Appendage

To Emily.

The man took the boy’s hand in his and they walked over towards the window, the boy limping slightly. Pushing both panes open as far as he could the man hunched himself over so he could fit through. The boy easily climbed onto the ledge. The boy reached for something in the dark and shook it over the man’s head. Suddenly the man could feel himself floating upwards and had to stick his head out into the cold night to avoid crashing into the pane. The boy grasped the man’s hand tighter and both of them jumped from the sill, soaring towards the stars. The man looked back at the house and saw the windows slam shut. Turning his face up to the snowy night sky, they began to fly faster and faster, until all he could see was the ribbon of night sky.

James open his eyes and found to his great pleasure that he wasn't lying face down on his bathroom floor or sunk over a desk with a bottle in his hand; he became even happier when he realized that he wasn't even in his run down home in London. He was in Never Land. Again. Rolling over he saw Peter floating a few inches above the bed, picking at his fingernails. James stretched, sitting up from his uncomfortable position on the dirt floor. He nearly hit his head on the ceiling as he stood up. The last time he had been here, he was twenty or more years younger and many inches shorter.

“Hello.” Peter snapped his fingers and fell onto the bed unceremoniously. James gave him a look and raised one eyebrow, confused.

“Well aren’t you going to say something?” Peter asked. “A thank you perhaps.”

“Oh, thanks a lot for dumping me on the floor.” James brushed the dirt off his pants and began to feel a bit grimy and a dirty.

“Well that’s a lovely way to treat your house host!”

“Just host …” James corrected and began rummaging around the cluttered tree for food. Peter jumped off the bed and half floated-half walked over to James’s side. He reached his hand up and pulled from a shelf a sword. To James’s surprise the sword was well managed and large, the blade strong at the handle but tapered to a thin, sharp point at the end. The handle was made of something that looked like gold and the tip of the blade reflected small pockets of candlelight. Peter slashed the sword through the air and it made an odd swishing noise. James kept rummaging for a glass, not paying much attention to Peter’s antics with the rapier until he lunged out and struck James across the chin. Nothing but a minor scratch, but it caught his attention. Putting down the aforementioned glassware, James took the handle of the sword that Peter was holding out to him. Peter was now donning a hat with a feather in it, crimson with white trim, and if he was trying to look imposing he failed right miserably. James lunged and held out the sword, arms length, reaching far past Peter’s shoulder. The boy retreated a few steps so he was in line with the opposing rapier and sticking his own out, he dragged it the length of the James’s blade so it made a horrid scratching noise. James retreated clumsily his moves inebriated by sleepless nights and drink. Peter advanced: quick on his feet, lithe of limb, and caught James off guard consequently tearing a small hole in James’s shirt. James shook himself out his stupor and advanced again, one-two-three, and jabbed, meeting Peter’s blade. He twisted his feet, regaining equilibrium, and parried a blow from his opponent and hopped around from left to right before thrusting his sword at Peter’s shoulder, slashing a good-sized gash. Peter howled half-heartedly and floated a few inches above the ground to James’s protest.

“That isn’t fair! That’s cheating.” But before he could get the words out Peter sprinkled pixie dust onto his hair and he was floating, too. Soon they were flitting around from one side of the room to another, swords at arm’s length, slashing at each other deftly. Both were covered in small gashes and cuts, neither of them tiring. James was breathing hard, for his large frame could overtake Peter but his alcoholism made him weaken sooner. He leaned against a shelf and tried to catch his breath, holding his sword up in front of his face in protest, but Peter charged on like a child. Racing for him, he shoved the other blade aside and slashed at James who yelled in defense. James jumped on Peter shoving him to the ground but Peter dodged him, floating to the ceiling causing the other man to fall on his face. James rolled over and Peter was holding a sword under his neck. They weren’t playing anymore. Peter smiled but it wasn’t sweet and there wasn’t laughter in his eyes. James knocked the sword lightly aside, for the fall had knocked the wind out of him, and Peter’s blade, which had been held in place by the boy’s shaking hand, slipped and fell down sideways against James’s wrist. The blade, sharp as a redcoat’s bayonet sliced right through skin and sinew, through bone and marrow, coming to rest with a thump on the dirt floor. The wrist lay severed on the ground next to the weapon, blood pouring from James’s arm. The sword had cut an artery and more than a few veins, and the joint that connected his wrist and hand was halfway pulled out. The shock wore off almost immediately, and James began to howl in pain. He shoved Peter off him and reached blindly out for anything to staunch the bleeding. A blanket was soon wrapped around his arm but the blood ran straight through, soaking the thin fabric and falling onto the dirt, mingling with the skin of the Earth. Tears cascaded freely down James’s face as he let out another scream of agony. Not quite mimicking Peter’s own wail when he had glass slivers in his foot, but this pain was different. This pain was greater, unbelievable, and unstopping just like the blood. This pain held more years of torment than the boy had been living. Turning away from Peter, dropping the useless piece of cloth and picking up the sword again James Phelps tore away from the room as he had done thirty years ago. However, this time he did not stop to look at the changing weather or the singing faeries, he ran as far as his legs would carry him, bleeding all the way. All the while one small word replayed itself in his mind: Life. And a smaller word still tagged along as he stumbled over tree branches: If.

I could live if only

I had been stronger

and my legs weren’t so weak

then I could run faster.

If I hadn’t been drinking.

If only, if only.

Live Evil.

He didn’t get very far, finally collapsing in the dirt amongst a coppice of trees. Red spots clouded his vision completely and the scenery was becoming cloudy. He passed out, his right arm leaking crimson blood over the foliage.