Doesn T Know The Story Of Pan By J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Who doesn’t know the story by J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan? The lovely tale of a boy who never grew up, how magical. I trusted that man with my story, but so much was lost in translation I guess. Peter Pan he called it, why? Pan may have been the protagonist in his fairy tale, but in my tale, the true tale, he was a villain. He was the villain, he ruled over Neverland like a dictator rules over slaves. Yet, I still fell for him, I was young, my feelings were clouded, as well as my judgement. In my defense, he fell for me first. Young, lost, confused, innocent Wendy, then again, I was never innocent. And he knew that, otherwise I would have never been able to go to that wretched island in the first place. This story, I guess you could call it a love
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It wasn’t hard for me to drift off that night, the breeze smelled of summer, and had such a nice warmth to it, the warmth was magical, soft--acting like a lullaby--lulling me to sleep.
Wind rushed through the window, no longer a soft breeze, but a cold dagger, cutting through my slumber like glass. I jolted awake, my face still stained from the tears now freezing against my skin. Lights from the street lamps below shone into my room brighter than they had earlier that night, there were shards of glass all over my bench that sat next to the now broken window, the wind must have blown it open. A sigh escaped my mouth as I turned to go to my bed, I’d just have to clean up that mess in the morning. It was so sudden, when a hand clamped over my mouth and started to pull me to the window. My fingers grasped at the strong hand that had a hold over my mouth, muffling my screams. I bit down, hard. A sharp yelp escaped the person and I whipped around to see a very shocked boy standing there. He was tall, with dark hair, he was covered in mud, dirt, leaves, and about everything you find in the woods. Now, for those of you thinking about it, this boy was not Peter Pan; he was just a lost boy sent to fetch me. We both stared at each other, our eyes asking each the same question,
It wasn’t hard for me to drift off that night, the breeze smelled of summer, and had such a nice warmth to it, the warmth was magical, soft--acting like a lullaby--lulling me to sleep.
Wind rushed through the window, no longer a soft breeze, but a cold dagger, cutting through my slumber like glass. I jolted awake, my face still stained from the tears now freezing against my skin. Lights from the street lamps below shone into my room brighter than they had earlier that night, there were shards of glass all over my bench that sat next to the now broken window, the wind must have blown it open. A sigh escaped my mouth as I turned to go to my bed, I’d just have to clean up that mess in the morning. It was so sudden, when a hand clamped over my mouth and started to pull me to the window. My fingers grasped at the strong hand that had a hold over my mouth, muffling my screams. I bit down, hard. A sharp yelp escaped the person and I whipped around to see a very shocked boy standing there. He was tall, with dark hair, he was covered in mud, dirt, leaves, and about everything you find in the woods. Now, for those of you thinking about it, this boy was not Peter Pan; he was just a lost boy sent to fetch me. We both stared at each other, our eyes asking each the same question,