This idea has been plaguing my mind for a long time. I really wanted to try to write like J.M. Barrie because, let's face it, he's amazing at writing TO you.

Please tell me how I did!

Disclaimer: The St. Ormond St. Hospital owns the rights to Peter Pan.

"Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful than the dreams of other boys. For hours he could be separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I think, with the riddle of his existence."

Unbeknownst to anyone but himself, Peter Pan dreaded falling asleep more than he dreaded Wendy's sticky, bitter medicine. For sleeping was the perfect time for a terrible nightmare to plague him, drive him to madness, make him hate grownups and feel the need to be childish. Growing up certainly couldn't compare to not knowing where one is from... But Peter did sleep, and some nights he had sweet dreams of Wendy's thimbles and playing in the lagoon till the dark of twilight was upon him. Other times, though, it stood waiting for him. Peter saw the dark shadow and wanted to run with all his heart; but he stood paralyzed by the dream-state, unable to overcome the intense fear and wake himself.

Dreams were like shadows to Peter Pan. One could see them standing there, patiently in the corner. But they could only be seen if you peeped through frosted glass windows, and this foggy rendition obscured their true nature until it was too late and you could not escape. And so he suffered through them. And still, he told no one of what happened in those dreams...not even Tink.

When Peter fell asleep, he instantly found himself walking in Kensington Gardens. He wasn't quite sure when or how he had gotten there, but he was. And so he continued on down the silent path, knowing that time had stopped when his presence was felt by the fairies. He glanced hesitantly around, knowing what he would see: blackness on all four sides. Blackness and fog. The path in front of him was dimly lit and, reader, he was frightened for he did not know the way. It was such an awfully long time ago that he walked these paths with his nurse, before he ran away to live forever. But he would stumble upon a figure in the mist. It was so foggy that one could barely see three feet down the path. Yet he met the figure each nightmare without fail.

It was not a scary sight to come upon; in fact it was quite heart-wrenching. A little boy stood, alone, in the middle of the dirt-and-stone walkway; his head hung to his chest, his gaze aimed at the dewy spring ground (Peter only supposed it was spring because it was rather warm and the fog was so terribly thick this time of year. How he knew about London's weather patterns, he was not quite sure. Perhaps it was simply dream-magic). The child had bouncy ashen curls that surrounded a cherubic countenance. He wore, for Peter simply knew that it was a little boy, a sailor suit in white and blue trim. His little hat covered only a few of the springy flaxen locks, and they leaked out at the sides to obscure his eyes.

"Are you quite alone?" the figure would ask. Peter would cock his head to the side.

"No, for you are here with me," he would anwer, as if he knew so much more than the child.

"No. I am quite positive that you are all alone," the boy taunted. "All alone in the world with no one to love you. No mother. No father. For the window was barred."

"How do you know?" Peter would stumble a step back, his heart breaking again. It broke every time he recounted that story, even if he pretended to be brave. His Mother closed the window, the stained-glass window with Cinderella and the Prince on it. It was barred, and there was another little boy who looked nothing at all like himself sleeping in his bed. The thought drove Peter to tears in these nightmares. He watched in horror as the dream-child smiled, the smile of a predator knowing that the prey could not escape and would be doomed to die at its hands.

"I know Peter Pan. I know because," and Peter knew what the next words were. He wanted to reach up his hands to block the noise from his ears. But the boy could not. "I am you."

And he turned his face to look directly at Peter. The eyes were not their usual forest-green shade, but a deep bloody red. The crimson of hatred, anguish, lost hope, broken hearts, missing children, and sobbing mothers. The fog dispersed and the black world crashed down around both Peters, the splinters and pieces piercing into the elder's heart and letting him taste bile.

Young Peter stood, his evil smile in place, looking almost deranged. "You and I are one in the same, Peter Pan. I am the child inside you who desperately wants revenge on our parents for leaving us behind. Don't you know, Peter, that they loved us once?"

"Mothers don't love!" Peter shouted at his younger self, emerald orbs brimming with tears of confusion and conviction, all at once. "They forget! They say goodbye, then they leave you behind and they forget you!"

"But Mother didn't forget us," Child Peter stated firmly. This was the part of the dream that impacted Peter Pan most. It was so true, so simple, that he couldn't bear the thought. "We forgot her. We left for the Neverland, and when we tired of it, we went back, expecting that nothing at all had changed in our absence. She didn't forget us at all. She stayed by the window so long that she disappeared into the wind. Another Mother moved into the house and left her child in our bed. Mother never forgot, Father never forgot. We forgot about them."

And Peter Pan's heart broke, and his innocence disappeared for a mere moment.

He would usually wake up with tears still streaming down his face and cold sweat covering his body, but instantly forgot what it was that he saw. But then he knew he would see it again. And not knowing what he was going to see made Peter Pan shiver.

The frosted glass window returned to its rightful place, and a small child with flaxen hair and hateful eyes stood behind it, waiting for Peter to fall asleep again.