Most of the stories you hear about the Lost Boys have them running off from awful homes, bad places and bad people and bad situations. Most of them get beat and starved and such, and they cry for the first few days.

Peter gets awful sick of crying, though. He can take it for three or four minutes, but then he just picks you up by your collar and drops you outside until you stop. Then, when you come back in, it's like it never happened. That part's the truth at least.

I was a Lost Boy. There's a cycle to them, you know, because even on a magic island, not everyone can be like Peter. The phrase isn't 'all children grow up, save one island.' You grow, slower than most, but you grow. And then, when you get taller than Peter, he stops talking to you and he won't let the other boys either. You can't fit in all the little nooks and crannies and secret cubby ways. Eventually, you go out and mope on the beach, staring out over the waves and wondering 'why me?'

That's when Hook comes by and nabs you.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I was a Lost Boy, too. But my story doesn't start in some piss poor orphanage, or a dirty alley way, or a squalid apartment. It doesn't start with abusive parents or cruel caretakers or anything like that.

No, my story starts in Great Ormond Street Hospital.

My story starts with a death.

My beginning starts with an end.

Ironic, huh?