Peter Pan Monologue

 

Neverland. Just a dream, right? Just a fairy-tale. A story woven into your dreams before bed-time. People – children – believe Neverland is an imaginary land full of magic and wonder and fairy dust and pirates. I know they’ve got it wrong; Neverland is just as real as I am. Let me tell you a story…

                Once upon a time, there was a land plastered with colossal oak trees ornamented with emerald green leaves and enchanting birds whose wings flashed a million colours when the sun winked down on their soft feathers. As they soared over the land, the first pure notes of your favourite songs would ricochet off of the sky’s walls. Tantalisingly, branches quivered as children (no older than five or six) clambered up them with vigorous cries of “can’t catch me!” and “got you!” One boy, one marvellously fun sort of boy played all the games, sung all the songs and arrived back from daring quests aglow with a glory that shone out of his sparkling eyes. This fantastic boy was the wondrous Peter Pan (that’s me). Yes, I am Peter Pan. All the joyous strings of Neverland have been plucked by me, the brilliant Pan. I was the first to know how magnificent a place Neverland is. In the summer, it is awash with fresh olive moss, and the lagoon sparkles and shimmers like diamonds caught in a sundance. The cat-calls and hair-tossing of the mermaids make your heart ache to join them, to throw a ball or dive into the depths of the deep water. Neverland in the autumn is glorious; scarlet jungles and crisp golden air that floats around you and hugs your torso. Brightly vibrant colours drip thoughts of daring into your mind and the tempting taste of titanium danger tickles your tongue. I love Neverland just as it is, in the autumn and in the summer. Even when Neverland is encased in velvety darkness something tremendously exciting still arises – pirates!

                Pirates! A razor-sharp word sparking with fear, a word that glitters as threateningly as a gleaming sword, a word that trips over the edge of your tongue. Neverland is chock-a-block with pirates; ones with wooden legs and brass teeth that wink at you when their owner grins… or snarls. Of course, there is one infamous pirate who is the “captain” (although I would not deem him fit enough to captain a fishing boat, let alone a ship). Captain Jas. Hook, the man with a burning hate for me, the wonderful Pan. It is a hate so passionate that it is said his fearful beetle-black beard regularly catches fire when he sleeps, as he breathes in the scent of Pan and breathes out the sting of fiery bitterness. I still remember the sudden realisation in Hook’s horrible black eyes when he was finally swallowed by that sly crocodile; it still sends chills tingling down my spine. Yet, my sworn enemy was not dead. Indeed, we met again. Hook and Pan will always meet again – but let us not dwell on matters. Hook’s dastardly image is imprinted on the walls of my head; him and his scarlet frock coat and scaly crocodile boots. Although tricking him and his foolhardy crew is mighty fun, he still strikes terror into many children’s hearts. Did you know he was an Eton boy? I didn’t either, not until… recently, when a tirade about mothers erupted from his mouth. The only thing we ever agree on: the uneasy demeanour that clouds the word mother.

                Why are mothers held so highly in the unblinking eye of society? I have no use for one. I only ever went home to London once. Landing lightly on the window ledge, stumbling a little in the fog, I peered through the iron bars that were struck against the window. An icy hand gripped my heart and squeezed until I could barely breathe; a golden lock of hair lay curled on my pillow, attached to the angelic-looking head of a small boy of my age. My matted mane of hair, twisting darkly onto my shoulders, felt ragged in comparison. The iron bars grew hot in the clench of my fists and I swallowed tears of rage… and in my chest I felt my heart breaking.

Heartbreak.

Shock.

I never went home again.

Replacement.                           

Loss.

I resolved never to go home again. My mind strayed to thoughts of umbrellas and top hats, of small boys in candy-striped pyjamas and a girl in a blue nightgown, whitely-frilled around the collar and sleeves. The following night, I found Wendy.

                In actual fact, I was gripped by a need to fly to their bedroom window in particular when my sneaky shadow ran wild and Wendy was kind enough to sew it back on. Duly, I taught her and her brothers to fly (with the aid of happy thoughts and glittering fairy dust – thankfully supplied by Tink). I remember the supreme volume of jealously Tinkerbell held for Wendy when I brought her back to Neverland with me… but we won’t talk about that.

                So we finish… quests and stories and adventures are piling up, you see. Think of me, won’t you? When you scan the job column in the local paper. Think of me. Think of Neverland.