When Had He Gone Mad?
By Chinesemoon
He asked himself: why is a raven like a writing desk? They said he was mad, absolutely mad. They questioned when he'd lost his mind. He'd seemed so normal, or as close to normal as a mad person can be. But how mad is too mad? It was a penetrating question, no doubt.
It seemed that Hatter was quite stuck in time. His watch had long ago stopped ticking. His fingers were cold and numb and sore from gripping his tea cup for so long. He had no sense of the movement of time at all – had he sat there for days? Months? Perhaps years? He could not tell, nor did he care to know it. His wooden chair creaked every time he shifted his body. The windmill behind him stood immobile and desecrate. Why is a raven like a writing desk? He was sure there was an answer, if only he could remember. Why did he even care to know the answer? Some shadow of recollection was haunting his mind – why, why?
When had he gone mad? His green eyes, once so full of passion, now only stared blankly out at his forested surroundings. He sometimes imaged he was hearing a ticking – perhaps his watch wasn't dead after all – or perhaps the ticking was actually music?
Impossible. How mad.
When had he gone mad? Yet… still, music. Yes, it seemed very logical to him. Perhaps it was indeed music playing, or singing… somewhere in the distance. Yes, that is certainly the explanation, he thought to himself. The White Queen's choirs are singing in the green pastures beyond; children are playing, women are dancing. Yes, he can see it. Back in that time when he was clapping his hands on a bright, sunny day.
He frowned. But when had he gone mad? He could not place a time. Time… how silly. His watch was broken. What does time matter when you are having tea? He smiled.
Clapping, singing… a maypole. Just when had he gone mad, and why?
A cluster of buildings, and happiness, so wide-spread he thought. But wasn't it funny how quickly happiness can die? He thought he remembered the sails of his windmill home crackling with fire that day.
Fire was dreadful. There was so much of it. It was red and hot and searing. Fire suddenly appeared, as if by magic. Men on black horses stormed the green pasture. They carelessly threw torches of fire everywhere, engulfing houses, people, animals… everything. He stood, and for a moment an incredible, awesome fear swept over him. He began to lose his senses. He tore at a man on a black horse, punching limbs, screaming cures. But then, he froze. He looked in the faint distance at his windmill home… completely engulfed in flames.
It did not matter how fast he ran, how much he hoped, how loudly he shouted. Time was frozen in that moment – his watch had stopped ticking, much as his heart stopped beating. His home, his windmill home, was in flames. It would burn to the ground, a pile of ash and sadness, and trapped within its meager walls were his wife and newborn son.
When had he gone mad?
The others tried to stop him, to tell him he was too late – there was no time. He was too late. If only his watch had been ticking to alert him of the correct time – maybe he would have gotten there in enough time to stop this. He struggled enter the home, but he was forcible held back, left helplessly to stare at the destruction of his future and his sanity.
The land was red with blood. His charcoaled skin burned in the cold. He sat, with the only remainder of his home – a table and some dishes. His wife, his son… they were gone, like departed winds in autumn. There was not enough time to say goodbye. Not enough time…
When had he gone mad?
"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" he said out loud. It didn't matter – there was no one there to hear him.