Neverland [ ✓ ]

Day 6

ENTRY:
3:13 AM

It was around the time Derek officially left my mother for good that Peter fully disappeared. I didn't care so much, by that time; he'd abandoned me like everyone else did. What had I expected? But despite knowing this, still I looked for him, even though I knew he'd given up on my cause. Or, maybe, Peter had tired of me. 

But I still looked.

I looked for Peter when my mother viciously lashed her rage upon me. When Derek left, she turned to the drugs more than she'd ever had, if that was possible. My mother became fully reliant. Derek- the abusive jackass he was- should've left a long time ago, I'd thought, by the way he'd been treating us. But, quickly, I came to find out that when he was around, things were better. The wrath of my mother was far worse nightly than anything I'd ever seen Derek inflict on her or me, it was worse than Derek's worst nights, it was worse than Derek when he was drunk or too strung out to be reasonable. 

My mother became insanely intricate with her punishments, she knew where it hurt; no one in the right mind would've done the things she did. Still, I stand by the fact that I loved my mother, no matter how much agony she put me in at such a young age. Really, it stings less to believe that it wasn't my mother who did those things, to believe that it was just the dope. Long term addiction riddles your mind with errors and melts away everything you are until you're completely dysfunctional. That must've been what happened to her.

Right?

If she were in her right mind, I will remain convinced that my mother would not have done those awful things. With dwindling things left to believe in, if I can help it, I will maintain what remains. No matter the degree of corruption, I will not let resentment destroy me, I must forgive.

It's how I have survived.

ENTRY:
3:22

When I was eleven years old, I saw Peter again, at last.

I saw him, yes, but I didn't smile. Under any other circumstance, I would've been ecstatic; but Peter rendered me breathless with fear, looming where he was. I awoke to my mother standing in the middle of my room at 3:00 AM, Peter standing behind her- fully manifested- holding her up like a puppeteer.  His translucent black hand gripped her right shoulder, his other gripped her left elbow to keep her steady. 

In my mothers hand was a gun. 

She jammed the cold barrel of the pistol into her left temple, her head tilted against her shoulder as if her neck had given out, staring tastelessly like a rag doll. I didn't speak or move. I was plastered in place, crouched on my knees, unsure if I would need to fight or flea. Of all things, I was ultimately left to powerlessly watch in horror. What was she doing? Why was she doing it? Was this something else intended to scare me? I had so many questions, but my mind instantly silenced when my mother's finger slid down from above the trigger, directly onto it. I watched her delicate, narrow finger curve around it; all she had to do was pull. 

Sirens wailed in my head. Do something, do something. I was frozen in time, but all in one action, everything moved.

"Don't-" I'd begun, finding my voice in the midst of panic as I crawled forwards, holding out my hand to her in attempt to maybe distract her or catch her attention long enough to talk her down. But, fruitless in my last ditch attempt, I watched her apply pressure. My plea was punctuated by the gunshot that tore through my mother's skull mere seconds after It was uttered. Even with fuzzy memory, I visually remember- clearly- how her blood sprayed, how chunks of her head stuck on wall and how her eyes bulged when the bullet passed behind them. I remember- like a dramatic bow as soon as the bullet exited through the other end of her drug addled brain- my mother slumped in Peter's arms before fully dropping to the ground. 

The clock read 3:01 AM.

Peter had been behind her, he had been the one coercing her; but it was my mother that pulled the trigger. Peter was not the one who killed my mother, really, I don't even know if she knew he was there. 

All I know is that he did not kill her.

ENTRY:
3:55 AM

As the full weight of my situation set in, I began to scream.

The world spun rapidly, my breathing was uncontrollable, everything was swimming with tears. I turned away from the crumpled, bloody heap that had once been my mother, slamming my face into a pillow to muffle my cries. I pressed my face so far into it that I may have suffocated had I continued for longer than I did. Through my screams, there was an awful, quiet hissing noise that I soon came to realize was the sound of my mother being dragged across the floor and out of the room. 

The potent smell of blood swamped the closed space. It invaded my nose whenever I would raise my face even slightly to breathe properly, so- forcefully- I would shove my face back down again so that I wouldn't have to. The smell of blood did not sicken me, I'll be truthful, sickness was not the reason I did not want to smell it. Guilt was why I didn't want to smell it. The underlying truth of it was, immediately, I recognized the fact that I liked it. I hated myself for it, at the time, but I couldn't hide from the truth.

I enjoyed the repugnant scent of my mother's blood.

Sobbing into a- now, damp- pillow, forehead pressed against the wall facing away from the whole mess, I felt the lukewarm feeling of mist. I felt Peter's arms wrap around me, I felt him lay beside me, I heard him whisper quiet words in my ear- words that I cannot recall- but I remember that they soothed me. As he comforted me, I was more glad than I'd ever been in the past years without having him around like this. In spite of the circumstances in which he'd returned, I was still grateful; his words, presence, and everything about him was like a safety blanket to me. 

Still, I am left to wonder what Peter said that night that- so effectively- soothed me to sleep. Did he speak loving words I'd never been able to hear from my mother? Reassurances? Maybe. My memories only allow so many details. 

Peter's discretion that morning is not a part of them.