Star and glade here. This is a Peter Pan story, just wait. Review please! Disclaimer: Don't own peter pan. Nuff' said.

My Wilted Heart- (working title)

For the longest amount of time, I never thought that I could know love. It was such an awkward word that would get stuck in the back of my throat and could never seem to come out. It would just stay in the black void of my mind, and where liked it there. I can hardly remember when I had become so anti-love. I had a happy childhood, I suppose, if the ages of birth to three count as a childhood. I have only flashes of moments when I truly felt love. But, that didn't last very long. I was the second child of my parents. My elder brother, Scott, was six when I was born. All that I remember of him was the way her called me his baby sister, the little precious one that he swore to protect, but its hard to believe in the promise of a six-year-old boy. My parents were loving, and kind, but even as a baby I couldn't help but notice the look of disgust I received from my mother when she had to hold me and feed me, and there was emphasis on had. I remember someone telling me once of the argument that my mother had with a nurse in the hospital when my mother refused to feed me. My father, well, my father loved my mother with all his heart, or so I was told. He would kiss her as if it was his duty, but nothing more than that, but he loved her. When I was brought home, I never remember my mother taking care of me, it was always Scott. He was the one who went out and bought me formula, diapers and all other necessities that a baby needed to survive in her early stage of life. My father would take care of me after my brother fell asleep. I know that he sang me a song before he laid me down to sleep, but I don't recall it. I suppose this doesn't sound much like a loving family, but the love from my big brother was enough for me to forget the way my mother ignored me. But my life isn't a fairy tale. In the real world, an ounce of happiness comes with a hundred pounds of pain. It might be already obvious what form my pain has come in, but no matter how obvious, it does not reduce the amount of hurt it brings. In a heat of despair one day, my mother finally snapped, she drowned my brother during his bath and tried to smother me with a pillow while I napped. If my father had come up the stair of the apartment a moment later, I would have been dead. My mother left me in an unconscious state and left me to later learn of how my mother pushed my father off the roof of our building after he chased her up there, then followed him soon after, and to later learn that my brother was gone. This must have been the day that I became cold and anti-love. For I believed that if I loved my brother so much and he loved me, he would not have gone away. I was three when I lost my family, my ability to love, and above all, hope. I was three.

It was raining. Somehow, it always seemed to rain during moments like these. When the skies seem to cry along with you, it is the moment of great melancholy that has even the bystander weeping their silent tears. It is quite unsure why it happens, but these are the moments in which we dread, in which one never wishes to take part. The ones in which the light seems to be forever gone and forever retreating from your darken heart. As is this life of the broken soul in which we meet. She, unlike many her age, does not know the warmth of love, the pleasures of a smile. She only knows the darkness of the world, the hatred one feels to have all that you had taken away from you. It is her life, the rain. The world is always weeping, for she does not. Her pain is beyond tears, beyond all emotions that one could express. All seems forever lost to her. She could never have a friend. She can never smile. She can never feel the warmth of another's body pressed against in a warm embrace. Love is beyond her, love for her, does not exist. But maybe one day, the light will shine. The walls around her darken heart will shatter and she will know love. Maybe one day the love in which she could not know could be felt with one who knew nothing but happiness. Light and dark collide in the creation of our story. And might we pray for the blooming rose in the darken heart to bloom and not be wilted.

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