She used to cry a lot, my mother, that’s all I really remember of her. I remember her blue eyes were always blood shot from crying, her cheeks ruddy and her lips dry from exhaust. She was ill – that’s what they told me. Sick and dying, worn at such a young age. She was sixteen when she married my father, I had heard – I was young when I heard the stories, only six or seven and never realized what I was hearing until years later. They tried for many years to have a child, but the miscarried again and again, until I came along when she had just turned twenty and, from what they said, she was never able to conceive again. She loved me, I think, she would say my eyes were her eyes, but my eyes weren’t sad like hers. But they weren’t cold like my fathers’ eyes.
I never liked him, not even when I was a young boy and he showed me the ways of a blacksmith. He was always callous and acted as if I should know more than I could know for a child. He hated me, more I think after my mother died. I killed her. That’s what he told me – the night I ran away. They wanted a whole family and all they got was one aloof boy. But, how was that my fault?
I was nine when I ran away, to the edge of a lake in search for shelter for the night, cold and afraid and thirsty. The stars were bright and there was a reflection on the lake of a star that was much brighter than the rest. I wished on the star, I wished to be happy and then… I was falling into the lake, stumbling over some branch or stone that I hadn’t realized was even there. I thought I was dying, falling through the void of nothingness and then I woke up. In Neverland.