VAST (IV): Peter Pan OUAT

Jared

"Charlotte!"

I sit up, panting. My chest is heaving, up and down. Jared wraps himself around me, one leg supporting my back, the other outstretched to the side. His hand holds my head, trying to steady me as I move back and forth. My hands are shaking.

Tears stream down my face. I cough, softly, trying to force the air back into my lungs. Jared buries his forehead in my messy hair, his breath tickling my ear. The room is still covered in a thick blanket of darkness.

Jared's voice hitches in his throat. I turn to face him, though he looks down. His eyes won't meet mine. Something happened, and I don't know what.

"If you're still having nightmares," his voice is so low I have to lean closer to him to hear it. His nose is wet, and there are tears in his eyes. "You can come with me to the PTSD group."

I've heard us talk about PTSD too much in this house. Though I'd be lying to if I tried to convince him that no, I don't have nightmares or flashbacks, I don't belong in a PTSD support group. What would I go in there and say?

I am one of the reasons you people suffer. I am the bump in the night.

"It wasn't a nightmare," I go with the honest approach.

He looks up at me, his eyes carefully scanning my face. They dart back and forth, over and over again. If he has grown the ability to read me over the past few years, I would be shocked. Jared may be an open book, but every secret of mine I keep heavily guarded.

"Then what was that?" Jared reaches for my hands. He takes them between his, rubbing them back and forth. "You were trembling, and mumbling, and stiff."

I pull myself to my feet. My clothes are sweaty, so they cling against my skin. I throw off my shirt, unfazed by Jared's presence. He was the first person to know I was a girl, all because he saw my sport's bra. I throw on a different black hoodie but leave on my jeans.

"Where are you going?" Jared tries to grab me, but I shake him off me as I lean down to throw on my shoes.

"Nowhere," I glance at him over my shoulder. It's the truth. For now, I'm going nowhere.

At last, I turn to face Jared. His face scans mine, over and over.

"Charlotte," he steps in closer to me, until the distance between us is barely a breath of stale air. His voice is low, but his face is tight with confusion. "Was that magic?"

I hesitate. Jared bites his lip, scratching the back of his neck.

"How?" he turns around, facing the opposite wall. If I wanted to, I could run away. I could escape this mess of a conversation before it goes south. "I thought we were safe here." He turns back towards me.

I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know."

"Is it you?" He leans against the washing machine, as if he is trying to hold himself up from a terrible blow to the stomach.

I shake my head.

He looks at me, waiting for me to elaborate. Simply, I just shake my head back and forth, over and over again. Jared closes his eyes, breathing in and out softly. Despite the calming exercise he undoubtedly learned in some support group, tension is building in his shoulders and his knees.

"What could he be possibly bothering you with, now that he's dead?" Jared shakes his head back and forth. "Must he still try to kill you from beyond the grave?"