Peter Pan and the Spiders From Mars

As a child, living with my first set of foster parents, I was allowed certain privileges. They weren’t bestowed upon me, I just decided that I deserved them. I skipped school, a lot, and deemed my leave to be caused by “emotional problems”. Needless to say, I had many.

The hippie guardians that I had at the time were aware of my actions, but they had a lack of motivation that I learned to appreciate. They lived in the middle of nowhere, just at the brim of a wine centralized town. Instead of rows of grapes like the other pieces of property, there was just dying fields and there may or may not have been, but definitely was, a tiny pot farm in the back. I had no problems with my foster parents and they had no problem with me.

Which made making explorations all the more easier.

I first found the faeries and beings of mythical nature on one such exploration. I was eleven years old and running across the barren field. The grass shot through the holes in my shoes and whipped against my legs. Cold breath stretched my lungs and I ran farther, faster. It was almost as if I was running for someone. Someone that I needed to save. My prepubescent legs carried me past the pot plants and to the untouched forest behind the growth.

The trees climbed tall and reached high, their branches snapping in attempt to caress the sky. They were spaced, light unperturbed between each trunk. My steps slowed, the cool soil seeping into my shoes. I walked in. The grass and ferns grew wilder and more popular until it was a jungle. I took one brief look behind me, as if caring about more foster parent’s whereabouts.

And then I saw them.

There was only one at the time, but even one was frightening. Red paint was smeared across its seemingly human face with twigs intertwined into the matt that was hair. He clung to the trunk of a tree, his nails clawing the bark. My heart stopped for but a moment and then pounded, begging to punch through my chest. The monster crept out from behind the tree, his four foot form shrouded in a soiled, baggy, clown costume. His eyes were wide, his mouth slack-jawed like a hillbilly. The monster had jutting cheekbones and such a long neck that the thought of him watching me made me sweat and shiver. He came closer. His movements were childish, hesitant. He brought up one dirt black hand to his mouth, biting his nails.

The monster was afraid of me.

My knees gave out, shoving me onto the ground. I whimpered, even more scared. The monster jumped back. He then moved forward, the steps careful and stopped right next to my resting head. I looked up at him, breathing heavily and hoping that he wouldn’t kill me. I had too much life left, too many opportunities to run away; too many times I could tell Ian Davison I loved him. The monster bent down and wrapped a long strand of gold fabric around my eyes and tied it tight behind my head before taking my hand and gently coaxing me up.

And the funny thing is that I let him. I let this monster guide me through the forest, my heart beating in my chest and my feet treading heavily on the sodden dirt. I wanted to cry, but somehow his hand was both comforting me and frightening me. Stupid and senseless. And then we stopped and his hand dropped from mine. Frozen with apprehension, I listened to drums that mirrored my own heartbeat. Moments went by until I gathered enough courage to strip off the blindfold and found myself in the middle of a clear circle, surrounded by trees and damp greenery.

They came out from behind the trees and the bushes and were dressed in elaborate, immature, costumes. One boy, maybe four years old, wobbled out from the underbrush, tightly grasping two cymbals. He staggered, a symphony of bells expelling from behind him along with the rest of crew. The boy opened his mouth, painted red and about to speak, but he didn’t have time to talk. I staggered back, my small feet sinking into the ground. I ran. Or at least try to. Before I could even take three steps, my back sagged into the ground from an unexpected shove, ferocious hands pushing and prodding at my body.

“Stop! Stop it! No!” My foster mother had always told me to scream in desperation. My heart beat faster, the drums grew heavier, and the bells clanged. I shut my eyes, sinking them into my skull. And when I opened them, my throat scratching from both screaming and holding in my words, I was no longer swimming in my oversize Mickey Mouse shirt and red shorts. Fabric like our tweed, beer stained, couch, itched at my skin. Ruffles, buttons, dirt. They lifted me up, touching me with the utmost caution, and backed away from me. They were careful with me, with what I was doing. It was like they wanted me to like them, to be a member of their fun little game. So, I smiled. And they smiled back. The monsters, these secret friends, clapped and danced as if strung together like recently freed puppets. The music faltered, becoming soft and magical and I almost felt…

Wanted.

But of course, that had to end. When the cops somehow found out about my story, they believed my foster parents were a bit too willing to share their favorite plant. I don’t know which was more frustrating, being shipped off so far away that I wouldn’t find my way home or that no one would believe me.

And so when I woke up in the hospital, recovering from my motorcycle accident , and trying to convince everyone that I saw a fucking white wolf on the road, I experienced this same feeling: a mixer of frustration and rejection on the rocks.