Except One

It was a dark night in England. It was windy and cold and in a small, run down cottage a man was shivering in his bed. He was sleeping fitfully, a collection of empty beer bottles gathered around the foot of the bed post. Something was coming for him, he could feel it, something or someone. He had been waiting for her to return in some form, a spirit or a devil. To curse him, to make him pay.

It was indeed a night of change, the stars could not be seen in the sky as Regan flew over the familiar village. She shivered, not in cold but in fright. In fear of the memories in this place, memories of abuse, being held down as untold things had been done to her. She had only been a little girl, what had she done to deserve such punishment.

Felin was by her shoulder, fizzing angrily, feeling her memories and her emotions roll through her. His little hands balled into fists ready to fight and his familiar red glowing light was a source of comfort to Regan. A familiarity she could connect to home to Neverland with Peter. But she could not return, not with all the questions that threatened to consume her if they were not answered.

She flew carefully, remembering the little walk to the local stores, the school-house with a yard for playtime. Here, she had always sat under the shade of a small tree, not playing with the other children. Instead fingering a shell she had found on the beach lovingly, if she pressed it close to her ear, she could hear the sea, the waves rushing in and out. The other children didn’t understand, they would never understand.

In her mind’s eyes, Regan could play out her memory of the day a little boy had come up to her, trying to get her to play. He had sat down with her, looking at the shell in her hand, the way the pearly colour of the shell coat shimmered into all different prisms of light in the sun. He smiled, looking at her. They were only ten years old, but Regan felt fifty.

“How come you never play with us Regan?”

She had looked at him, not speaking, never speaking but it appeared the boy had been expecting this. He looked familiar, as if she knew him from somewhere. He was in her class, but she never paid attention to the other children, keeping her head down, getting on with assigned class work, thinking of going to her beach, of not going home where he was waiting for her.

“I’m Peter Regan. I’m in your class. I live a few doors down from you, you never come out to play. What’s wrong with you?”

His name was Peter Barrie. He was a lovely looking boy, with bright green eyes giving away his inquisitive nature, and light brown hair that stood up in different angles. The first boy who had ever wanted to know her was a Peter. A coincidence? Or a sign, it was all meant to be.

And she heard his question inside her head that day, turning round and round. What was wrong with her? For surely she was different, she was wrong, and dirty and stupid. She wasn’t like other children, she didn’t think or act like them? What was wrong with her?

Peter hadn’t stayed long, finally giving up and walking away, looking back once. His eyes were sad.

Regan had gone home that evening, her feet sandy, the ends o her hair wet from the sea, thinking of his question. What was wrong with her?
Her answer was waiting when she got home. When she sae him in the armchair by the television, a beer, as always, in his hand. He had smiled at her when she pattered through the door and she had stopped, frozen by fear. Her wide blue eyes became dark and she blinked away fat tears that rose to fall.

He waved his hand at her, “Regan, my love, come here to me? To daddy.”

Regan felt courage pluck at her heart strings and she shook her head. Farrell’s eyes darkened, “Excuse me?”

Regan shook her head and in a wavering voice that betrayed her fear, muttered, “You are not my father.”

He stood then and with two long strides was over to the tiny girl and he slapped her with the back of his hand, causing a wail to break from her lips that, if heard by any normal loving parent would break hearts. It was a cry of pain and help. A cry no-one would hear, for no-one could help her.

She lay on the ground, her nose bleeding, leaving an eerie trail of scarlet blood down her pale face. Farrell picked her up tenderly, as a father would to a daughter who had fallen from a swing. He sat down on his chair, pushing back her hair and kissing her forehead, “Now there beautiful girl, you are so very beautiful.”

Regan closed her eyes against his voice, his hands that began to move over her child’s body. She closed her eyes against the world, because this was what was wrong with her. He was what was wrong with her.

Regan opened her eyes, and began to gasp in the present day. That memory had haunted her, the day little Peter, so young and innocent had asked a question with a burning answer. She had wanted to scream, to shed off her clothes and shout, look at what he does to me. But she didn’t. She had always remained silent, as victims most often do.

Felin caressed her face with his little hand, catching a tear that hissed and dried instantly on his fire hot body. Regan smiled at him, nudging him with her finger, she was no longer alone.

She flew to the familiar cottage, looking inside. It was dark and cold, as it had always been. She looked into another house, where a little girl was asleep in a decorated bedroom, her hand clutched around a teddy-bear. She stirred in her sleep, and then opened her eyes to look at Regan outside her window. Her little brown eyes widened instantly and then relaxed, as a child always knows when someone is not off their world, is a little bit special which Regan now was. The little girl got up out of her bed, and opened the window, for the windows must always be open,

“Hello girl,” Regan whispered.

“Hullo,” she stuck her thumb inside her mouth and then removed it, “I’m Wendy.”

Regan smiled at the name, “And I’m Regan. What year is it Wendy?”

“It’s November, my birthday month. 2015.”

It had been five years since Regan had left, time had passed slower in Neverland because she had been so happy. She hadn’t needed to know the days, or the time.

Regan nodded, smiling at little Wendy, “Go back to bed child, and dream of only happy things.”

Wendy nodded, and smiled at Regan, “Do you know Peter Pan Regan?”

Regan nodded, “Yes, he is my very best friend.”

Wendy smiled slowly, and then her eyes began to droop as sleep took her little body once more, “I thought so..”

Regan closed the window as Wendy fell asleep and moved on to her old house, a house that had never been home. She frowned, placing her hands on her hips in a Peter Pan pose, and her feet floated down to meet the cracked window sill.

Farrell was still sleeping but with a shout he woke up as his window burst open, a frightful howling wind echoing the bare bedroom. He jumped up then yelled in fear as his eyes set eyes on the figure of the girl child before him.

She stood, silhouetted in the window frame, her whole body in shadow. Only the white of her eyes and teeth could be seen as they gleamed unnaturally. Her garments were strange, as if trees had wrapped around her in an embrace, sharing their precious leaves and her hair was wild, springing from her head in wild tangles.

His step-daughter had indeed returned as some sort of wild fairy spirit, intent on punishing him. He yelled again, covering his face and moaning.

Regan stepped into the room, floating in mid-air for a second. She grinned evilly at the frightened look on Farrell’s face. He feared her as she had once feared him. She came closer to him and he began to trembled, and then she stopped, her face near his, illuminated by the light of Felin.

“I’m not here to punish you.”

Farrell stopped moaning, and looked at her. “What are you?” he whispered.

Regan smiled, “I’m a girl born again, of the sea and the wind. I’m a person of happy thoughts able to ride the winds backwards, smell the clouds as they sing, talk with the birds on the treetops. I am the child I was never able to be because of you.”

Farrell moaned into his hands again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for all those things I did.”

Regan stopped to look at him, and she was startled to find pity in her heart for the man prematurely aged. He had grey in his hair, his face was wrinkled and his eyes tortured. She knew he had been waiting for something like this to happen, to get the punishment for his crimes by those on whom he committed them.

“I just want to know, to understand…why? Why did you not love me like a normal father? You were the only father figure I had in my life, to look up to and you abused me. You ruined me, scarred me for life. I’ve been running from my past, of what you did. But I cannot run anymore. I need to know, why?”

Farrell looked at her, tears streaming from his eyes, “because I was a sick and vile old man. You were always such a beautiful child, and when I looked at you…I needed to touch you, to kiss you. It was wrong, I know that now. And you looked so much like your mother..”

Regan flinched and stood up, “I’m nothing like her. Nothing.”

Farrell began to rock back and forth. Regan stared at him, wondering how she had ever feared him. He was pathetic.

“I forgive you,” she whispered and Felin hissed around her, and then made some obscene gestures to her step-father. “I forgive you for all those things you did because if I want to live, I need to move on from those memories. But you, you will always have to live with the guilt of exploiting a little girl who depended on you for guidance and help when she needed it most.”

She turned to leave, and then looked back once more, “You will never see me again. I’m going home.”

She flew out the window, leaving the old man behind. Felin flew up to his face, blew a raspberry and then zoomed after his girl. Regan smiled, a weight finally lifted off her shoulders. At last, she was free.