STANDARD DISCLAIMER APPLIED.
broken down to your crown
by: pixie paramount (8/16/2007, 12:20 AM)
American McGee's Alice, Cheshire Cat-centric & we close our windpipes (because we can't let it out, not the truth)
She's all broken and jagged with her missing pieces.
The doctor's had tried, once, with their diagnosis's and prognosis's to work on, to venture one, to work on. They'd look at her with pity and disgust, upon the rumors and that awful, hurtful tongue of hers.
The nurse's, those who where kind enough, would shush her as the orderlies would poke a needle past the layers of skin and muscle to her veins. All the while lying and telling her that everything would be alright, in time.
There where cruel doctors and nurses than, like there where cruel teachers and orderlies would laugh and push her down with too much force, play games with her at night with her arms bundled and her mouth gagged. It was all too common back then, even now.
She would delve deeper into that night. Wish to die with the tugs at her skirt and the guilt that would pulsate and coil and clog her veins. I miss you, mummy, I miss you, daddy.
It was enough, sometimes; the pills and the needles, to drown out the noise and the hurt and the sickening smell of smoke that seemed all too real, despite being nothing more than a figment of her mind.
And Wonderland fed on it—her hurt, her anger, her madness—and Wonderland grew jagged and vile, and called out to her.
As though saying if you die, I die, if I die, you die.
Cheshire watches her; sees the girl with too much curiosity and survivor's guilt to deal with as she does Wonderland a service. Perhaps she doesn't care enough about her life to care for the cuts and bruises, the near death that comes with the most menial of walks on gigantic chess boards.
Alice might say she wants to die, might feel that she should (it's the madness, not the girl deep down who still cries out for dear old mummy and dear old daddy). But she still clings to the ledge, still kills the cards and monsters.
And all the while he watches with that sick, twisted smile of his that, perhaps, he's had since forever—since the first time, long ago, when madness clung to the seams of childhood naivety. It's bright and sharp like that a Jack-o-lantern in the harsh, murky depths of Wonderland.