AUTHORS NOTE: I do not own Peter Pan, Captain Hook, or loneliness.
I hate Pan for so many reasons. I hate him for being everything I can never be, could never be. I hate him for flying and crowing and fighting and I hate him for being Peter Pan, the eternal youth. I hate him for never having to grow old. But for however much I hate him, I know that underneath the skin, down deep below in a place where the good and light of Neverland can never touch, we are the same.
I hate him because I hate myself.
I hate how picturesque he looks. I never had that childish look, all lean elbows and baby-fat and grubby knees. I was always the sallow, dark skinned, scowling child. I was never such an angelic personage as Pan. I was short, sallow, thin, never raising my voice in anger or joy. I was quiet, and I was alone. I hate Pan because he is never like it. But I take joy in knowing that every day, without his precious Wendy and his Lost Boys, he is as alone as I was. As I am.
I hate how he's so vain and arrogant. I hate how he has so much to be vain and arrogant about. How accomplished he is, for a boy. I hate how he crows and laughs as his plans go off so cleverly. I hate how people love him anyway, even though he is so vain and arrogant. I hate him because I have never felt an excuse to yell out 'Oh, the cleverness of me!' I hate Pan for making me feel so alone and small again. But I take comfort in knowing that without his clan of howling boys, he is just as small and alone as I am when he gets back to that blasted tree trunk.
I hate how he can fly. I hate how he can leave the world behind and soar in the air like he was born to a bird, not a woman, hate how he flows so gracefully and fluidly through the air, weaving through each and every star there is, throwing his head back in delight as he lets out a small, tinkling laugh that almost sounds ethereal. I hate how, even though he is alone in the sky and I am surrounded by men on the ground, in the sky he is never alone. I hate how the stars befriend him.
I hate Peter Pan because he is everything I am and yet everything I cannot be. I hate him for his cocky smile and grubby knees and skinned elbows and flying eyes and body that never ceases its play except for sleep. I hate this epitomy of childhood, this thorn in my side for how unlike him I was when I was a child. I hate his confidence, and I hate how he lacks it as well. I hate his sober visage as he perches in a tree, staring off to the left of the second star, staring at the place where his companions disappeared. I hate his tear filled eyes. I hate Peter Pan because he is everything I am and yet everything I cannot be.
So when I shoot him and watch him plummet from the sky to the water, I laugh and cry at the same time.