by qwill. » Fri Jan 02, 2015 12:56 pm
➳ Hm, where to begin...I suppose I should start at the beginning. Well, here goes nothing.
It was 22 June, 1921. I was sixteen, and a resident of London, England.
The day began like any other, except that it was the last day of school for the year. I had been sent to a boarding school (against my will, of course), and one with all girls, for that matter. My parents thought I needed to be, as they put it, 'reeducated in a proper manner.' Madness, I tell you, absolute madness. As I walked from the carriage to our building on 4th street, I dragged my school tote against the ground, purposefully trying to show my parents that I didn't care what they thought, I was still the girl they had sent away months ago. Boarding school hadn't changed me, no sir.
With a bark, our german shepherd dog Berlioz ran from the back gardens to greet me. I had always loved Berlioz; sometimes, I felt like he was the only one in that family I actually got on with. Everyone else told me 'Ella, do this,' or 'Ella, put on this gown' and on the all to common occasion, 'Ella, prepare for this dinner, or that party.' And undoubtedly, it would be the same as soon as I walked through those doors. So I waited, trying to prolong my time with Berlioz before Father sent him back to the yard to greet his 'reformed daughter.'
"Ellabelle, is that you?" His stupid nickname for me. My real name was Elvira, a hold over from my grandmother's time. I much preferred that to the hated Ellabelle. It was fine for a six-year-old, but I was a young woman. I deserved better than Ellabelle.
"Father, must I repeat myself every time? It's Ella, or Elvira. Do not call me Ellabelle," I retorted, begrudgingly returning his hug.
"I see you haven't changed a bit. Well, get washed up and ready for dinner. Grandmother's coming late tonight, and I want you to look presentable." Father took my tote, brushed the dirt away and sent Berlioz back into his kennel. Scowling at him, I walked through the front door, ignoring my mother's comment on my wrinkled school uniform and tangled long brown hair. Home, at last.
My room was large, betraying the wealth of my family, but I had shoved all of my possessions into the alcove by the window, preferring to pend my time reading books or staring at the stars. I checked under the mattress, searching for my scrolls where I kept the stories. The latest one was about a princess off to search for her prince, who had been locked away in a tower. Strange, I know. But that was pretty much the point of all my stories. Girls could be as much the hero as boys.
I had always been a fan of writing; my father thought it was unbecoming for a girl to fill her head with fantasies, so he took away all of my quills and parchments, leaving me only with wells of ink. He told me it was the tooth fairy (Father, the point of the tooth fairy is to take people's teeth, not their papers!) and always pretended that he didn't know what I was talking about when I accused him of thievery. I slumped down on my bed, dipping a makeshift quill into my almost-empty well of ink, when I heard a tap at the window.
This was the tap that changed my life. If things had been different in this moment, I wouldn't be penning this story.
But sadly, I was young and bitter, a teenaged girl misunderstood among the London high society. And so I opened the window, thinking it was a pigeon. More or less, it was.
He was lucky I didn't scream, for I almost did. A good girl does not simply allow a young man to climb through her window, especially when she has never met him before. But before I could make a sound, he smiled at me, and I was charmed. Yes, I was charmed, and I'll admit it attracted. That was before; now, I find that appearance isn't everything. I consider myself above the labels of society, nowadays. If you really wanted to categorize me, I suppose you could consider me pansexual, for I am no longer bound by physical appearance to constitute attraction.
Ha, pansexual. Pansexual. Thanks, Peter. If there's one good thing you taught me, it's to appreciate everyone as beautiful or ugly depending on their inner character. Wendy never learned that, did she?
But anyways, back to my story. Don't worry, this first part is almost finished. I know, it's boring. But once we get to Neverland, you'll wish that I was still sitting here, telling you about my irritating, but albeit normal family life.
Peter looked at me with a smile, his reddish blonde hair softly shining in the light of my flickering candles. He had green eyes, to match the forest green cloak and leather trousers, and his skin was as pale as mine, and that's saying something. He was so handsome, and charming as he introduced himself. I was in a state of pure shock. But what startled me even more, was that he asked to read my stories.
"I've been by here every night for weeks, looking for the writer of those pages. Is it you?" he asked, taking my hand and drawing me close.
"Why, yes, it's me. I write stories because I can't help but think how boring the world is without something magical to hold on to," I said, smiling.
"Well, could you finish the story? Does the princess beat the dragon?" he said, genuinely interested. It was then that I heard the footsteps up the stairs and my father's voice, calling for his Ellabelle.
"Quick, take me away!" I said, panicking.
Realizing the danger, Pan took out a pouch of what looked like powdered gold and through it onto my hair. I sneezed (turns out I have a mild allergy to pixie dust!) and looked at him incredulously. "Think of something happy, then jump!" he ordered, pulling me to the window.
I thought of kissing him. Oh, how embarrassing it is now. But he was sweet, and kind, and damn, was he charming. I was betraying my own stories of fiery females with my infatuation with the boy I just met. It probably also had to do with the fact that I hadn't seen a male my own age in months, and before school, I had had quite the number of boyfriends.
And together we flew, away to the stars. To never, neverland.
Last edited by
qwill. on Fri Jan 02, 2015 3:38 pm, edited 1 time in total.
