in dreams || open
Asleep on a hanging hammock of vines, Peter flinched in his sleep. It was the same dream that cropped up regularly over the years. He was flying over a stretch of water, touching the leaves and branches of rowan, cherry, and birch trees, the copse diverse and familiar. It was dark, and the only sounds were the wind and the occasional chatter of crows and the faint music of fairies having a party. He soared above the dark water, and veered off towards the brick of the city. There it was silent and still. A window was open and he tucked in through the opening, lighting quietly on the plush carpet. He stepped carefully into the black room, eyes adjusting in the dark. A small shape took form; a cradle. Peter crept over to it, but just as he was about to peer into it, someone shouted at him, and a small form jumped out from it, chasing him to the window.
"You can't be here! You're much too big! Get out! Get out! Get out!" It was an ugly little thing, with sharp teeth and a cruel face that corralled him back to the open window.
"But this is my home! This is my nursery!" Peter retorted, hands on the window. The bedroom door opened, and the shadow of a tall woman wafted in, her skirts hardly skimming the floor. "Mother?" He started, but cowered as she stretched her hands out to him in a menacing way.
"I have a new baby, what are you? You are not my baby." She continued towards him, but as the moonlight hit her skin, he saw she had no face at all. "Get out! You're much too big! You're not my baby!" Peter tripped backwards out of the opening, but the wind did not carry him. He fell and fell and fell, and no matter what he did, it did not stop.
"But I don't want to grow up!" He shouted, jolting awake, legs tangled in the vines, his skin slick with sweat. His heart pounded, breathing ragged as though he had been screaming. Peter relaxed into the vines and reached up to discover tears on his cheek. He shook himself, swiping away the evidence of his pain, and worked at untangling his feet from the viney ropes.
















