Title: And the Sun is Always Shining
Rating: T
Character: Alice
Warnings: Heavy angst, suicidal thoughts, insanity. Dark.
Summary: Some days, Alice sees things, and she knows the truth. But other days, Alice knows she's slowly going insane, and no one can help her. Dark.
Some days, Alice sees things, and she knows; it's as easy as counting to ten for her. She knows their hidden truths, and lies, and desires.
She knows what the girl who sits next to her in English class is going to say to Edward when she asks him to a dance.
She knows when her husband needs gentle reassurance when his control over his baser needs is weak, and what she must do to help him.
She knows that the poor girl Bella will die at the hands of her brother and either lie in a cold, forgotten coffin of cream --- bright, like her optimistic outlook --- or, eventually, smile and laugh with red eyes and glittering skin.
She knows that tomorrow, it will begin to snow at 2:46 A.M. and school will be canceled; she knows that those careless school children will laugh and play, careless of it all. She knows that a family will be in an accident, and their youngest will break his leg and be unable to play hockey that season.
However, Alice also knows, other days, that slowly, slowly, slowly --- like the trickle of melting snow in the last glare of sunlight --- she's going insane.
It happened once before, back when she was human, and mortal, vulnerable. She doesn't remember what it was like, but from what she has gleamed from her searches and other's accounts, it's a painful, excruciating process of the mind locked in an eternal battle between reality and fiction. She's heard it can tear your soul from your still-beating heart, and, like a living corpse, skin coated in blood and clothes torn, you'll forever live a life where you're alone and not quite alive. She's heard it leaves the innocent victims senseless and unable to care for themselves or another; she's been told every waking moment will be fraught with confusion and terror, of not knowing where she is and who she is and what's happening around her.
And, sometimes, it is.
Sometimes, she can feel the shadow of darker memories, like the whisper of raw silk, sweep over her mind in a flurry. They crawls over her senses like the brush of dry lips and the rasping wings of pinned butterflies and dying breaths, eerie and hollow and numbing. They whisper of dark secrets, of futures no one should know, and no one should control.
But, ah, she knows it all the same, no matter how often she flees them --- they'll always find her. And she fears them, so much that after a vision, she'll curl up in a ball, holding her tiny frame in a contortionist position in some corner or cabinet, until her lover pulls her away and comforts her with his voice and touch.
But she still knows they'll return in due time. And then, maybe, she won't recover, and her frail mind will simply ... snap.
XXX
But, my darling, why flee the rapid dogs when they're simply after the scraps of meat covering your bird-like bones? It won't hurt, I promise you.
Because they'll bite me, and they'll tear my skin with their knives and canines, feasting on my guts and innards with an unmatched hunger. And then, I'll just be alone, a child locked in an everlasting night of her darkest memories; they'll be no one to save me then.
XXX
It's happened so often in the past years, that she's finally discovered a defense to combat the confusion and agonizing pain and terror.
She builds herself up a protective wall of sunshine, and daisies, and rainbows, because those are safe things; she hides in a world of her own design. She smiles and laughs her silvery wind chime laugh, and dances on air when she walks, but that's just an act; she's safe in the sun, where the sky's a great ribbon of azure and puffy clouds of cream and sugar. There, she can imagine that the sunlight doesn't make her sparkle like dew on roses, and that her skin isn't hard like thorns; there, she's safe and secure. She's happy.
She's human.
Alice in Wonderland, she calls herself sometimes, when the fit passes. And how she loves her Wonderland!
The flowers are always blooming there, their heavy heads of gold and silver, petals of gemstones and precious wonders, drooping to the emerald-dusted ground. The sky is full of wondrous beings, no stranger than her own kind, and are beautiful, flying on rainbow-plumage wings, or floating on spider web-thin appendages made of glass. There's a lake of smooth, perfectly blue water, warm enough to send pleasant chills down her spine and make her shiver with joy, and then make her melt the moment she lowers herself into it.
There are golden snowflakes that fall from a violet sunset sometimes, hotter than liquid fire, that taste of saccharine honey and liquid luck when they melt in her mouth, and dissolve into her skin, warming her frozen marble limbs. And while there is never night --- for she has had too many long years of hiding under the silver stars and white moon --- there's always a sunset that immediately becomes a sunrise, the red-gold face of the sun, like a golden coin, brushing behind silhouettes the trees and mountains, only to spring back into life at the last moment. The vivid paints of death turn into the soft pastels of life, and the living; and she laughs and dances, because she knows nothing could ever hurt her here.
Here, she is safe and secure. Here, she's happy.
Some days when she escapes to the new, unexplored world, she spies all sorts of magnificent apparitions and creatures --- some that walk and talk and dance, and others that stare hungrily, and still more that will seduce her into staying with song and gentle touches full of bursting joy that suffuses her, like a drug in her veins; and she can't resist, so she stays another few minutes, or even hours.
XXX
How can I let go of such joys, of such a beautiful happiness, when all looks bleak, and I feel as though I'm fading away? I can't. It would be an impossible request and cause much pain between me and you: I'll be suffering every moment of every day, and you'll suffer by knowing you bestowed so much agony upon me.
XXX
Sometimes, Alice wonders if she'll ever really fit in, and feel truly normal.
She doubts it. Even as a human she was a freak.
She tried to tell Carlisle once, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand and a gentle scoff. He told her she was being silly, maybe experiencing post-vision symptoms of hallucinations or simply daydreaming. After all, he had said, vampires can't sleep, and they're impervious.
Well, Alice disagrees. She's certainly not impervious, and definitely not completely there. It's like she's lost something, or forgotten something; there's a hole in her mind the bothers and terrifies her, because it's drenched in the unknown.
Edward tries to comfort her, but he doesn't know how. He's wrapped up in Bella and bursting with new love for her; he devotes every precious second with her, following her, or brooding over her.
Jasper knows, and knew it from the moment he first sensed her dread, and he desperately tries, despite it all, to help her. But nothing ever happens when he does: no matter how many times he whispers to her, or holds her, or kisses her worries away in the dark, it's hopeless; he can't be there all the time, even when she doesn't expect to need him.
She never bothered to tell anyone else, because they have their own problems and worries.
Why bother trying when no one will listen?
XXX
Listen to the rush of the memories as the years pass by, and soon, you're all alone. Your mind is fragile and broken, your thoughts, hollow.
They believe all you need is that special pill to make the bogeymen go away, but what do they know?
They're whole, after all.
XXX
Some days, she wishes that the pain and confusion would all go away, like a magic trick; now you see it, now you don't. She wonders if, instead of running away from the warmth of the various fires and raging flames, she should be running towards it. It's like the season of summer against her skin --- captured sunlight and moonlight and fireflies in a bottle for her personal use.
After all, she has always liked the warmth and heat of summer.
XXX
Run, run as far as you can. Your time is up, your feet are worn and torn and bloodied. The hounds bite at your heels, and you've lost --- lost the moment you began playing this wretched game. So give in, give in willingly, while you still can, my dear.
XXX
Not even Jasper understands the strain of knowing, of seeing; no one does. It doesn't matter, though.
Because, for the moment, Alice is safe inside of her own little world. And she retreats, to where she can smile and giggle like the child she never was and always will be.
There, those heavy-eyed flowers always smile and raise their heads when they spy her among the jade rushes and pearly waters. And the mountains are always warm, no matter how high she climbs, and they're never boring the beige and brown of their world, but in her secret place, they practically shiver with so much captured color: plum and lilac and indigo, and silver and ivory and sable, and even a hint of soft corals and salmons. And she can climb, and climb, and climb that impossible mountain --- which, when she began, seemed unbelievably high --- miles and miles and miles, so high that if she needed oxygen, she'd suffocate a hundred times over ---
Until she finally reaches the top.
Then, she understands: she cannot walk two worlds, any more than she could manage to see the future and be sane, or give her whole self to another.
She smiles softly, short inky hair whipping around in the high winds, and she can see the whole world spread out below her. There's her forest, where she first woke up and experienced her first memory --- and there's where she first met her family --- and there's the school, where she teased her brothers and sister --- and then, a frown settles upon her face, an unbecoming feature; her pixie face was meant for joyous, happy twists of the brows and corners of lips, not lonely musings and bitter wrinkles, however slight they may be.
She frowns, because she then knows the a second truth: if she returns to that land of eternal night and blood lust and pain, she'll be forever trapped there, and unable to return to her fantasy land, her perfect place. And the third truth, following immediately after, is that she no longer belongs there, among the sane and living. Sure, she can pretend all she likes, playing dress-up in another's skin and speaking with false lips, but she'll never truly be content; she'll never truly belong.
It is with that realization that she knows what she must do, what her mind has been telling her all this time.
So she gives in.
She turns and rushes to the other side, where the skies aren't blue, but bubble gum pink, and everything's new and beautifully strange.
And then Alice flings herself off that side, laughing manically as the last of the silk noil touches evaporates --- like steam under a cast-iron kettle, or the last of sweet dew in the blistering heat of midday
XXX
And the winged, and feathered, and scaled, and gilled creatures called to me, beseeching me to dance and dine with them. And they were so enchanting --- so lovely! --- that I did.
XXX
Every day, Alice is happy. Now, her days are filled with wondrous explorations, and dancing, and dining; she never needs to sleep, after all. She's there when the sun sets in the west and then bobs back moments later, and her days begin anew until that golden coin descends into the east only to immediately return like a dear friend; everything is perfect for her.
But some days, it seems like an oppressive force is attempting to break its way into her perfect little world of rainbows and daisies. It's as if a hand grabs her and roughly shakes her, for her vision shakes as if she was in an earthquake and her shoulders ache. Sometimes, she'll feel a pinch of pain and discover a searing wound infected with venom beneath her clothes or on the side of her neck; she washes and bandages it with silver-thread from the feathered spiders, and then moves on.
Then, once the horrid event is over, she's safe once more among the jeweled plants and strange creatures. Some weave shining webs of protection, and when her clothes tear, she uses the shimmering threads as thread and a piece of bone as her needle, and she sits quietly and sews the rip together. The creatures always like watching her; they'll often bring her smooth, seamless cloth and clothes to embroider. She enjoys it.
She's never lonely or confused, and if she wants something, she just has to wish it up. She often sits and ponders her choice, but can't, for the life of her, regret it. She doubts she ever will.
After all, here, the sun is always shining.