A White Rose For Peter Pan

A chair.

A rickety and worn chair.

An old wooden chair, sitting there behind the desk.

The desk full of papers and notes.

I used to sit in that chair, in front of that desk. Study. Work. It was my life. My haven from the storm of outside. A dull life, blocking out those who cared, but it suited me just fine. Suited my introverted world.

Sketches peaked surreptitiously from under notes on Peter Pan.

Peter Pan.

Forever young.

“I don’t believe in Peter Pan,
Frankenstein or Superman.”

The Queen lyrics fell from my lips, well remembered from Her favourite playlist. I don’t believe in the youth’s ability to remain, everlasting anymore. Like a rose bush it renews it’s self, but the individual flowers wrinkle and fade.

I miss my white rose.

My very own.

My saving grace.

My now lost saving grace.

I look at the photo frame atop the desk. Never hidden by notes, unlike my life.
A pair of crystal blue eyes stared out into my mundane green ones. My proof of the ability of youth to fade and die standing amongst her beautiful flowers, all in bloom. How can the second rate copy be more everlasting than the original? Baudrillard was right. ‘Perhaps at stake has always been the murderous capacity of images; murderers of the real; murderers of their own model as the Byzantine icons could murder the divine identity.’ The words jump off of the page on top of a pile. I shudder. It’s all I have left. This and memories. I wish I had been able to take her with me, not just this measly picture.


The heady scent affronted my nostrils briefly before fading into oblivion, like a sudden fire through my icy veins. “Sometimes I get the feeling she’s watching over me…” Again with the lyrics. ‘Welcome to the Black Parade.’ I wish I could have followed her upon it. I would have followed her anywhere. Perhaps she does watch me. Perhaps she keeps me from making a stupid mistake and following her. Perhaps she’s still looking out for me like she did while she drew breathe.
Then again, perhaps this is all my over active imagination.

I picked up the frame and smiled at the small white face. Nothing is forever. She taught me that unwittingly. But change is good right?

Again with the wafting scent of rosemary. Perhaps she is watching over me. Change is good. Learn from the past, move on. Don’t dwell on that which is gone.

Life must evolve. Life will evolve. I can’t let it go on much further without me. I can’t be left behind. I have to go out there and seize the day. ‘Carpe diem’ right?

She couldn’t have wanted this for me. So many people said this, but now I’m finally on my own, with them giving up on me I see the truth. I hate cliché’s but ‘you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.’ Now I see, she wouldn’t have wanted this for me, not my white rose. She was always regal, strong and full of life. Never spiteful. She couldn’t tell me I had to focus the rest of my life on her memory. She would never ask me to follow her. She would want me to walk out that door and breathe without the filter of my window.

I turned to look at the door. My enemy and friend for so long, keeping the outside world from me for so long. It kept away the reality of the beyond, but beckoned me. Temptress.

Clinging to the chair for haphazard support I wondered why I personified my door in such a way. Clinging to the frame I mused that the door was no siren seeking to kill me. Clinging to the past I realised I to end this agony. I have to stop this. Stop before I loose it all.

My phone, playing dead for almost a month had lit up earlier today. It had been mourning too, or at least I like to think it had. He had rung me. He hadn’t given upon me, just given me time. He brought the first smile to my lips since she… He ordered me out of the house. He had told me to stop moping. The two of them should never have spent that much time together. They’re so alike, despite their glaring differences. She was my white rose, my beauty, my love, despite the thorns, she was all I ever thought I’d need. He is my scorpion, my protector, my joy, despite the sting and claws, he was everything I need without me thinking I’d need it.

He reminded me too much of her.

So I was off to a party. His party. Halloween. He said he had a costume for me, so I had to come. She always laughed at his ability to manipulate me through guilt and my sense of proper manners. He knows me too well. Maybe I need new friends.
I can almost feel her laughing at me. I made that argument so many times to her face and all she ever did was kiss my cheek and laugh.

I open the door. Cooling air hit my unsuspecting face. My first step outside, it seemed as though time stilled, and my neighbour stared over at me. I smiled at him and pulled my car out of the driveway.

I drove into his house. I’m early. I’m helping him set up. I remember a day, so long ago, spent under the shade of his porch with her, him and myself, drinking beer before I stopped. We talked about everything. I miss having the both of them.

I still blame myself. I still wish I had never left that candle burning. I smell rosemary as I enter his front door. He has a Peter Pan costume in hand. Green tights.

I guess I’ll have to believe in Peter Pan again, at least for one more night.

A White Rose For Peter Pan


Menai, Australia

  • Artist
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Artist's Description

Creative piece I wrote for my HSC English Exam, the aim is to write a story about a journey or a character experiencing change.
Please leave constructive critism.

Artwork Comments

  • Marilyn Brown
  • Damian
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