So this is my first fic EVER, so criticism is welcome, but I don't have the greatest confidence in my work, so please be nice. If you don't like it, tell me what's wrong, but don't flame.

Sadly, I don't own Peter Pan, but I do own Heath, Hailey, and a chocolate bar.

Chapter 1

Present

I wake up in the morning, and look at the alarm clock. Oh, shit! I overslept. I rush around my room, grab the first shirt and pants I can find, and rush into the shower. I quickly dress; hoping to whatever god there is that Father isn't up yet. With my luck, I know he probably is. My suspicion is soon confirmed.

"Get your ass down here right now!" Father sounds furious. Not wanting to get him angrier, I sprint down the stairs.

"I'm right here, Father. I'm going to be late." I try to run out the door, but he grabs me.

"Stupid brat! Where's my breakfast?" Crap, I was supposed to make him breakfast.

"I have to go. I can't be late again." It's the truth. If I'm late one more time, I'll be in trouble, they'll call Father, and I'll get another beating. I'm not going to let that happen.

He twists my arm, and I bite my lip to keep myself from crying out in pain. I feel tears form in the corners of my eyes, but I'm determined not to let him see me cry. I try to writhe out of his grip, but he just holds me tighter.

"Fine! I'll make you breakfast! What would you like?" I give in. I don't want any more pain today.

"Bacon and eggs. Make it quick, you don't want to be late, " he jeers. He lets go of my arm and pushes me in front of the fridge. I grab the bacon and two eggs, and quickly get to work. Ten minutes later, I'm done.

"Here you go, Father, "I mutter as I hand him the plate.

"This is for keeping me waiting," he says as he slaps me across the face. His ring cuts into my cheek. I wince, but don't show any other signs of pain. I grab my bag and run out the door.

I sprint the entire mile to school; I'm in great shape. I try to block out all thoughts from my mind, but it doesn't work. He's my father. He's not supposed to hurt me. Maybe I do deserve it… Who am I kidding? He's right; I'm a worthless piece of shit. I deserve to be treated worse than this.

I realize that I've arrived at school. I'm twenty minutes late, and that means that Father is going to get a call from Mrs. Callen, my English teacher. I walk through the hall with my head down, so none of the teachers will see my screwed up face. Father doesn't want anyone to ask questions. I approach the door of room 322 cautiously, as if that'll help me slip in unnoticed. Obviously that isn't happening.

"Mr. Hooke, before you so rudely interrupted our lesson, we were sharing our first memories. Would you like to share yours with the class?" she asks mock-sweetly. She's almost like a mermaid, she seems sweet, but will drown you if you get too close, I think. Then, Wait. WHAT? Where did that come from?

In case you don't speak teacher, the phrase "would you like to" isn't a question of whether or not you're feeling up to it, it translates to "you will do what I say or there will be consequences."

"Uh...My first memory was..." Father beating me when I was eleven, but there's no way I can tell everyone that, "My first baseball game with my dad when I was four. The Yankees beat the White Sox 10 nothing."

She nods, "Thank you for sharing, Peter. Go take your seat." I start down the aisle, until I see a foot stick out in front of me. I stop short, just before I trip. Heath Marshall, the person the leg belongs to, just glares daggers at me, as if to say, "This isn't over, Hooke. We'll finish this later." I don't respond, and walk the rest of the way to my seat in the back corner of the room.

The bell rings, and I hurry to my next class, math. I never really understood math, so I don't waste my energy paying attention, and the hour goes by in a blur. In social studies, the teacher calls on me at least five times, and I never know the answer. She just looks at me as if I'm stupid. Maybe I am. Finally, the bell rings. Time for lunch. Oh, joy.

I drag my feet into the lunchroom, dreading whatever form of torture Marshall is going to perform on me today. He's talking to his friend when he sees me enter the room. I get one of his infamous death glares (it scares the crap out of me, but he doesn't get to know that), and he and his friends corner me against a table.

"Today's our lucky day. It seems like Captain Hooke has decided to come home from Neverland. What's it like in paradise?" He jeers. Everyone at this school assumes that I'm a spoiled brat because my father is rich. If only they knew.

I turn to him to reply. That is a stupid mistake, the cut on my cheek that Father gave me is completely in his view, and, just my luck, he notices.

"What happened, Hooke? Did somebody hit you? Did you go crying to Daddy?" Yeah, 'cause that would have helped…

I don't respond; I just walk away. I go sit under a tree outside, bury my face in my knees, and cry until lunch is over. Why is life so horrible? Why doesn't anyone care about me? I just want to die. Maybe things will get better; I hope they will. Everything is so great for other people. Marshall has lots of friends, a great family. He's a good athlete, teachers love him, and he can get away with being a total ass. I, on the other hand, have no friends and an abusive father. I'm in good shape, but I can't play sports because people would see my bruises. Teachers think I'm a horrible person and try to make my miserable excuse for a life even worse. But maybe everything will get better someday. Someone will realize how much I'm hurting and help me. And it could be worse. At least he doesn't rape me…