Page 28 of Caging Darling

Because I’ve seen it.

Because I’ve been little Daisy.

“Wendy Darling,” says Peter, but I hold my hand out behind me to stop him from coming nearer.

“Is Daisy’s mother nearby?” I almost whisper.

Renslow nods.

“You’d better send Daisy to her, then.”

Shocked understanding overcomes Renslow’s expression, but he doesn’t protest. He just plants a warbling kiss on Daisy’s forehead. “Go find your mother,” he says.

Daisy nods, then runs off.

Renslow watches her longingly as she leaves. “You’d let my daughter die?” he asks, but then he turns to Peter. “Does she die? Or did I succeed in that, at least, saving her life?”

Peter doesn’t answer.

“Ah. Very well, then,” says Renslow. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what could have been, seeing as you’re determined not to let it happen.” Then Renslow fixes his attention on me. “And you wouldn’t do it? If the person most precious to you were in peril, you wouldn’t trade the life of a stranger for them?”

“Peter, give me your blade,” I say.

Peter doesn’t ask questions, but the blade enters my hand with hesitation. When I go to pull it from his grasp, he holds on tighter. “Are you certain you want to do this, Wendy Darling?”

I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

When I bring the blade to Renslow’s throat, he shudders. At the cold or the prick, I’m uncertain. “Have you no compassion?”

I crane my head toward him, aghast. “Have you?”

“I’m her father,” he says. “Yet you’d blame me for doing what’s best for my little girl.”

I let out a laugh. “You think spilling the blood of twelve innocent children is what’s best for your little girl? You think, even if you succeeded, even if she lived, that wouldn’t haunt herin the middle of the night? You think she wouldn’t carry their souls around with her wherever she went? That their ghosts wouldn’t become shackles hanging from her ribcage?

“No,” I say. “I’m afraid you don’t know what’s best for your daughter. You only know what’s best for you. You’re not trying to end her pain. You’re trying to end yours.”

“Do you not wish for her to live?”

I’m weeping now, tears pooling on the shaking wrist holding the blade. “Some of us weren’t supposed to live. We were supposed to be at peace by now.”

“She’s my child,” he says. “If you had any, you would know that life and peace are one and the same.”

I’m not sure why that’s what breaks me, but I let out a cry. And when I carve Peter’s blade into Renslow’s throat, when I watch him gargle on his blood until the life spills out of his blue eyes, it’s not him I see.

It’s my father first. Then my mother, so insistent that everything she did was for my good, my benefit. I see Iaso, bleeding out in front of me from the past, spilling her blood unwillingly so that I could live a miserable existence. My parents offering her beautiful, joyous life so that one day I could be shackled to a prison of my own making.

When Renslow’s body hits the floor, somehow it doesn’t feel as if it’s enough. Somehow, it doesn’t feel as if he’s dead enough.

As if they’re dead enough.

As if their spilled blood was enough suffering for all the pain they put me through in the parlor. For the never-ending agony I’m trapped in now.

But then again, my parents aren’t the only ones I hate.

“Wendy Darling,” Peter whispers, putting his hand on my shoulder. When I turn to face him, I realize I must look crazed.

But I’ve never felt so crisp. So clear.

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