Elizabeta Brooke: Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan

There was too much to lose if she stepped past the telescope, so she would simply have to maintain her self control, and routine helped that, so she glanced at her watch. It was getting late, she should leave. But the aftermath of that emotional out-flowing had left her with a post-coital kind of sadness, and a need to see the place, if not the catalyst himself, before she left.

To close the episode, she told herself. And so resuming her seat, she panned the scope back to Billy's room where, in his hurry, he'd left the light on.

It was Spartan and tidy, unlike most of the dorm rooms, with no clothes lying around and even his desk in the corner neat. There were framed photos on the chest of drawers but they were side-on. Perhaps one of them was a girlfriend? He was probably lonely for someone he'd left out West, although that didn’t explain his problem with masturbation.

Her gaze lingered on the bed for a moment, a knot forming in her stomach as she remembered him lying there. The warmth from it spread down to her thighs, tingling and undoubtedly moistening the inner flesh as though preparing her for sex. But this last review was about closure, not arousal so she forced herself on, discovering the book he'd been reading on the floor against the quilt where it had fallen. The cover faced towards her, and by heightening the magnification she could make out its title.

The Bible.

Dee frowned, wondering how the Bible could have aroused such desperate adolescent passion. The Song of Solomon, perhaps? To the side of the Bible was a picture that looked as though it had been used as a bookmark.

Half in shadow, it was difficult to make out but she could tell it was a photo of someone. The mythical girlfriend? Dark hair, pale background. Dee strained the magnification, trying to distinguish some detail. Then, quite suddenly, she recognised the border around the photo and the shadowed shape within.

" No," she whispered aloud, feeling suddenly as if life was spiraling out of her control. The picture Billy had used to elicit such a powerful arousal wasn't of his girlfriend or the latest silicone enhanced Penthouse Pet. It was an enlarged copy of a University staff biography photo.

What Billy had been lusting over was the cool academic face of Dr Wendee Williams, PhD.

Five minutes after Dee had finished her lecture on Radiation Physics she was back in her office gazing out the window, wishing for the first time in a long time that she was some one or some where else.

It wasn't just Billy. She was sensible enough to realise her attraction to him would fade in time. But her deteriorating relationship with James filled her with an insidious melancholy that was gradually leeching the joy from her life. Oh, she could function — going through the motions with colleagues and students, with James himself. They had meals together and made pleasant small talk, but nothing real, nothing that even skirted near the truth. Nothing that could help.

Even her dreams were filled with hopelessness. Only the previous night she'd dreamt she was on the Titanic, dining at the Captain's Table. For reasons known only to her subconscious, she'd been the lone guest aware of the imminent danger. There'd been people all around her, laughing and eating and dancing while she'd sat mute, her eyes wide with a terror no-one seemed to care about. The Captain, who’d looked suspiciously like James, had smiled benevolently at her and she'd tried to speak, but before she could prise her lips apart he'd moved on to mingle with his guests. She'd become a little girl, too frightened of the censure she'd receive for being impolite enough to shock him with news that his ship was sinking.

And it was sinking. Dee could feel the icy chill of deep water swirling around her ankles.

She'd made no sexual overtures towards James since the Billy incident, and as a consequence he hadn't touched her once in the whole lonely fortnight. She wondered if he ever would again. Or if she even wanted him to. In retrospect, their lovemaking seemed empty and meaningless, like the perfunctory rituals of his good-morning kiss on the cheek, and the solicitous hand on her arm when they were out. Duty and convention, but no… passion.

Had there ever been?

Once, long before James, she'd felt passion but those exultant memories had been crushed by the pain that had followed.

All in the past.

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to draw on some hoped-for inner reserve of strength. Most marriages went through rocky patches. And nothing had actually happened to precipitate her turmoil, all the problems were in her mind. James appeared happy with the status quo and she must simply adjust herself to it. Because what was the alternative? Life as a single woman in the jungle of academia was fraught with difficulties, not the least being the unwanted advances of every male on campus. And would she be happier alone? Would James?

Gradually the soft morning sunlight streaming through the window seeped into her bones and the view soothed her troubled mind. Amid the quiet bushland setting, the pace of activity below her was familiar and peaceful. Students ambled from lectures, some couples with arms around each other, all young, eager, and open to what life had to offer them.

She'd been like that once, but that time was dead, and the girl she'd been with it. As it often did, the painful memory intruded on her consciousness, but this time she paused in the act of suppressing it. Perhaps in the replaying of that memory she could recapture the strength that had helped her move on. She needed it now.

So she closed her eyes and cast back…

"Don't talk about it, Ma," she'd whispered, her throat painfully dry. "Just… please." The general anaesthetic had worn off and she'd awoken to whiteness and sharp odours; disinfectant, a penicillin-like smell, and the metallic scent of the blood she felt oozing from between her thighs.

First the surgeon, and now her mother wanted to talk, but Wendee couldn't bear to hear it.

The throbbing of pain in her body she could cope with. As long as it didn't invade her mind and her heart. Not yet.

"It needs to be talked about, my girl, and I'm too busy to be waitin' on your moods," her mother said, pushing Wendee's legs aside to settle her large frame on the end of the bed.

The wrenching movement sent a sharp pain through Wendee's abdomen and for a moment she thought she'd pass out.

Was she going to die here, in a strange hospital miles from home, with her life barely started? What of the dream? Would it never be realised?

Through the haze of pain, the dream stood out like a beacon, drawing her back to life, to reality. Gritting her teeth, she forced the pain out of her mind, ignoring its razor edge as she inched further across the bed, away from the overpowering stench of sweat and stale beer emanating from her mother.

"…and if you'd told me sooner about havin' a bun in the oven, you wouldn’t’ve ended up here." The thin, grotesquely crimson lips twisted in scorn. "Spreadin' your legs for the teacher. Did you think he'd marry you? Stupid girl. 'Course he'd run back to the city…"

A nursing sister padded silently into the room, taking up a position at the end of the bed. After listening to the tirade for several moments, she met Wendee's eyes over the top of her clipboard and any embarrassment Wendee might have felt about her sordid history being revealed was erased by the older woman's sympathetic smile. Her eyes were warm and dark like the fur of a possum and her calm olive-skinned complexion gave her the air of a peaceful Madonna. Wendee wished she could smile back, but there was no smile inside herself to give.

Her mother finally paused for breath, giving the sister an opening to cut in loudly from behind her, "I'll give you ten minutes, Mrs O'Connor…" Her mother's huge frame lurched in fright. "…then our young patient will have to rest." The bed rocked as her mother swivelled, narrow eyed, to see who the intruder was and Wendee experienced fresh pain.