Alice, tell me of your Wonderland.
But of course I can't do that without telling you of the Rabbit and the Doctor and the Orphanage, now can I? You can't start a story in the middle. Matron's taught me that much. You start from the beginning and go on to the end...or was it the other way round? No matter. I have all the time in the world here, in the shattered remnants of my own Ruin.
I didn't pay attention, you see. Oh, I noticed. I saw the creeping black tendrils, the doll faces that wailed piteously into the breeze. Save us, Alice. But I couldn't even save myself. The Doctor worked harder, night and day, breaking my mind, and I saw nothing. Forgetting seemed a bitter pill to swallow but in the end, what does remembrance do?
It hurts, that's all. It hurts like a raw patch on the side of your tongue, that rubs ever so slowly against the rounded edges of your teeth and the slightly bloodied ribs of your cheek. Like the way you huddle in your bed at night, feet tucked up beneath the covers so the monsters can't get you, when you hear the sobbing out in the hallway and the sound of a slap. The way he pulls your hair and splays you out and the way his damnable hands pick up the needle and thread, stitching you into his own doll, his own mangled creation.
Memory is pain, and there isn't a damn thing anyone can say to make me believe otherwise.
But at first, it was just a Wonderland...
It's always been pretty here. Fanciful. Outlandish. Vividly patterned flowers that bob in an unfelt breeze, a sparkling brook that runs over crystalline stones. A collection of cards used as stepping stones. The Rabbit showed me around, pointing out here is the Mock Turtle's shell and there is the Duchess, don't go there, and over thereis Queensland, where his Liege lives, and this is the way to the Hatter, that the way to the Tea Party... A bit of an odd fellow, Rabbit, but he was a decent one.
Not like the Cat at all, really. Mangy beast with claws like knives and teeth perpetually blood-spattered. A gold earring always notched firmly through one tattered ear. What kind of Cat is that, I ask you. He's never liked me. He doesn't want me to forget. Doesn't he know he's already too late? Wonderland is shattered. Broken. The Dollmaker rules all, the Queen is silenced, and where's a place for Alice in all that? Only here, sitting on my little poisoned-mushroom tuft, choking on my own broken memories.
Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker. One for Mummy, one for Lizzie, and one for Alice down the lane.
I killed the Jabberwock, did you know that? Or, rather, the Vorpal Blade did. One-two, one-two! I was quite good with that damned thing. Snicker-snack and its head was lopped off, spitting bitter, poisonous blood on the ash-clouded ground. Oh, how they rejoiced at that monster's death! The Queen wasn't too pleased, but then again, who cares what she thinks? Not I. No one can hear her now, her own tentacles have enshrouded her in a futile attempt to protect her from the Ruin. It won't work, of course. The Dollmaker's ensured that.
Ah, but I haven't explained how, have I. Only the vaguest of hints dropped here and there, like crumpled playing cards. But he's stolen my memory, can't you see? I don't know. I don't know how I woke up one day and my memory was as elusive as a will o' the wisp, playing tag with me in the Ruin-streaked streets.
I can see his threads stitched through my hands. Holding me together, like so many bits of a patchwork doll. But I can't remember. Nothing comes to me when I try. Just the children, big-headed and bleeding, patched together and holding broken hearts in severed limbs. Help us, Alice. I can't fucking help you, can't you understand? You're lost, okay? You're lost and I'm lost with you and Wonderland has fallen.
I'm sorry, I can't do this. I thought I could, but I can't. Not the first thing I've been wrong about. Wrong about him, wasn't I? The way his eyes undressed me when I passed by in the shabby hall, the way his hands tightened when they brushed my skirts. Forget, Alice. Forget Alice. Forget yourself and when you manage that, you will be healed.
Healed for what? A broken-down remnant of a life on the grimy London streets? Or sold to some fancy bloke with a big pocketwatch looped on his belt and an overbearing smile and the way his hands touched me, I felt like bathing for a week straight.
Remember, forget, remember, forget, but I can't anymore, d'you hear me? I can't, I'm tired, I'm lost, I'm broken, and I can't.
Tell you of my Wonderland?
My Wonderland is dead.