When I Was Alice
In this never-ending space there are countless doors, each leading to a different world.
Each one, so radically different.
But it matters not, what color the sky is or what the ground beneath your feet is made of. Because wherever you go, you will always be the same.
Even in this strange world, where everything is a dull shade of grey, smudged and hazy; and when you look down on your hands and they're not made of porcelain. They're… soft, somehow, but as icy as they always were. You do not have much time to ponder this, however, because you look up and see her.
She's prettier than ever, so much that it makes your chest tighten, with her flowing locks of gold and soft blue eyes that seem somehow much more alive than you ever remembered, but also full of grief and sorrow.
You do not understand, but it is not important right now. You move towards her, your stride long and certain.
"Shall we begin?" you ask, holding out your hand to her.
She nods grimly and takes it.
Her hand is warm.
(Not very far away, He is sitting in a tall chair, observing in silence. Neither of you pay him any attention; perhaps it is because you simply don't notice His presence, or maybe it's simply because you know He has always been watching.)
Fingers interlaced, the two of you spin around in a whirlwind of roses and feathers. Perfection and junk. One step forward and two steps back; the pace quickens, the scent of flowers burns its way into your nostrils and your breath becomes only the slightest bit shaky. This is nothing new; God knows how many times you've fought like this [the last time was 420 hours and 52 minutes ago, you recall.
In the rush of adrenalin you hardly notice, but she is taking the lead now. It makes you sick; your only condolence is the deluge of black feathers on her body, as if she were to be taken away by them at any moment, swallowed into a world of darkness. A beautiful sight indeed.
As you get sucked deeper and deeper into the dance, you step on dead, dry flowers, putting them out of their misery. You also step on small plants which now will never have the chance to grow. They are just plants, of course – you are superior to them. You are superior to them all. All you want is for her to realize that, but she doesn't even notice the ruins at her feet.
(…And there is something else cracking under you feet, you notice, but then she looks right at you and there's this funny feeling between your legs and you forget all about that. She is the most important one, after all – hasn't it always been that way?)
So close to her now, you can feel the beating pulse in her chest [did she always have a heart? and the light, hardly noticeable shivering of her delicate hands. Beads of sweat are forming on her brow and her breath is unsteady. The thorns pierce your skin, your body burns, but you won't give up so easily. You are determined to win. But she is different. Her eyes are tired, as if she has already lost.
This is the last dance, you realize.
And you suddenly wish she'd say something. Anything. That this is wrong, that you should stop. That you're sisters, that you shouldn't be like this.
Or just your name. Suddenly, you'd really like her to say your name.
But she remains silent.
And before you know it, the song that only the two of you could hear ends in a roaring crescendo. You tear yourself away from her. Then you both bow, respectful and elegant as ever. Your blood drips on the ground.
She breaks. Her skin is dry and cracked.
Junk. She is junk now.
And you're perfect. You won.
You stumble forward on trembling, bloody legs, stepping on broken porcelain, arms and legs and eyes of glass.
You won.
You won.
You showed her. You showed them all.
You're Alice.
Droplets of water splatter on the ground under your feet and you laugh and laugh and laugh.
(And he smiles.)