don't be a stranger

never, neverland

In this version of the story, Tinkerbell got married to Peter Pan. She was bright and blessed everything around her with pixie dust. He never grew up, and then he died because he went looking for other dust and magic for variety’s sake - no single source of fascination could satisfy Peter.

Sure, she dimmed without his belief, but he always came back to her bed just in time to keep her alive.

These fairy tale characters taught me to drink the clear liquid that doesn’t freeze. We would pull the thick glass bottle from the frost and take it down one thimble at a time. It left my mouth clean and my mind slippery.

When I found out he was dead, all the details were drowned out by the echo of her scream.

For days I couldn’t picture his face. I could see his teeth and his thin, wispy fringe, but even those pieces I couldn’t hold onto long enough to be sure if they were true.

I wondered if the poison would bring him back, but it was risky. Truthfully it was better now that he was gone. I didn’t need to see his face. I submitted to leaving him in fragments.

Then, one night, I was filling my friend’s ice trays when I noticed a small bottle in the back of the freezer. It was Tito’s from Texas - just like all of us lost boys.

I took it down before I could decide. It spilled into me.

And there we all were, together again, in the world of dissipation.

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