemed to want to reject this new Peter, yet he carried on.
Never land was a different place. Pirate ships were simply dust floating in the gloomy water. Weeds choked the edges of the island, and the bones of mermaids lay picked clean on the shorelines. Strange animals lurked in the shadows, snarling at Peter and watching him with hooded eyes. The heart of the island recognised him, and he could feel it- but so much dust, so many weeds and roots and sharp plants curled over it's surface that he could not speak to Never land any more.
He had kicked away his shoes and most of his clothes, because they had weighed him down. As he moved, spider-like, over the mess that had once been his home, the soles of his feet were ripped and bloodied by the grip of thorns. His face was soon bruised by low branches that he could not see to avoid- the darkness was deeper and more horrible with every movement he made. The island did not want him any more. It did not need Peter Pan.
Underneath his fingertips and the soles of his aching feet, the ground became dryer and as black as charcoal. The Indians' tribal ground had burnt down long ago, and it's people had died in the flames. Peter wondered if they had died wishing for him.
Once more, Peter hid away. He could not grow any more, but his body had more demands now. He took to living in the deep caves - he could not fit down trees any more. There in the dark, he remembered everything- Tinkerbell and Hook, Wendy and his lost boys. He remembered them, cried bitterly for them, and this time, he could not teach himself to forget them.
Peter lived no longer by berries and nuts- they did not grow here any more. He became a hunter, slowly adapting to become a long-limbed creature of stealth. He'd creep up and kill things without a sound, and he'd lick their bones clean, though no amount of food could satisfy.
He returned to London every once and again, searching the skies, peering in windows, looking for Wendy. John, Tootles, the Twins. He did not know they were all long dead. He'd tap his dirty fingers against closed windows, pleading to be let in. Open windows were nowadays a rare treat. He'd climb in through them, his long thin body making it simple. With hands like claws, he would rummage through children's clothes and toys, trying to find thimbles or kisses.
Little girls reminded him of Wendy. Boys always reminded him of John. For hours whilst they slept, he watch their faces, his eyes the only brightness in the darkness. He'd paw at their bedclothes, run his fingers through their hair. They didn't wake- it was always like they wouldn't have seen him, even if they'd been staring right at him.
Although the smarter ones might have told their mothers in the morning about the scary, thin man with the long hair who had flown in through their window. But soon, as children will, they would forget about him, and move on to other things.
One small boy did wake, however. It was a rainy night, and Peter had been half-way to the window before the child had spoken. He'd sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and said clearly, "Are you an angel? Why are you in my room?"
Peter could only stare, wide-eyed. He had forgotten how to speak, after all. All he felt for this boy was jealousy, and bitterness. He wanted to scream out to him, to say 'Don't ever grow up!' -to warn him. But he could not find the words.
Slowly, fear dawned on the child and he began to scream. This was no angel- it was a scary monster with strong arms and thin legs and a beautiful, terrible face. Peter was so alarmed, and so terrified of being discovered, that he lunged for the child and clasped his fingers around his throat and held them there. Soon the boy stopped crying out- he stopped breathing, stopped doing anything at all.
Peter fled, only in the knowledge that he had done something terrible.
London was soon held terrified, as this terrible thing began to happen increasingly often. It was ghastly and horrible, and soon mothers refused to let their children sleep alone. Windows were barred and locked and the police watched the skies. They readied themselves with canons and guns.
Here he comes now, Peter Pan. Still struggling with his unfamiliar body in the sky, still a terrible angel, confused and angry and horribly lonely, searching for the friends he does not know how to mourn for.
They can see him- a cry's gone up. Mothers scream and hide their children's eyes. Pistols are loaded, canons prepared. A dark, gangling figure in the sky, perching now upon a roof, bent like a crow. One small girl clings to her father's shirtsleeves and sobs, though she cannot understand why. She only knows that she is afraid and very sad for the evil fairy on the roof.
The canons are being lit; the sky is being prepared for Peter's death. And I tell you once again, some people are not made for this world. Like broken cogs in a wheel, they do not fit.