Pan's Game || OUAT Fanfic || EDITED VERSION

Chapter 35; A Blonde-Haired Beauty Named Emily

"When a flower doesn't bloom you fix the environment in which it grows, not the flower."

~ Unknown

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Alice's P.O.V

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A/N: Warning! This chapter is complete rubbish. I am not even remotely kidding this time.

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    I wake up to Peter playing with my hair. I yawn, turning around to face him.
    "Good morning, love," Peter says, his voice husky and thick with sleep. "Did you sleep well?"
    "I guess," I reply, shrugging.
    "What did you dream of?" he asks.
    I sheld a small tear. "My father."
    He extends his arms towards me. "Come 'ere."

    I scoot over to him. Peter wraps his arms around my waist, placing his chin on my forehead. I sigh, snuggling closer to him for warmth.
    "Feel better now?"
    I flash him a small smile. "Yes, thank you, Peter."
    "Anytime," he replies, kissing me on the temple.
    "Can I skip training just for today?" I ask, propping myself up on the pillows.

    "Of course you can," Peter says, caressing my hair.
    "Thank you."
    He sighs, sitting up. Peter walks over to the dresser and throws on his usual dark green attire. He turns around to face me. "I have to go now, you get some rest. I'll get Felix to check on you later, alright?"
    I nod. "See you tonight."

    "See you tonight, love," he choruses, teleporting himself out of the tree house.
    I fall back on the soft bedsheets, exhausted. I think about my father and what he would say to me if he were here.

  "Keep your chin up, Princess," he'd say. "Your tiara is falling." 

    I smile at the memory. My father is the last thing I think of before I fall asleep again. I just hope that wherever he is, he's doing alright and that he knows that it's not his fault that I'm gone.

****

    It's mid afternoon when I gain consciousness again. The sun streams in the room through the open window. I close my eyes, listing the many unfortunate events that had occurred in the past three days in my head. I can't remember much for some reason, but I remember kissing Peter in front of my friends. And Ray. Oh, God. I can't get Ray's look of heartbreak out of my head. 

    I glance down at my forearms. I can't believe I resorted to self harm, I promised Lewis that I'd never do that. Lewis used to self harm back when we were kids but Will and I managed to get him to stop doing that.

    From that day on, the Lewis never picked up a blade ever again, and the three of us promised each other that we'd go to each other if we really needed to. But the circumstances are different now. Lewis won't even talk to me for some reason, and Will won't even stay in the same room as me. I wonder if they're aware f the shape I'm in. My hands are always shaking. And my head is constantly spinning.

    If my father could read my mind, he'd be in tears. I don't know what's wrong with me. A part of me desperately wants to die tonight, part of me wants it to be in an accident, and a small part of me wants someone to notice and stop me from ending my life. Peter, Lewis, Ray, Will, anyone. I sit up on the bed and walk toward the dresser. I wipe the sleep from my eyes as I rummage through the dresser.

    I stop when my hand comes into contact with something small and sharp. I pick it up, bringing it towards my wrist. My razor. The rational part of me says that I shouldn't do this, that I should think this through. I stare at the razor pressed against my wrist. Ignoring my rational thoughts, I press the blade harder against my wrist and—