"How are you Sir White?" she asks timidly. She's young, ten years of age by many estimations and her first time inside the Castle of Hearts among her other faceless kind and now the maid stands there. Twiddling with her fingers and twisting the sheet of the table cloth she was given. Small talk, the atmosphere was too tense anyway.
He doesn't reply and she turns, awkwardly, to leave.
Grip.
The faceless' stops, digs her heel into the soft grounds of the front yard and turns back to see the White Rabbit holding her cuff, red eyes blurred. He stands up and she flinches, the cloth is already wrinkled. "Will you come with me to the garden this afternoon?" he questions.
She smiles lightly, her heart flutters with innocence.
.
.
.
When Mr. White had pointed his gun to her face, the faceless maid had cringed and prayed to God for mercy- if he was there. And when Mr. White had sighed coolly and withdrew his gun, the maid's heart skipped a beat.
But that was nothing compared to the feelings she felt when Mr. White had gracefully held her hand while helping her up. A smile etched his usual cold face, and in that moment, the maid's heart skipped another beat.
"I think I'm alright," she says, face reddening.
The maids heart skips and does a dance when he turns and runs excitedly without a word. Left to her dreams, she mutters, left to her dreams.
.
. She isn't Alice
. I am
.
When Mr. Whi- Peter White had stopped to sniff and pluck the various roses at the afternoon tea party, she had developed a sudden change of perfume, many notice. They snigger and laugh, make harmless comments and jokes but that doesn't deter her.
It's the perfume that does, smells horrible, but if Peter liked it; she'd wear it forever.
Dashing, it's called. Roses, is what it smells like.
.
.
.
She wakes one day, runs upstairs and into the guest bed to clean.
The maid is surprised but enters the room anyway, pretending to mind her own business. But instead, she stares at his face longingly, she bends down and kisses his forehead before running straight out, work forgotten.
That's alright, she'll just have a friend help her clean it later.
Her face is red and heart beating faster. Was this what love felt like?
.
.
.
For a moment, she dances with a faceless Butler. Enjoying the peaceful atmosphere and music, then they switch and turn, she sees her knight, her hero, her savior and takes his hand. Today was her day, even if she was nothing more but a low faceless.
They do a twist and from the corner of her eyes she sees her partner laughing and red-faced with the foreigner; Alice was it? And was that the Mafioso Blood Dupre coming their way?
But the maid, in her blue frilly dress and ebony hair decorated with cheap ornaments knew that Peter wasn't enjoying himself. Stuck in space, she whispers quietly, stuck in space. The music beat suddenly changes and she switches back to the butler. Who was crying.
"What's wrong?" she says. She looks up and she sees he's shaking- shaking with anger.
.
.
.
"That isn't true."
"That isn't true."
"That isn't true."
So many years wasted, so many times she deluded herself. But this wasn't- isn't true. "She ruined it." she said. "She ruined it." There are dolls and Dolls, humans and Humans, faceless and Faceless, alice and Alice.
But there is only one 'Alice'.
And she wasn't that 'one'. Anger courses through her vein, gripping the gun hostler tightly, she sneaks in fueled by spite and jealousy into the room 'alice' stays in. All a lie, she mutters, all. a. lie. Again and again, deluding herself deeper into this endless void of the abyss.
.
.
.
Years of age weaken her, but she's happy.
Her glory days are over, replaced by wrinkles and old laughter. Gripping the red roses, the faceless maid kneels down and bows in silent mock laughter. Laying the bouquet down by the river, her everything comes crashing down in irony.
Alice Liddell; unique and untamable, the small rubber ball says. In blue. That was her color correct?
Peter White; never forgotten, small and blocky, the box-shape shard of glass was made by her own hands. How long has it been? Twenty years? Thirty? Forty?
.
.
.
Her time comes, now. Not in a bed, not peacefully, but full of spite. Her old friend stands there, weak and old, wrinkles embodied his face and the hair that used to be such a wonderful brown were replaced with gray and a couple of silver streaks.
"You killed her," he rasped out.
"I know." she replies, what more can she say?
"I'll make you pay."
"I know."
And the bullet is fired, gunshot echoing.
.
.
.
It all comes back, back and back, round and about.
The Morticians hand's bring back life.
She stands there, ten years old, young; youthful and full of life.
Grip.
"Will you accompany me to the top floor of the castle this afternoon?"
.
.
.
There are guns and Guns, cats and Cats, rabbits and Rabbits. But nothing can replace a name, there is no 'alice' and 'Alice'. There is only 'Alice' and finally, love cannot be said as 'Love'. Only spite and jealousy.
I isn't Alice,
She is.