Title: The Unhappy Cannibal
Author: Casshirek
Summary: Alice has a talk with the Duchess. We find out the real reason why she's a cannibal. This isn't too canon, like most of my other fanfiction, but a personal intepretation based on what I have seen or heard or read elsewhere. Rated R for themes of cannibalism, self-mutiliation and so on. Be forewarned. All character copyrighted to Lewis Caroll and and American McGee Alice and so on.
* * *
Drip.
"Alice?"
Drip. Drip.
"Alice? Are you listening to me?"
Ten thin red lines of scarlet marked her emaciated arm. Whether it was blood or warpaint, she could no longer care. The flare of pain that accompanied each slash was all she desired, all she cared for. For a little while, the physical anguish drowned the screaming in her mind. Alice drew the butcher's knife across her flesh once more, tracing the path of an ancient scar. Breathless, wide-eyed and as innocent as a child at the carnival, she watched the blade sear a rivulet of crimsom along her skin.
Drip.
Bejeweled stream cascaded into the tall, twisted grass where it was promptly lost. Something rustled within the undergrowth; Wonderland was accepting her gift, her exchange for the silence. There was a flash of smoky grey, the scent of marijuana and nicotine twisting together in an odorous blend even as Chesire made himself known.
"Alice, Alice .. so full of malice, how does the garden of your heart grow?"
"With brambles and thorns, it is a nightmare both dreary and forlorn."
The feline's smile widened into a half-moon of exhultance. "There, see? You can rhyme when you want to. You just never accepted the fact you could." He added slyly, his golden eyes narrowed into slits. "What are you doing, Alice?"
"Thinking." Her attention span had never been long. Prone to a wandering mind, Alice focused on something more pleasurable than enigmatic chatter; her bleeding. With the air of a wary bird, she tilted her arm so the blood would flow more quickly. A disappointing trickle rewarded her efforts.
She drew another, deeper cut.
"About?"
"Everything." Alice elucidated calmly, concentration turned to the bloodless hand. It would not do to have it so pale, so white. It reminded her of her mother's skin. Once upon a time, it had been similarly pale, a porcelain hue like ivory or silk, inviting stray fingers to touch their satin surface. //..Mother...// .. the strokes grew frantic. Burgundy erupted over the outstretched arm, drowning the white in blessed red. "Nothing."
She felt better here, moreso than when she was in the real world, where they kept knives and sharp objects far away from her grasp. They didn't understand .. *there*. All they wanted to do was keep her locked up. They lectured her and drugged her, bound her and scolded her, ranted and raved at her. Intellectually, she knew that all they wanted was the best for her. But it not change the fact that bolted doors could not protect one from nightmares.
Nothing could protect one from nightmares.
Except this ...
"Have you considered the fact you are very very small, Alice?"
//...You're a very small girl, Alice...// Who had said that? In a voice that rumbled like velvet, filled with compassion. The man who had that voice had understood her. Green eyes closed. Reflection brought a strapping figure, always smelling of cigars and expensive cologne, and a pair of emerald eyes not unalike her own. Who was he? Oh yes, her father. Her *dead* father. Burnt alive, incinerated, obliterated in a tangle of flame while she fled like a frightened bunny into the night. How could she --
"Yes." The knife accelerated.
"And very easy to eat."
"Yes." -- have been so horrid?
"Don't you think the other members of Wonderland have figured that by now?"
"Of course I have, silly cat." With arms and apron stained red with memories, she broke through her piteous reverie. Alice gasped; a drowned man taking his first breath.
And paused.
Around her, the garden outside the Duchess's home was innocent - hungry and silent and sinister.
"Who painted the roses red?" Alice inquired politely, lofting her blood- drenched knife as she advanced upon a monstrous rose, a feline shadow mincing along behind her. The flower resonated with a thousand little tremors. More followed suit. "Who painted the roses red, she asked me."
She smiled. "I painted the roses red."
~FIN
Author: Casshirek
Summary: Alice has a talk with the Duchess. We find out the real reason why she's a cannibal. This isn't too canon, like most of my other fanfiction, but a personal intepretation based on what I have seen or heard or read elsewhere. Rated R for themes of cannibalism, self-mutiliation and so on. Be forewarned. All character copyrighted to Lewis Caroll and and American McGee Alice and so on.
* * *
Drip.
"Alice?"
Drip. Drip.
"Alice? Are you listening to me?"
Ten thin red lines of scarlet marked her emaciated arm. Whether it was blood or warpaint, she could no longer care. The flare of pain that accompanied each slash was all she desired, all she cared for. For a little while, the physical anguish drowned the screaming in her mind. Alice drew the butcher's knife across her flesh once more, tracing the path of an ancient scar. Breathless, wide-eyed and as innocent as a child at the carnival, she watched the blade sear a rivulet of crimsom along her skin.
Drip.
Bejeweled stream cascaded into the tall, twisted grass where it was promptly lost. Something rustled within the undergrowth; Wonderland was accepting her gift, her exchange for the silence. There was a flash of smoky grey, the scent of marijuana and nicotine twisting together in an odorous blend even as Chesire made himself known.
"Alice, Alice .. so full of malice, how does the garden of your heart grow?"
"With brambles and thorns, it is a nightmare both dreary and forlorn."
The feline's smile widened into a half-moon of exhultance. "There, see? You can rhyme when you want to. You just never accepted the fact you could." He added slyly, his golden eyes narrowed into slits. "What are you doing, Alice?"
"Thinking." Her attention span had never been long. Prone to a wandering mind, Alice focused on something more pleasurable than enigmatic chatter; her bleeding. With the air of a wary bird, she tilted her arm so the blood would flow more quickly. A disappointing trickle rewarded her efforts.
She drew another, deeper cut.
"About?"
"Everything." Alice elucidated calmly, concentration turned to the bloodless hand. It would not do to have it so pale, so white. It reminded her of her mother's skin. Once upon a time, it had been similarly pale, a porcelain hue like ivory or silk, inviting stray fingers to touch their satin surface. //..Mother...// .. the strokes grew frantic. Burgundy erupted over the outstretched arm, drowning the white in blessed red. "Nothing."
She felt better here, moreso than when she was in the real world, where they kept knives and sharp objects far away from her grasp. They didn't understand .. *there*. All they wanted to do was keep her locked up. They lectured her and drugged her, bound her and scolded her, ranted and raved at her. Intellectually, she knew that all they wanted was the best for her. But it not change the fact that bolted doors could not protect one from nightmares.
Nothing could protect one from nightmares.
Except this ...
"Have you considered the fact you are very very small, Alice?"
//...You're a very small girl, Alice...// Who had said that? In a voice that rumbled like velvet, filled with compassion. The man who had that voice had understood her. Green eyes closed. Reflection brought a strapping figure, always smelling of cigars and expensive cologne, and a pair of emerald eyes not unalike her own. Who was he? Oh yes, her father. Her *dead* father. Burnt alive, incinerated, obliterated in a tangle of flame while she fled like a frightened bunny into the night. How could she --
"Yes." The knife accelerated.
"And very easy to eat."
"Yes." -- have been so horrid?
"Don't you think the other members of Wonderland have figured that by now?"
"Of course I have, silly cat." With arms and apron stained red with memories, she broke through her piteous reverie. Alice gasped; a drowned man taking his first breath.
And paused.
Around her, the garden outside the Duchess's home was innocent - hungry and silent and sinister.
"Who painted the roses red?" Alice inquired politely, lofting her blood- drenched knife as she advanced upon a monstrous rose, a feline shadow mincing along behind her. The flower resonated with a thousand little tremors. More followed suit. "Who painted the roses red, she asked me."
She smiled. "I painted the roses red."
~FIN