finding neverland [closed; history thread]

[BRONTË B. BEVIN]

ðwell i thought the suits had come for me,ï
FOUND ALTERNATIVES TO HONESTY,

it was a time called long long ago. so long ago, it didn't even seem to have a name in the ancient times. but textbooks are faded, and pages of history are blacked out. more goes on than what ink could ever press upon a page to denote.

the birth slash creation of the being known as thirteen is insignificant according to history books. it is what takes place thereafter that really matters. it is the unholy union of machine and man, the trepidation of one lonely doctor who realized the dangerous potential of his invention, and the stowaway that occurred behind closed doors.

it is the humanization of a girl known plainly as thirteen as her rebirth into the second stage of her life when she learned the beauty of the sea, land, and sky, like a palette of colors across water.

the man she would consider her first real father-figure is aptly named captain aulaires. the name was a mouth-full to pronounce, and it was fitting considering the hand-full he was, along with his rusty crew of strange characters. names fade, but faces are etched into memory forever. the captain was a scraggly old man, with a rough-cut beard and glowing friendly eyes. he dressed in a grandiose way, but he always had a few coins to spare for little thirteen. the first mate and cook looked frighteningly alike. thirteen would never realize they were brothers, but the two men had a bed full of dark brown hair and a sense of humour that would either frustrate you one day or pacify you the next. there was that really timid cabin boy who had the most interesting stories to tell, and the beautiful musician who sang like a siren at sea. then, there were the scallywags that made up the rest, each beset with an arsenal of traits.

thirteen was that old girl who was not really one thing or the other until she found a passion for engineering. and soon, she became a capable deckhand, repairing the mess caused by a heavy night of boozing and schmoozing or crossfire between rival pirates. she earned her place aboard and she kept quite a file of formidable memories in her head. because life experiences appear trivial and trite when scribbled down in thought-form on the pages of a journal. and because the girl feared the discovery of a diary would guarantee the imprisonment of this group of lolly-gags. a group she loved with all her heart.

she aged in a languidly slow fashion, and the mental and physical stress of her abnormality kept thirteen at bay. watching people leave, watching people die in battle or of old age, she was nothing more than a cyborg with the face of a human. she could not feel with her entire heart, but feel with what heart she had. coldness and warmth are words with no meaning attached, and a soul was something she tried to track to no avail. as the years went by, the unfolding situation in front of her was clear-cut and no short of panicky desperation.

how long could this crew of pirates hide from the marines? the world government that was tracking their every move, ready to pounce at a moment's notice-- all for her.

this was the price to be paid for happiness. a price she was not content on paying.

[BRONTË B. BEVIN]

ðwell i thought the suits had come for me,ï
FOUND ALTERNATIVES TO HONESTY,

journal of memoirs

how many times had she come to her captain with a question and watch him amusingly fuss over himself before settling on a rack of encyclopedias to quell her insatiable appetite for knowledge? how many times had the cook stewed up a hearty meal and give thirteen the biggest helping despite the fact she ate the less? how often did the doctor lend the girl medical books to read at night, and then quiz her the next morning, knowing she'd already know the answers to a yearfull of knowledge. how many times did she lie on the deck of the pitching ship, her long freshly washed hair sprawned around her shoulders, watching the gulls circle overhead? how many times did she crouch outside the galley window, reading a textbook, and listening to the familiar grating of potatoes, the annoyed grunts of the first mate and cook, and the clinking of coffee mugs? how often did weekend parties cross over into mondays?

how many times had thirteen found an empty bottle of whiskey on the shelf of the library because it was the only place for the deckhands to sneak a drop without being scolded? how many times did thirteen drop into bed exhausted by the day's shenanigans and greeted by fresh linen sheets? or how many times did she have a secret conversation on the basement wall, using a knife to chisel words on the plaster and never finding out who she was talking to? how many times did the crew play a practical joke on her that she never understood? how often did big sea birds swoop onto deck and peck at the watchman on the top tower, always getting laughs from the men below?

how often had she confided in her captain about her inner worries and turmoils? how often did she talk to the cook behind the galley about what she feared the most? how often did she and the musician chat endlessly about life at sea and the people around them? how often did she and the three other cabin boys and girls gush about the past day's adventures? how often did she fall asleep in the surgical cot, speaking archaic conversations only the doctor could understand? how often did she butt heads with the gunner only to be laughing together at dinner, forgetting about the day's argument in an instant? how often did she find these kinds of people?

[BRONTË B. BEVIN]

ðwell i thought the suits had come for me,ï
FOUND ALTERNATIVES TO HONESTY,

it's pathological with people to want to be loved or desired. and once we find that sort of haven, it's often hard to imagine how we managed life without it. i wasn't sure what dr. eponine had wanted me to do when he sent me away, because i had known little from what the marines taught me of the world. chaotic, sadistic, and crawling with fiends. but that simply was not the case was it?

captain aulaires told me that by the end, i was different from what i imagined myself to be. we didn't say much when i decided to part from the crew; to protect them and to protect myself, what's the difference really? i guess he was a lot more intuitive than i had imagined, because he had witnessed the pathos that went through my mind, and the stress and destruction that riddled my sleep. i was a ticking time bomb, filled with indelible happiness from the moments spent here, yet filled with extreme guilt for what i was bringing upon them. wrath and vengeance is a man-made pathology.

i think he accepted it. not in that moment, not before or after. he had accepted it the minute i stepped onto the ship, that i would also step off in that fashion. so there were few tears and few deep meaningful conversations left. my days aboard the ship were numbered, and the crew understood that much. maybe more than me.

so i packed my bags, with what few things i owned, and a few books from the library (because i don't think anyone read the books anyways).

i left the ship at a small port, and i had pinned a note to the galley wall with a few simple thank you's and goodbyes. i signed it with small blocky numbers: 13. it said gratuitously little, but it said it all. you've changed my life more than you could imagine, but i can share as few bits of myself as i can and i hope you understand. thank you. i think everyone understood that underlying message.

and then i walked into the cold abyss and turned myself into the marines. and my life ended then.