Neverland's Child

I gave myself five minutes.

I took a big breath in, and slowly let it out. Isn’t rest so tempting? Imagine your back against the mattress, the cold December wind filling the room and the silence enveloping you in your little world of peace. I began to close my eyes and mimicked the gentle breathing of sleep, slowly falling into Hypnos’ spell—

“Erian, come on! Let’s play pirates!”

Oh, good God. Ever since he watched The Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy with me last week, he had been wanting to play pirates with me near the acacia tree in the woods. He can’t play there alone since there were a lot of large hidden potholes in the ground, meaning I always had to come.

But I felt tired today so, I tried to ignore my little brother’s voice and get my breathing momentum back. Breathe in, one two three; Out, four five six…

“E-ri-an?” he asked as he knocked the syllables on the door.

“Maybe later, I’m doing my homework!”

I heard a pause. “Erian, I remember you said that yelling was rude.” I tried to fall asleep again. He didn’t seem to give up. “How are you doing your homework when your school things and laptop are in the living room?”

I started to hear him rapping the door again. “Erian?” knock. “Erian?” knock.“Erian?” knock. I sighed and rolled out of bed, dragging my feet as I opened the door. I saw my eight-year-old brother’s face, alike to our mother’s and his big light brown eyes innocent and glistening. “Play pirates with me!” he said with a little pout. I stared at the pirate hat that nestled on his little head of dark brown hair and the wooden sword in his right hand. Those same toys were the reminders of the childhood I spent alone before he came. I didn’t understand this little tugging of hate in the back of my mind. I swiftly evaded his lunge at my stomach.

“Peter, I’m busy,” I said, trying to mask my irritation. “Doing what?” “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

Why not just play along, eh? I looked around as if fearing someone might hear us. I bent down and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Captain Blackbeard will get mad and hurt me if anyone found out.”

“Oh!” Peter looked genuinely surprised and worried for me at the same time. “My lady! Did he prison you here?”

“Imprison, Peter.”

“No worries, I will save you, madam!” he tried to storm past me and into my room but I held my arm out and caught him by the waist. “Sir, you mustn’t!” I knelt and held his shoulders for effect. “He is a bad man, he will hurt you too! You must leave this instant!”

“But my sister taught me that a gentleman must never leave a lady in trouble.” Our mother was a fanatic of the classical period and she saw to it that I was brought up like that, even in the modern times: perfected manners, posture and well-read with Children’s Classical Literature. Now I’m trying to raise Peter that way too, chivalrous and gentlemanly. Gotta dust my shoulder for that, I taught him well! But now, things aren’t going my way.

“True, but I still cannot leave, sir! But you can help me!” I search around my room for a pen and paper. “Uh, you…. You find these books in the family library and, uh, read them.”

His eyes beamed and saluted. “Aye!”

I closed and locked my bedroom door, flopped face first on the bed. I liked to think quietly like this, truly it feels more comforting. I get to organize my thoughts and priorities—

I should have added my laptop and school bag to Peter’s list.

***

I stayed at the family library to do research for class. It’s so frustrating to do this, it’s Sunday, for crying out loud! Thou shall keep holy the Sabbath day. I’d rather be reading a new book or watching a Disney movie to calm my freakin’ nerves. My brother walked in through the doorless entrance then knocked twice.

“Enter,” I said. He gave a courteous nod then said, “I will look for the books now.”

“Quietly, alright? I’m working.”

I wasn’t used to the presence of my brother in a quiet environment. I kept glancing at him: he was reading the little green notepad and scanning the titles up at the ceiling high walls of shelves full of books. I remember when the kid who looked for books in this same room and who was in the Victorian dress was me. I tried to picture myself years back, reaching for those books in my pink skirts and my black hair in a red ribbon. I would play and run and read all day and no one would get in the way. Ping. My group mate private messaged me, asking a topic about the lesson I was studying. I sighed and replied to her. I had to go back to work.

I felt the couch sink then rise again. My brother got our old picture book of Peter Pan and sat down to read beside me. I tried to concentrate on reading the article about accounting displayed on my computer screen but the little voices in my head kept nagging me. Why does he get to read Peter Pan and I have to understand accounting?! To which the other half of my conscience replied, He’s a kid, and you’re not. You have obligations, he doesn’t. The first voice plead, But I was a kid too, I deserve a break! The second voice would say, ‘Was a kid’ past tense. Grow up, already! You have to be his mother now that the real one’s gone and your father’s always away! The first voice quiets for a moment then retorts, Then why am I supposed to be paying for their mistakes? For their loss?

“Why is Peter Pan your favorite story, Erian?”

Oh, I must’ve accidentally placed that title in the list. A lump grew in my throat at the thought of it. My mother used to read it to me every night before she gave birth to Peter and died. At an innocent child of eight, I was the one who named him Peter after that favorite bedtime story of mine, unknowing that he was the reason why mom’s gone. Father never told me. He only said that mother was in a different place, a better one.

“When is she coming back?” my little eight-year-old self said. “No, Erian. She will be waiting for us there but, it will be a long time before we can follow. Can you wait a little so we could be with her in that better place?” “Yes,” I had answered. “So, while she’s away, be good to your brother, teach him everything your mother taught you, alright?”

The day I found out where my mother was, was the same day we stood praying over a plaque of gray marble with her name, her birthday and my brother’s birthday written on it. I hadn’t cried that day, or ever. Why would I? Would my tears bring her back? She taught me to be strong at a young age so I wouldn’t need anybody, and with my father always away, I get to practice that a lot. I hated myself for crying, for wanting a parent or a guardian to help me with myself when there was no one there.

I suddenly found myself biting my lips to prevent them from quivering as I tried to hold back tears at those memories. Peter must’ve noticed this and repeated his question.

I just nodded and quickly ran my sleeve through my eyes and breathed in. “It’s no longer my favorite story, Peter.” He looked surprised at this.

He knew that he was named after Peter Pan: the boy who never grew up. He glanced at the cover then back at me in a questioning look. “B-but why? It’s a wonderful story of flying children, mermaids, Indians and—”

“Peter, you wouldn’t understand if I told you,” I said, my voice starting to break. I closed my laptop then made way for the back door. I needed some air.

“Erian, you’re sad, aren’t you?” I heard him say, he was at my heels. “Tell me why, maybe I can help you.” I reached for my phone and wore my earbuds, putting Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in the highest volume to try to calm myself down and drown out my brother’s voice.

I ran to the woods behind our villa, trying to find the acacia that was my solace, the music pumping my entire body into action. I glanced at my shoulder for a second and was stunned to see my brother running after me looking scared and worried, he mouthed my name and other words I couldn’t read; I still ran.

I felt the hot tears run down my cheeks as I yelled, “Neverland’s not real! We all grow up and it’s horrible, it’s horrible, Peter! It’s your fault mom’s dead! It’s your fault I’m grown up and alone! It’s your fault I can’t be a kid anymore! It is all your fault!”

When the music stopped, I fell on my knees and sobbed like a mad woman. I cried out all those tears I held inside, in large gasps of air and large rivers that watered the soil below me. I waited for a while, for Peter to catch up to me. But at each passing second, my gut kept telling me something was wrong. I heard a noise from behind. I stopped crying then remembered something… potholes…

I yanked out my earbuds. That noise had to be a scream.