The saddest story ever to exist is the story that never got told. The story of the woman who suffered abuse every day, hidden from view, her home her very own cage. The story of the broken man, special from the day he was born, left to die on the streets by his own two children. The story of the beggar child who grew up blind, unable to see because of those robbers who stole her eyes in order to make a profit for themselves. The story of the people who believed that death was better than life, those who died before their time.

When I write

My words feel stone cold

And lack true emotion.

How do the words spill so easily?

Of situations, I had never so much as brushed

Yet I cannot bring myself to write

Of anything but the things I write.

Please forgive me for my insolence

And brash actions

For continuing to write

About things

That I know I should not

But the words just won't stop

Flowing from my head to my fingertips.

But if I don’t stop

I fear

That the things I write would

Come true in my life

And rule all I have known.

Dear Peter,

I wished, that night, I had followed you and Tinkerbell and forgotten all about Mama and Papa and the life I could have left behind. Why did I  remember Mama sitting in her rocking chair waiting? Why did I remember Papa smoking his pipe, watching Nana chasing her tail in the yard? Oh, Peter, you gave me the moon and the stars and I left you to chase city lights and street lights. 

I remember how you came to visit me a few times after I had left you, hovering outside my window like a ghost. I remember closing the curtains and pushing you to the back of my mind so that I didn't have to think about you. I remember telling myself that you weren't real and I remember the small little pink pills Mama would buy for me so that I stopped thinking about you. I remember the looks Papa and the boys gave me when I spoke fondly of you, looks of worry and distress. I stopped talking after that, they didn't understand.

I grew up Peter. I became the perfect woman just like how auntie wanted me to be. I married a rich man and had a little girl. I still take the same little pink pills Mama gave me. I wonder if you visit my little girl the same way you visited me. If you don't see me, it's because I'm not there. My husband told me that it would be much better if I stayed here in these four white and blue walls and in my pretty pink bed. There are beautiful purple flowers that lay in this delicate white vase beside my bed. Outside, there is a beautiful garden with a tree just like the one you live in. I'm not supposed to go out though, they say that I'm not well enough. 

I'm going to try flying today after I have had my another dose of those little pink pills. I can't float anymore like you taught me to, so I'm going to throw myself off the roof. I will float for a moment. But then, I will remember how I left you and grew up. I will fall. Maybe, you will be waiting at the bottom to catch me. Just like in my imagination.

With lots of acorns and love,

Wendy Darling

#twistedtales