Disclaimer: I don't own American McGee's Alice, or Imaginary by Evanescence.
Stuff: I really should stop writing, I've gotten like… Two stories, and a chapter out today. Just today.
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Imaginary
I linger in the doorway,
Of alarm clocks screaming,
Monsters calling my name.
Let me stay,
Where the wind will whisper to me,
And the raindrops as they're falling,
Tell a story.
It had been years since I'd been to Wonderland – unfortunate, unhappy years at this horrible correctional facility, or so they liked to call themselves. The place where they all wore white, and all you ever saw was white. White walls, white floors, white ceilings – clothes, faces, everything was pasty. I was beginning to think that even their eyes – the most distinguishing feature of people – were white as well. Even their little pupils, their betraying, tiny little pupils. Even the plastic spoons I ate with were white, it was disgusting.
Years since I'd woken up out of that coma I'd been it – although not pronounced sane. By no means am I sane, according to society. I'm rather insane, by their standards – but they don't really know what insanity is. Only insane people do.
Which brings me to the conclusion that we do, indeed, know we're insane. Although, we aren't at all. Only people who are different call us insane. It's a very simple thing, really – there are the people in the world, living their boring, colorful lives. They are considered sane in society, because they are the majority. Just because I don't accept their reality, doesn't mean I'm insane. It means I'm in the minority. But, because people are such fickle things, they translate that into insanity.
Mornings are very boring here – there's an alarm clock built into the wall, so I can't break it and kill myself. Honestly, I'm just an insane person, not a suicidal maniac.
It goes off every morning at eight.
Which was what happened today, and yesterday, and the day before that. But what made today different, was that I was in Wonderland. Well, maybe I wasn't – perhaps I only dreamt I was in Wonderland, and now that I'm looking back on it, that seems much more logical. Anyway, I was dreaming of Wonderland, and naturally I didn't want to wake up. You see, they have buttons in each room, built into the wall of course, that you have to press to turn the alarm off in your room. If you don't, it'll go on for days. And, unfortunately, I learned this the hard way.
But back to my story; I was dreaming of Wonderland, and call me a sucker for nostalgia, I didn't want to wake up. But of course, here in an asylum, we don't have snooze buttons. So I tried to fight it off, tried to conjure my dreams of the Cheshire cat – oh, I miss him so, even the White Rabbit. He was there, too.
In my field of paper flowers,
And candy clouds of lullaby.
I lie inside myself for hours,
And watch my purple sky fly over me.
Not everything in this dream was perfect, though. Or at least not how I expected them to be doing, after all this time – the Queen is dead, after all, so I'd expected the Cheshire to be fat and round once more, and the March Hare ticking away by the pocket watch he had. Or at least, I think he had it. But no, everything was sort of stuck. The Queen was dead, so the world had some more color to it, I must admit, but they were paused between the unhealthy stupor they were in, and vigorous health. Somewhere unpleasantly stuck in the middle, where the Cheshire Cat had grown an inch or two, and his ribs were less noticeable, but still very visible.
And the White Rabbit had shriveled, red eyes – like he'd cried for hours and hours, or gotten something nasty into them. They were asking for me back – and I wanted to go back, I did, but somehow I don't remember how. Anyway, that was when the nurse – in her pale, white, horrible uniform came in and turned off my alarm.
"Now, now, Alice. You have to wake up," She told me in that professional voice – though she hid it well. She actually tried to sound like she wanted to be there, but I knew she'd rather be somewhere else. Somewhere that didn't involve sponge bathing insane people, and turning off their alarms. With her was a white tray, with a white bowl and a white cup – both of which were plastic, once more, so I couldn't kill myself with them.
Don't say I'm out of touch,
With this rampant chaos,
Your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
The nightmare I built my own world to escape.
I ate my food without much thought, because when you're bad here, they put you in strait jackets and throw you into thick, cushiony cells and expect you to get buy all day without any food, water, or restroom breaks. I've been there four times since I woke up from my coma, and I hate it. So I make an effort to listen to them and not get myself there.
That room is white, too. Even the jacket and the buckles are.
Sometimes I wonder why I haven't killed myself yet. Their world is so screwed up, their diplomacy – their morals – they're all pretty crazy. I don't know how legitimate this is, coming from an insane person, but I have to say asylums are not my cup of tea.
Not even half a cup.
And it is mornings like these that I want to go back to Wonderland the most – because it's safe there. This might sound crazier, because it was once ruled by a Queen who was the fiercest dictator I have ever seen, and riddled by monsters of all sorts – like the Army Ants, and Jabberspawn, and all the horrendous, wild creatures. But they're gone now, and I must say, nobody jabs your arm with who knows what when you're bad.
I like Wonderland so much more that Rutledge's. At least there, I have company. The only company here is the staff, and they either hate you, or are bathing you. An unpleasant thought, I must say.
There, I have the Cat, and he's always entertaining – with riddles and what not. And at least he understands me, probably more than any of these people here ever will.
In my field of paper flowers,
And candy clouds of lullaby.
I lie inside myself for hours,
And watch my purple sky fly out of me.
After breakfast, I tried to sleep again, because there isn't much to do here. You can stare at the walls, but that will drive you crazy. Or crazier, anyway. Seriously, a little color isn't so bad. Sometimes, though, if you stare long and hard enough, the walls turn a disgusting shade of burn canary, which is so volatile I can't stand it.
So I tried to bring up Wonderland. If I had the choice, I'd be there all the time, but unfortunately I don't, and I can't even summon the place in dreams upon my will. Whenever I try, I don't remember my dreams. Or I don't dream at all.
It is also particularly hard to sleep after you've just had a full night of sleep. Often it's manageable when you're ill, but as I'm in full physical condition, it is quite a task. Sometimes I only sleep for five minutes, and that's when I'm lucky. Other times, I lay there in suspended animation – or at least that is what I call it; a trance-like state where I'm neither awake, nor sleeping, but doing a combination of both.
But today I conjured up just a little – a passing memory, really, of the Cheshire Cat. He was aiding me with a rather large book while I was at Skool. He'd become sarcastic when I shoved it over a three story ledge, and questioned what might have happened had he suggested force. Thinking back on it, it's pretty funny, but at the time I'd taken it somewhat sourly.
Swallowed up in the sound of my screaming,
Cannot cease for the fear of silent nights.
Oh how I long for the deep sleep dreaming,
The Goddess of Imaginary Light.
If the days are boring, the nights are torture. I sleep most of the time, but every month or two I get a bout of insomnia, which – no matter how hard I try – I can't seem to cure. I lay in bed, my eyes closed, trying to clear my head, but nothing works. I go into suspended animation most during this time, and think about Wonderland a lot, too. Sometimes I'll sleep for an hour or two, but I always have nightmares. I'm always screaming, running from something – The Queen or the Mad Hatter, sometimes even both – and can't get away. In the end, they always get me, and then I wake up.
I'm thankful that these dreams are short, though, because then I don't have to relive the worst parts about Wonderland. The parts that are no longer there. The quiet is the worst part about the asylum, though, because like the walls the quietness changes – and it's not just a trick of my eyes, or my ears. I can hear things, which probably labels me crazier than I've already become, but I hear them. I hear the screams of gnomes, the cries of innocent people – sometimes the haunting lament of the skool children. I hate nights, and when it's quiet at Rutledge's, I'd much rather be chased by the Queen of Hearts than listen to the ones who have died because of her.
I guess that's different, though, because I know in Wonderland they're safe.
But since I haven't gone there, the thought of it never existing plagues me as well. It was so real, and I know that it had to exist – but there is talk of waking dreams – dreams that seem so real, that you think they actually happen. Some people have even mistaken them for fact. The doctors tell me that while I was in a comatose state, I had one of these waking dreams, and envisioned a world parallel to my own, where my objectives, my answers, myself, they all made sense. Everything made perfect sense. Sometimes they tell me that it's my way of justifying the world, or my way of looking at their own lives – and being able to accept them.
They're wrong, though.
Because I can't accept them if they won't accept me.
Which, maybe why I long for Wonderland, because that's the only place I am accepted. Where people like to see me, their savior, where they praise me and talk to me and treat me like I actually exist – like I'm a person with a mind, instead of some humanized livestock. Wonderland is the only place where people hold adamant conversations, whole-hearted ones; where my opinion is valued. Wonderland, I must realize, is the only place where I'm sane.
In my field of paper flowers,
And candy clouds of lullaby.
I lie inside myself for hours,
And watch my purple sky fly over me.