the aroma of fairydust clung to me as i clambered into my unmade bed, the sheets crumpled and thrown the way i had left them what felt like days before. the thrill of iron clashing with equally well-forged steel still rang in my ears, the calls of indian’s marching through overgrown forestation towards buccaneers shouting ‘ pan, pan ! ’ in time with their footsteps. little did they know that those very footsteps had shaken the earth that covered the hideaway that i had taken refuge in. a treehouse the lost-boys and peter had constructed, a treehouse i wished that i could have stayed in. now, tucked safely back into my own bed with the only remnants of my adventures being the smell of fairydust caught in my nose, i closed my eyes tightly. i fought to keep them shut ! i fought to keep the images of neverland from prying them open again. i’d always be drawn to glancing at the open window where the wind made my curtains dance; where i had first seen the silhouette of a boy. a boy who started it all. a boy who never grew up.
