I ran to my bathroom and put a wet towel to my bleeding cheek. I looked in my foggy and cracked bathroom mirror. I looked into my big dark brown eyes, my tear-stained cheeks, my pink lips that were cut, my nose which had a bruise near it. I was broken. I’m 14 years old, soon to be 15, and never have I ever had a friend. I was too afraid of what my mother would do. Once the bleeding stopped I walked back to my room. Mother got mad at me for writing music and drawing. I can’t help it though. I love to do it. I ran a hand through my long raven hair and dressed for bed. Before I went to bed I grabbed a book from under my dresser. I hid it from my mother. I ran my hand over the green cover. “Peter Pan” it read in bold yellow letters. I remember reading this as a child. It’s still my favorite book. It spoke of a utopia named Neverland where you never grow up. There were fairies, pirates, mermaids, indians, and a group of boys called The Lost Boys ran by a boy called Peter Pan and his fairy Tinker Bell. As I child I believed that Neverland was real. I dreamed of what it would be like if I could fly there and be a part of the gang. As I grew up I gave up on those dreams. Neverland was a fictional place after all, and Peter Pan was just a boy in a fairy tale.