A/N: This is the first insight into the world of Alice Pleasance—a world that has rapidly come unraveled until all that remains is a hollow shell, an empty and broken vessel devoid of the life it once possessed. But there is another world that awaits—one that will return Alice's soul at the cost of her sanity. All she must do is step through the looking glass.
Title: Looking Glass
Summary: All are welcome in Wonderland, but be warned: life will always get twisted when you're living it through the looking glass.
Character(s): Alice Pleasance
Rating: T for mild graphic images
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters related to Batman the Animated Series or Lewis' Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I only own the idea for this story. Inspiration was drawn from Hypnogaja's song, "Looking Glass".
Note: This story should be considered a prologue for the forthcoming story "Through the Looking Glass" (title subject to change).
I dedicate this to my dear Charlotte A. Cavatica. This was intended to be her birthday present before time got away from me. Happy Belated Birthday, Charlotte!
"Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be!"
~ Miguel de Cervantes
The flowers are so pretty this time of year. Proud violets linger and loom over a light sprinkling of yellow daises. Green leaves, green vines—lush and young—linger about, interrupted by spurts of pink that cling jealousy to their host. Irises—their petals loose and fragile—stand a softer yet equal color to the violets, with a tiny drop of sunlight peeking from the depths of the blossom. The wide, reaching petals of jasmine, white and slender fingers stretch out like the spokes of a wheel, always returning to the speck of green that binds them together.
And roses—dozens of fragile petals folded, crowded together to compose an endless spiral of crimson. If you were to stare at this intricate composition long enough, you might note the similarity it bears to ripples—loose little rings that appear when another drop of blood joins its fellows in an already-present pool. And like the petals of the rose, the pool will continue to grow, spiraling out farther and farther from its origins, unchecked and untamed.
It is an oddly magnificent sight.
The fragrance lingers through open windows—the sweet, rich scents of the gardens that bloom to life come spring time. No longer is the air heavy with the cold, deadened feel of winter. Now, like the flowers, it has blossomed, laced with Nature's own unique perfume. Even in the late hours of the evening, it remains for all to bear witness. The night becomes its own paradise, so long as it keeps Nature alive, never permitting beauty to sleep. Perhaps it will allow such in times not yet specified, but for now the flowers must stay awake.
The moon hangs vibrant in the inky sky tonight, radiating light—sharply defined, unbreakable—down to the city that lies beneath. The time for the full moon has passed; tonight there is but a sliver looming above. It is tilted to its side, hanging there like a disembodied grin. And even in the silence of the night, one can hear a soft, eerie chuckle—a sound that travels down from the heavens, but only to ears that expect to hear it, who welcome the disconcerting echo, who can identify that which created such a strange sound. It is not the first time these ears have heard the laughter. In the past, it has only been a passing fancy, something to shrug off as a trick of the wind.
Tonight there is no mistaking the incessant giggling that resonates through the silence. Tonight, the moonlit grin stretches wider, pleased and delighted at what its invisible eyes bear witness to. Tonight, the laughter grows louder with each passing minute. Tonight, it will not be silenced.
Bare feet move slow and careful down the dirt-paved way, walking a path unknown to many, with a purpose inconceivable to all. Every so often, the feet will step upon a stone—one of the few scattered remnants of the cobblestoned path that used to exist here. It has since been destroyed, most of the stones dug up by hired hands, leaving only a few behind. They serve only as an abandoned memory. Few people even know of their existence, and even less has ever passed through this territory. Only one person comes here now—an infrequent visitor, but it is the only visitor these stones can welcome. They are kind to their guest, taking great care to not cause her injury as she steps upon their cool surface. Perhaps they hear her footsteps in advance and brush the dirt from their heads, wanting to make themselves as presentable as possible. After all, if they look dirty and unkempt, she may never again return to them.
The flowers sway in the breeze, dancing upon their roots as they, like the stones, welcome their visitor. She moves slower this time, hands hanging loosely by her sides. Her appearance is different as well, her arms and legs bare and exposed to the nighttime chill. A silk nightdress is her only protection, and it does not uphold its duties as it should. It is too easily manipulated, wrinkling and rippling with each exhale that the wind releases against the sleek material. Yet she does not seem to mind—or perhaps it is more likely that she does not notice. She instead continues onward, the disembodied laughter ringing in her ears.
The dirt steadily softens to grass—cool tufts of green stretching up from the earth to lay soft, tender kisses upon her feet, cleaning the pale skin of the stains dirt has left behind. Yet they serve another purpose, catching the small, loose droplets that fall upon them. It would seem as though it has begun to rain, but the sky is clear. This "rain" is not from the sky, but from the fingertips that hang limply above. Plink! Plink! Plink! Little droplets fall, no longer able or willing to maintain their hold on her skin. They leave a disjointed pattern upon the blades of grass around her, marking her path as she continues on.
Her eyes stare blankly at the scenery before her—a strange little ensemble of mushrooms and trees and other creatures straight from fantasy. To her left, a caterpillar searches for a light as he sits atop his particularly expansive mushroom. In the trees, the cat greets her with a smile, broad and gleaming like the moon above them all. To the right, a brush rustles with unexpected movement. A white figure bounds forward—the Hare, dressed to perfection in his little suit and vest. Anxiously, his paw goes for the watch in his breast pocket, muttering about this and about that as he checks the time—"Almost late…almost late for your date!"
"Not late at all," the cat shakes his large head, still smiling at her—pleased as could be, "She's right where she ought to be, and not a second too late to be there."
"Hmm," the caterpillar draws a great breath of the perfumed, colored smoke that circles around him, "I was not so certain she would come."
A chuckle resonates through her nerves, tingling every fiber of her body as the cat shakes his head yet again, smiling—always smiling—forever smiling, "We knew she would come. And so she has—finally come home."
Her eyes lowered from those wide, piercing eyes and that gleaming smile, falling to a nearby wall—a boundary for those who wander the grounds. Many things are present upon this wall—meaningless letters, a few sparse pictures to add color, and finally a mirror. The words painted upon the whitewashed stone, outlining the golden frame, christen this a mirror of illusions. She slowly approaches, her expression vacant yet curious. As she moves, she can feel all eyes on her—the Hare with his nervous twitching, the Caterpillar with his skepticism and doubt, and of course the Cat, with his broad, knowing smile and penetrating gaze.
A young woman steadily appears in the mirror, but her image holds no distortion or confusion. She is calm, her eyes steady and a smile set upon her red lips. Blonde curls fall loose and untamed down her back, spiraling around her shoulders to frame her pale face. She is beautiful in her freedom. Untouchable. Invincible.
A hand lifts slowly to touch the image. Blood is streaked across the pale skin, from the wrist to fingertips. She touches the mirror's clean surface, and a red stain already begins to form. Her other hand moves to wipe the mess away, only to leave darker, thicker streaks in the process. Her eyes return, seeking beauty in the mirror and finding another face—her face. Bloody streaks interrupt the natural pale complexion—she might otherwise appear flawless, innocent. And in the past, she has appeared as such.
But not tonight.
"Such a pretty face she has," the Cat croons from behind her, "Show us that sweet little smile of yours, pretty one. No need to be shy…no need at all."
Her eyes close, opening only after the briefest moment. And there she is again—this vision of beauty incarnate, smiling at her. She knows. She understands. She accepts.
The corners of her mouth move of their own accord. She strives to imitate the smile she sees etched upon the mirror, only barely realizing that she has already achieved such an expression of glee. Perhaps later this night, she will be able to see there is no other in the mirror, save her own blood-streaked face, with her mouth stretched in a smile and her eyes glowing in the moonlight.
Perhaps later this night, she will realize it is not only the Cat whose laughter rings in her ears.