Authors Notes:
First and foremost, you all must well know that I have no ownership of Alice in Wonderland, the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, the Dormouse, or Alice Liddell. These are all the property of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, known far more widely by his pen name, Lewis Carroll (except for Alice Liddell, who was a real girl, whom Carroll borrowed the likeness of for his story).
Another thing to note is that I know the plot is not completely orthodox. In fact, it may be very unorthodox. This is my artist's interpretation. Please do not fault me for an idea alone.
And finally…if it needs to be said, please remember that this was written on a rather grim, cloudy day, one in which I was left alone and therefore dangerously lonesome. That might explain the angst.
Elflord, 10/2/06
Left Unwound
The watch had stopped entirely. All of the butter had, in the end, been to naught.
How many times had they sat just here, arguing, fighting in their pleasant, friendly, playful madness, over that watch that always ran two days too slow? How many times had his finely attired companion insisted that it was the crumbs which had stopped the works, and that it was entirely the Hare's fault for trying to apply it with a butter knife? How many times had he, the Hare, contested that it was the very best butter and should have done the job? How many times has they ended up drowning and pinching and abusing the dormouse to forget their petty frustrations, to keep from forgetting their marvelous, never ending tea party?
How many hours, really, had the March Hare spent at the Hatter's table, the teacups never rinsed, the milk jugs never changed, just moving one chair down every time it suited their fancy? It must have been so long… so long that he could no longer remember when exactly the party had begun…and of course, when it was supposed to end, he knew not at all. From what he could see, it would never end, was never intended to end. An everlasting party…he could remember when that was still a grand idea.
He could remember the times before the girl came.
Oh, what fun they had had, in those days before that vicious girl had spoiled everything! How they would delight in celebrating each others' unbirthdays; delight in telling stories and riddles and jokes and puns of all shapes and sizes that had no beginnings or ends or answers of any kinds; delight in dreaming up devious ways to irritate, torture, or otherwise abuse the poor dormouse; delight in spending endless amounts of time bantering back and forth about subjects both of them clearly knew nothing about, and if they did, would probably agree upon anyway; delighting in pretending they were brilliant, artful, classy, tasteful, graceful, worldly…delighting in simply doing, being, living on this endless holiday that they had managed to escape to, once in a lullaby…
Yes: so unfortunately, the March Hare remembered these times with his dear, beloved friend.
When exactly the Hatter had first forgotten to wish him a Merry Unbirthday, the March Hare could not tell. Or when he first forgot to change places, or to tell riddles without answers, or demand stories, or play with the words in his delightfully, madly clever way, or even to check his beloved watch against the date…who could tell when all of this had begun?
When had the Hatter's hair first stated turning grey? When had his clothes, now torn and dirty, first start fitting so large on the now skeletal frame? When had he first started staring into the distance, forgetting chocolate biscuits and jam sandwiches and roast kippers and unbirthday cake, simply sipping horrific amounts of tea, munching gently on meager slices of buttered toast, staring out to someplace in the woods, in the darkness…
When had the Hatter's eyes become so glazed, so frighteningly devoid of their mad mischievous gleam, so distant and cold?
Most days, now, he sat silently, the only real sign of life the subtle, almost unseen rise and fall of his chest, the gently persistent blinking eyes, the hand that still raised the well-worn teacup to his mouth time and time again…he could go for days without speaking (although, now that the watch was sincerely gone, this was entirely guesswork on the part of the Hare). When the Hare, in desperation, would tell a joke, a story, a pun, anything to kill the terrible, terrible silence, the Hatter would sometimes nod, or grunt, or sometimes even smile…but what terror, horror when he did not: when, without any indicating of having heard anything, would continue staring, staring, staring…
On the occasions when he did speak, it was not in the voice he had come to know the Hatter by: the loud, rancorous, oscillating, high-pitched, deliciously insane blast at which they used to converse. No: now it was whispers, mumbles, confused words and snippets of phrase that were nervous, shy, frightened of each other…
He would say, off-handedly, that he, too, never could remember how a raven was like a writing desk. He would say, off handedly, that he always did wonder how the story ended: the one about the three little girls who lived in the treacle well. He would say, off-handedly, that he always did wonder whatever became of the strange girl they had entertained at this very party; the one that had been to trial at the Queen's court, in which he had to testify, the one that had just disappeared…
For his part, the Hare would never forgive that sordid bitch, that dark enchantress who had thrown this shroud upon his dearest beloved friend from which he could not seem to recover him. The Hare would hold him, sobbing like a new-dropped bunny, kissing his friend tenderly on the cheeks, cursing the whore, trying everything he knew to revive him, everything…
The table, at any rate, had grown dark. Termites ate at the legs, and mice lived under the teacups. Fleas had taken up residence in various parts of the tablecloth, and roaches feasted in the rotted milk left standing in the jugs. The saucers, spoons, teapots, and all the rest had collected dust now. Even the chairs they now sat on were beginning to creak in their weariness from holding their weight so long. The Hare, when he got up from the long table to bathe, eat, or sleep, could always find his friend, the shell of this dear man, in the very same place, still staring out into the dark, dark world, looking at something he couldn't see, listening to something he couldn't hear…
One day, after screwing up his courage just as far as it could go, the Hare gently wrested the precious watch from the Hatter's hand. He met with a frightening lack of resistance. Prepared to see anything, the Hare gently opened the works of the watch and peered inside.
Then he knew the truth, in all its simple horror and glory…
The watch was not stopped because of butter, or crumbs, or a foreign agent of any sort.
The watch was stopped because the Hatter had forgot, and left it unwound.
THE END