lost_boy | all this has happened before

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all this has happened before

We were running. Running from Peter. Running toward the pirates.

It hadn't been difficult to convince the others this was our best option, not after all Peter had done. They knew now, they had seen what he was like, they'd been viewed under the cold, dismissive gaze of Peter Pan and understood he thought nothing of them. Of us. Because I may have been his favourite once, but it was clear I was too grown up, too close to being a man to be loved by him any longer.

I knew that had upset me once, but now, surrounded by my friends, running toward other friends, I didn't feel that same sense of loss that I had before. As with Charlie and Sal and Nod, I was choosing these good people, people I loved, and I was turning my back on Peter.

We crossed the Island, skirting the plans with the Many-Eyed, taking the path up into the mountains, toward Bear Cave, and then beyond. I paused at the cave, remembering Harry and his death here, but only for a moment. I had learned long ago how to mourn my friends while on the move and today was no different. My other friends needed me now, they needed me to lead them to safety away from Peter.

Leading the way down the mountain path, past the Marking Rock, I could see the camp and the cove in the distance, the shipped docked where it usually was when the pirates weren't away, raiding whatever places they were able to find. And I could see people. Pirates, yes, but familiar faces, too, and I picked up my pace, hurrying the others toward them.

[Coming together post! Gathering, as usual, Jamie and everyone who was with him at the tree is going to come to the pirate camp/the Jolly Roger, so feel free to have threads that take place on the ship or on the shore at the camp. Also feel free to employ fairies if you like, they'll be spying for Peter, who'll be coming soon enough. In a few days I'll post a second top level for Jamie and Peter's big final fight where Jamie will be losing his right hand.]

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She isn't afraid until she is. That's the way things always work, of course, not least when bravery is a tenuous, inconsistent thing. She wasn't afraid of that fucking clown when It took her, having faced so much worse than whatever It intended to do, which ultimately wasn't very much at all. She wasn't all that afraid of Bowers and his gang, either, despite all the reasons she would have had to be. Inside the walls of her apartment, though, that courageous veneer always crumpled, having long since been gradually worn away, leaving so little left. It feels sort of like that now, watching the battle, like a switch flips in her head, taking her from confident and brave and so angry to something entirely the opposite.

In her defense, Jamie losing a fucking hand seems like a good reason to be afraid.

She wants to yell and scream and fight back like she did before, still remembering the satisfying crack when her rock hit Peter's head. She wants to hurt him for hurting her friend, to let him know what happens when he fucks with the Losers Club, to tell him that what he's describing isn't love at all. It's something sick and toxic, born of a need to control, not any sort of affection. She knows that twisted sort of love, and knows that anyone is better off without it. Her father didn't want her to grow up, either.

None of those things happen. For a moment that feels like an eternity, she's frozen, aware of what she should do and wants to do but completely unable to do them. It's a fucking relief that someone else joins in the fight, because once Jamie's hand is gone, once she sees it, she almost forgets about Peter entirely. All she can see is the blood, so much of it; all she can feel is the impulse to vomit, which she has just enough self-control to suppress. That wouldn't help anything right now. Whatever is doing this to her — and she knows what it is, what she's remembering, memories she tries to keep buried filtering back through the cracks and flooding her mind with thoughts of the past — it's not as important as helping Jamie. She can deal with her own shit later.

"Jamie," she says as she runs to his side, the word coming out strangled and panicked. She can't breathe, she realizes, managing little more than shallow gasps and trying her best to ignore it, and all the blood. "You're gonna be okay, alright? We have to — to stop —" She slips her jacket off, trying with clumsy hands to tear off part of the fabric. "Come on, I'll help you."

I was in shock.

I was aware I was in shock, which felt a little strange, like impossible information coming to me from a great distance, but I was. When Beverly came up beside me, I stared at her, bewildered and confused, as my body began to shake. I was very cold, which was silly, because the Island was always warm. Peter didn't care for snow, so it never snowed here. Which mean the weather was never anything but very temperate. I shouldn't have been cold.

But I was in shock.

"He took my hand," I said in a soft, distance voice. "I used to do that. To the pirates. I would take their right hand, it was my mark." And now Peter had used it against me.

They have to stop the bleeding, but for some reason, Beverly can't say that. It feels sort of incredible that she's able to move or speak at all, actually, but someone has to try to help Jamie, and it might as well be her. It's just that there's so much blood, and an empty space where his hand used to be, and despite having known something was wrong since she woke up here days ago, she's only half-aware of where she currently is. She should be back home in Derry, blood staining the tile floor instead of the sand, in front of her not Jamie, but—

Her chest lurches, the bitter taste of bile in her mouth, but she can't let herself be sick over the open wound of Jamie's severed hand. She fumbles a little with the coat in her hands, then gives up and presses the whole thing to the wound. He needs it more than she does.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean she should have gotten to do it now," she says, her voice wobbling. "I don't— I don't know what to do, I don't know what else—" Cutting herself off, she tries to take a breath. "You have to stay with me, okay, tell me how I can help."

I could do that, I realized. I could tell Beverly what to do, how to help, and maybe if I had that to focus on, I would be able to keep myself awake and focused. Maybe it would be better for me, too, if I could just focus on this.

"A tourniquet," I said. "Take... take my belt." Around the waist of my pajama pants I had tied a length of deerskin scavenged from another piece of clothing so that I could tie my weapons close. "Take my belt and wind it as tight as you can around my forearm. Then tie it."

Even if I screamed, it would be better.

"Okay," Beverly says, though everything about her voice and her expression suggest that it really, really isn't. Nothing about this is okay. It hasn't been since they first woke up here, though she knows that isn't Jamie's fault and that he didn't want this either. He's the one whose hand is gone, and the sight of where it used to be and all the blood still threatens to make her sick, but she needs to keep it together long enough to help Jamie and stop or at least slow the bleeding. She should be good at that. She's used to burying her feelings. Given the circumstances, though, it's so much harder than usual.

Her hands tremble as she unties and removes Jamie's deerskin belt, then gingerly reaches for his arm. There's so much blood on her already; it's only going to get worse. "This is probably going to hurt," she warns, as if he doesn't know that already, blinking back tears. It has to be done, though, so carefully, but tightly, she starts to wind it around his arm.

A slim dagger fell to the sand when the belt was untied and for a second I wondered where my sword had gone, but then I realized. It was just there, not far from me, lying in the sand with my hand still curled firmly around the hilt.

"I know," I said, then gave Beverly a thin, wavering smile. "It's okay. I know you're only helping."

Then I had to grit my teeth against the pain, clenching my jaw hard enough that I felt as it my teeth might shatter from the pressure. But I didn't scream. I was proud of myself for not screaming, because I didn't want to make Beverly feel any worse.

"We have to get to the ship," I gasped when I felt like I could speak again. "Someone can help there."

"Do you think you can walk?" Beverly asks, immediately concerned. It's a hand he's lost, not a foot or a leg, but he's also lost a lot of blood. She knows, because it's all over him and his clothes and the sand and her hands and her clothes, and that's enough to make anyone feel out of sorts. Abruptly, she remembers trying to get Eddie and his broken arm out of Neibolt, and nearly laughs through the tears that are flowing freely now. At least Jamie's been easier to help than Eddie was then, though she's not really sure at what cost.

It's worth it, of course. But she feels far more fucked in the head over this than she did about any of that, too much threatening to spill out of her that she's not sure she can keep at bay.

"You can lean on me, if you need to."

"It's all right," I said, because I didn't like seeing Beverly cry. I lifted my arm, realized there was no hand there to comfort her, and a shrill laugh bubbled up against the inside of my lips. I only just kept it at bay and instead reached clumsily with my left hand to scrub a tear from her cheek. "I'll be all right. It's just a hand, right?"

My voice was thin and shaking, though, and I didn't know if she believed what I was saying any more than I felt it. But perhaps if we both pretended just a little, it wouldn't seem so bad.

"I can walk," I promised, then carefully got one leg under me at a time, finding my balance. "I'll lean on you, but I can walk."

"Did you seriously just say it's just a hand?" Beverly asks, letting out a watery, shaky laugh of her own entirely despite herself. There's nothing funny about this at all, which makes it that much more startling to hear Jamie's assessment of the situation. Losing a hand is no small occurrence. She doesn't want to freak him out any more than he already sounds like he is, so she has the sense to keep that to herself, but she's pretty sure it's a big fucking deal.

It's the blood, though, that bothers her more than the severed limb, that makes her sway, dizzy and woozy, when she carefully gets to her feet. The blood, and the images she sees on the backs of her eyelids when she closes her eyes, ones that belong to a different place and a different time.

"Oh, god, okay."

It was a little funny, what I had just said, but at the same time it was right. It was just a hand. I was still here, I was alive, and so were my friends, which was so much more than so many boys could say. It was more than Sal could say. Peter had let the crocodile destroy Sal, rip her to shreds, and then he left her behind for me to find.

We were alive. It was just a hand.

"There should be a pirate on board," I said as we stumbled toward the ship. "Arthur. He- he used to patch us up. When he was still one of Peter's boys. He'll be able to help."

"Okay," Beverly says again, at least a little relieved that there's someone who'll be able to handle this better than she can. Granted, she sets a pretty low bar in that regard, but she just wants Jamie to be okay. Her own hangups here — the ones she's pointedly trying not to dwell on, and mostly failing — shouldn't have to have any bearing on what happens to him because of this. She still feels sick, unsteady on her feet, but having a task at hand helps, too. If she keeps her focus on Jamie, on getting him to the ship and to the man who can help, maybe they can both get through this.

Sniffling a little, she attempts a smile. "At least there's someone who'll know what they're doing."

I wished I could tell Beverly in just the right words that she was helping me more than she knew. Without her by my side, I wasn't sure where I might be now. Bleeding on the sand most likely, maybe unconscious. Someone else might have come to help me, but they also may not have noticed until it was too late.

She was saving my life.

"You know what you're doing," I said as we stumbled up the ramp into the ship. "You're saving me."

"Not really," Beverly says, letting out an exhale that might have, under any other circumstances, have been a laugh. It's too watery and strangled for that, though, her throat thick. Even supporting Jamie as they walk onto the ship, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Peter is still distracted, she can't see herself as saving him. Someone else would have done this if she hadn't. He would have been fine. It's hard to imagine herself really having made that much difference, though it might just be easier not to go there. When she first woke up here, she hadn't wanted to be here at all. The idea of this going a very different way if she hadn't been...

It's as dizzying as all the blood, something she has to push aside for now.

"You're gonna be fine. You said yourself, it's just a hand."

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