Hi. I'm Pippa, I'm writing to you because... well no way to explain, you already know why. You see I'm having this problem per say, and I figured that you'd know all about it.
You see the problem with this problem, is that it isn't really a problem at all. No, in fact it's much more just a certain existence that I'm having a problem with, and I suppose I may as well be speaking gibberish because I am certain I am not making any sense. Now it would likely be a good time to start at the beginning of all this.
It all began 83 days after my sixteenth birthday, and it all began with him. He didn't know I was watching him, and he didn't know I loved him, but right from the very moment I laid my eyes on that perfect face I needed him. His face that day, I remember that far clearer then anything. The way each jewel on his face gleamed, his lips, his perfect lips, always a dark red, as if he'd been eating raspberries all day, then there were his eyes, wide set, bright, blinking, almond-shaped eyes, of the faintest green flecked with grey in the sunlight. That day he was perfect, and I had to have him.
For the next three days I returned to where I first saw him, back to that place by the river, the one I thought only I knew of until I'd seen him there. For those three days I didn't eat, I couldn't, I wasn't to eat until I saw him next. I needed to be perfect; I needed to be just like him. On the fourth day he was back- at that same spot, our spot- I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, but there he was. Today I wasn't just going to watch him; today I was going to talk to him.
I sat myself beside him on the large flat rock he was spread on, gosh he was just as perfect up close, and asked him for a light. From that first puff we were inseparable, and at that moment I knew he loved me too. We stayed there on that big rock all night, he told me he liked my name, and I told him I needed him to love me. He didn't know I already knew he did, he didn't know any of the things I already knew about him.
At sunrise I rose from my place in his arms, out stretched my arms to him and asked him, "Run away with me", "Where to?" he asked, "Never Never Land" I replied, and with that he stood, took my arm, and said "Only if I get to be Peter." Peter and I turned around, arm in arm, walked away from the river, and never went back.
Peter and I walked down to the corner shop and I bought a post card for my mother, I wrote to her saying "I've met Peter Pan, we're going to find Never Never Land. I love you for ever, your baby always- Pippa," then I mailed it with a ten cent postage stamp. Peter and I walked hand in hand towards the highway and I explained that I didn't really love my mother, and that I only said so to please her, "How could you possibly not love your own mother?" inquired Peter, "Because my own mother doesn't love me." I responded flatly and that was that, we never spoke of my mother again.
We hitchhiked along Californian highways until we reached Mexico. That first night we slept on the beach after passing out from too much tequila and cigarettes. In the morning we bought the cheapest camera we could find at a broken down little pawn shop and ten rolls of film. After that we headed off to find fruit and bread, and then returned to the beach to eat; it was to be my first meal in eight days, and I was that much closer to being as perfect as him.
For the next few days we entertained ourselves with each other, the camera, alcohol, and the city. On our eighth night, we traded our tequila money for drugs, and after that night everything changed. I don't remember what it was we did that night, and I don't remember how much, but whatever it was is responsible for everything. We continued to do the same drugs from the same guy for weeks, with each hit my flaws became more visible, and never the less Peter just grew more perfect. I couldn't help but resent him for it.
I told Peter we should stop; I told him the drugs were ruining everything. Peter's only response was "It was your idea to come to Never Never Land Wendy, well we're here now, and we can't ever leave." "I'm not Wendy!" I screamed at him, then I turned and ran, far, far away until my legs couldn't carry me any farther, and there I stayed sleeping and losing sanity. On the fourth day Peter showed up. Peter told me he wanted me to be his Wendy, promised he loved me, and that the drugs were all gone. So we went about existing, too drunk and too in love. My flaws were rapidly catching up with me, and Peter, well Peter was still perfect. Too perfect. Perfect Peter, and his perfect drugs.
Peter was still getting worse and worse each day. Peter didn't know I could tell. My bones started to show; soon I was all bones, bones and flaws. I started to hate perfect Peter. Too perfect. Too much better then me. He was making me worse. It was his fault I relapsed, it was his fault I was a walking corpse, it was his fault I couldn't love him anymore. I had to do something.
I found the perfect place, no one would ever know. It's not like anyone could blame me anyways, this was his fault. I bought the gun, the bullets, and told Peter where and when to meet me. I was there, where was he? He was late. Peter was never late. Where the heck was he? Maybe he found someone else, someone better? That jerk. Well screw him, oh yeah, Peter Pan had it coming. I had to do this. I had to get rid of him. I was his entire fault. Peter finally showed up at dusk. "Where've you been Peter?" he said nothing, too gone. Peter was in Never Never Land, my Never Never Land. After waiting a lengthy period for a response I had no choice but to continue, it was getting late, "perfect Peter, why are you such a pretty liar, why are you making me do this? I love you Peter. I love you forever Peter. You're my baby Peter, as long as I'm living. I'm sorry Peter, but this, this is all your fault." I kissed him on the forehead, took ten steps back, and then shot my lips right off his perfect forehead. "I'm sorry Peter, you made me do this, this was all your fault." I lay the gun by his side, curled his fist around it, and as I walked away I yelled over my shoulder, "Enjoy Never Never Land Peter, it's all yours now."
I walked to the boarder back into California and hitchhiked home. My Peter was gone and he took my world with him, what was there left worth feeling. I was dropped off eight miles from my home. I took my time walking slowly and evenly, spent all night getting home. I arrived on my door step at sunrise, walked inside and said, "Hi momma, I'm back home now." Walked into my room and stayed there trying to sleep it off for two days.
Finally my mother came around to dust, and realized I was under the blankets. The second she woke me I told her I needed to phone the police, "My friend Peter is missing, and I need them to find him, I need to know he's alright." I told the police that "Peter is in Mexico, I need you to find him, for me okay, please?" then I crawled back under the covers and tried to grant myself at least a moment of sleep, a moment of sanity.
The next time I woke it was the police at my bedroom door; they told me that Peter was dead. "Who did it?" I asked, "We can't disclose that information at this time," they responded. So you see this is where my problem comes in, if they won't tell me who did it, I couldn't possibly tell them either.
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