Your sister is trapped in a world devoid of life.
Her skin is waxen, her bony hands gripping the book in a death grip, her dress heavy velvet and black. But who is she mourning? You don't know.
Even at her leisure, she is cornered, constrained by bleak lines and ink black as pitch. There are no pictures or colors to be found in what she claims to be a place of imagination and wonder.
As you have started attending school you have already grasped at the truth, at how teachers wish you to become just like this, stranded in a desert when you could be dancing in the pouring rain. They fill your head with meaningless numbers, facts and figures that put pressure on your temples and snatch all that is creative and good from your fingers. You are left with the sensation of scorch. The reflection looking up at you from the lake is defined by a complexion that is not yet ashen, but will be soon.
So when presented with the chance, you seize the opportunity of escape without looking back.
You run, run, run after the white rabbit, never once stopping to catch your breath, nor to slow down, not to stop and think.
There is a fall into pure darkness. You might be scared, just a little, except there is a multitude of fascinating objects floating at the edge of your vision and attracting your gaze. Laughter echoes and sound bounces off the walls as you descend, forever and ever until you could have as well arrived at the other side of the world
(How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward)
but for all that your velocity is intercepted. You get back to your feet from a bed of leaves and sticks that draw singular drops of crimson from your arms and make your way down the enormous hall. For all its sharps lines and lack of corners, it's a labyrinth to your clumsy feet.
A door stops you in your tracks and when you crouch down to glance through its tiny frame, the garden it reveals takes your breath away.
You blindly drink the contents of the bottle it commands you to, intoxicated by excitement. You shrink; you eat a delicious cake; you become a giant drowning in your own tears. Or does it all happen in the reverse order?
In any case, the garden remains distant, no more accessible than a portrait.
It takes you half an eternity to reunite with the Rabbit, or maybe it is a few minutes. Time is funny.
He calls you Marianne and you grasp at the name that is not yours as if hanging on for dear life, because you have become so without direction that you might as well lose yourself along the way.
For all that the inhabitants of this odd land appear aimless, none of them gives you a second thought since they don't have any time left. The White Rabbit chases away, running towards an invisible horizon as if chased by a ghost.
You are at a crossroads and the darkness is closing in on you when there is singing coming out of the mouth of a severed head.
It's a cat, one that is only too happy to correct you when you award it the wrong title. The creature's fur is pink and it crosses your mind that, why, yes, blood from its severed limbs would easily color a white coat of hair just so.
I'm a Cheshire Cat, to be precise. Says a voice made of honey. The eyes belonging to the empty air are shining. Are there tears? It's all gone too soon.
You can't seem to clear your head.
The Caterpillar is watching you with boredom written across its features, twirling the pipe between its fingers. The words that exit from between its teeth cloud your senses as much as the smog of smoke does.
You cough, bringing your palm up to cover your mouth, because before anything else, you are polite.
You stumble along barely keeping sight of your own feet, clouded as they are by a mist, gifted with pieces of mushroom that make you gag and you never asked for.
Just then you come upon a sweet tiny cottage and collapse into a moldy armchair, out of breath. A maggot crawls across your lap.
You can't seem to stand still.
Even around a table set for tea and biscuits the world around you is in perpetual motion, expecting you to keep up. There is hardly a choice to make.
Vapor as you know it from back home always dissolves the instant it escapes the kettle; this one wraps its slender, intangible fingers around your throat to choke you. You crave the bitterness of Earl Grey even as it is denied.
Years playing pretend as a princess pay off when you meet royalty.
Your curtsy is perfect, your feet steady and your manners impeccable.
The Red Queen's booming voice echoes off the walls of the garden as the roses themselves seem to pale and whither with every shouted word. A feeling courses through you that this seems familiar, somehow, but the beheadings prove effective in keeping your minds off such topics.
Reunions are in store and all the court scrutinizes you, muttering about how you are not right in the head. As the torso of the Cheshire Cat whispering in your ear gradually disappears, the whine of the wind takes on the note of its laughter. The high pitch of the tone grates on your ears.
After the trial, the Queen offers you tarts on a platter herself and rejecting them would be an insult. You nimble at its crust, tasting iron in place of strawberry on your tongue as your teeth pierce the layer of jam in the pastries' middle. The jelly in which the fruit is imbedded is liquid and soon enough the pristine, white table cloth is soiled with sanguine blotches.
You are granted liberty to wander the grand castle as you wish, with the singular exception of one room.
When you feel the coolness of the metal door handle against your hand, a chill runs down your spine. Your eyes strain against the dark.
A flash of red. Shreds of paper, severed limbs, the curve of hearts severed straight at the center.
Breath against your neck makes you jump, but immediately there are guards to pin you to the marble floor. Want to follow them, little girl?
The fumes of the Caterpillar's pipe suffocate you, clog up your airway. Hairy tiny hands force your head back, prying your mouth open and stuffing a batch of cookies between your jaws, dry as sand. Another pours scalding hot tea down your throat, occupied entirely by the telling of the lives of three girls living in a treacle.
The Queen's face is no longer red with rage, is no longer quite the same at all.
She screams. Have you learned your lesson yet?
You nod, hands gripping each other strong enough to hurt.
Then, there is Dinah. Dinah, your cat, purring and warm against your legs, only a shadow at the edge of your vision. You gasp in delight, marvelling in the feel of her paws against your knee, but when you reach out with your right hand to pet her she steps out into the light to reveal a lack of a head.
Do you miss it terribly? The Cheshire Cat chuckles against your ear, whiskers tickling your cheek.
You scream.
Mother, please!
The Queen sighs, now pale and old and disappointed. I did everything I could to raise you.
Help me, please, you don't know how lost I am! Just help me find a way!
Alice, my dear, you're in hysterics.
It's a soft voice, calm and reassuring.
Your sister places a pill in your palms.
Swallow it.
A glass of water appears in front of your chapped lips.
Drink this.
She points to the cake placed on the bedside table.
Eat.
A pause.
Don't make the doctors shock you again.