Page 146 of Freeing Hook

And then he comes again, but this time it’s his corpse, and it’s clawing itself out of the grave I insisted on digging for him with my bare hands. He’s groping at the ground above him, unable to get out.

When that happens, Peter gives me another dose of faerie dust.

I spend my few sober hours of the day with Michael, playing with the train set, spinning its wheels as my brother hums dirges. I’m not sure where he picked those up. I’m fairly sure my parents never brought him to a funeral. But he heard them somewhere.

At night, I sleep in Peter’s bed, though he doesn’t touch me more than to wrap me in a cocoon. I’m not sure what would happen if I didn’t insist Michael sleep on a cot in the room with us. I still can’t tell how much of my outward reaction to Peter he’s delusional enough to believe.

Sometimes I believe it myself.

It’s easy, when you’re going through the motions, to slip into believing.

I fight it for a while—the bargain, the curse.

I scream on the inside, but only during my sober hours, and those are becoming less and less bearable. My muscles grow weary, whether from grief at the loss of John or the toll of the faerie dust, or being tugged around at the end of the strings of my bargain, I’m unsure.

But eventually, my mind stops screaming.

The smile on my lips forced upon me by the magic of our bargain eventually strains so hard, it hurts more not to smile than it does to just give in when Peter teases me and flashes me that adoring smirk. It’s easier to let the laughs fall from my lips than it is for them to scrape against my throat trying to escape.

It’s easier to let my heart flutter at his kiss than it is for the magic in my body to fight the urge to vomit.

It’s easier to forget than it is to remember.

And so, slowly, over the weeks or months or however time works in this chasm of a realm, choosing Peter turns into wanting Peter. Which turns into loving Peter.

And by the time it’s happened, I’ve forgotten why I ever bothered fighting it at all.