Kill Me. { But here's the thing; after all the Darling Pan stuff and their /something/ }
Leave a “Kill Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character killing yours.
The next day, as she shivered between sheets with his arm draped over her waist, after lying awake for hours, she had asked him if he could die. She could, knew that she could, knew that she would; but the idea of him dead was quite an odd picture to imagine. There was a silence before he asked if she thought about killing him any time soon. She told him of course not. She wondered if he felt betrayed in his final moments, only a few days later, when she killed him with the weapon he’d shown her, the one he’d shown her after he had slipped out of the bed and given an almost angelic sigh, if such a thing were possible. Wendy hated herself for seeing grace in everything he did, but there it was anyway, staring her in the face.
❝ What are you up to, Bird? ❞
When the dagger plunged into his side, she almost gave out a scream. Peter Lucifer didn’t die. What would the island do? What would he do? He couldn’t die, could he? But there he was, in front of her, dying. She had stolen what he’d called an angel sword, or, or something; and now she’d slipped it into his side, and his face looked so smooth, so shocked, so startled. Her lips parted and a struggle began in her throat.
What had she done to him?
As he fell, she tried to keep him up, tried keeping him on his feet, saying his name over and over and over till the taste of it dried out her mouth. It was for my brothers, Peter, and I, and I, and I I was desperate, I
She held his head in her lap, smoothing his hair, whispering to him that it was all alright now, all alright. There was light, lots of it, and she had to shut her eyes, closing them tight, the image of his right shoulder, bare and touching hers painted on the back of her eyelids. Oh Peter, I’m so sorry.
Wendy had to quit saying the word murderer in her head so often once she was back to London. She couldn’t stand the word she’d start crying and thrashing whenever it was brought into conversation. It’s what she was, no matter what he was, that he was one too:
She thought about it when she held him, too.
Wendy Darling was now a murderer. And, to make things all that much worse, she had most likely loved him, too.
