Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person
Rating: T (Um, for now. We'll see how that goes later on.)
Genre(s): Humor, romance
Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, tea time with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.
A/N: HO SNAP, second chapter. Much thanks to my beta CrazySpark (her handle here at The Pit).
"Remind me again," Hamish muttered in a low undertone to Alice as they settled themselves down for lunch on the terrace of the Ascot Estate with his parents, great-Aunt Tildy, and her demon cat Bootsie. "We are adults, aren't we?"
"Supposedly," Alice answered back in a strained sort of whisper, "Though perhaps it was all a very boring dream."
"Children? What are you whispering to each other about?"
"Brandon Chattaway's bum," Alice answered with a prompt smile, twisting in her seat to beam at Prudence. While Hamish answered in the same breathe,
"Alice having a lesbian affair with the Chattaway Sisters."
"Well, then," Prudence sniffed rather stiffly – while Jeremy Ascot stuffed his knuckles in his mouth, turned a disturbing shade of purple, and nearly knocked himself out of his chair to keep the guffaws straining to escape his throat silent. "Don't slouch at the table."
"Mother? You do realize we are twenty-three years of age, and the time for a children's table has long passed. Don't you?"
"Nonsense," Prudence narrowed a steely look on her only child, "Until the two of you learn how to make proper conversation during a meal – the kind that does not include bums or lesbian affairs – Alice and yourself will be enjoying only each other's company."
"When will they be getting married?" Aunt Tildy asked, leaning towards Prudence, one hand holding her salad fork, while the other pretended to pet - but really kept a chokehold on - her ancient and possibly a servant of Satan cat, Bootsie. Bootsie had, as far as Alice and Hamish could tell, been ancient by the time they made their grand entrances into the world. Twenty-three years later, he was blind in one eye, his fur was falling out, and after a lifetime of wearing silly silk ribbons and bells, he hated the world. Alice supposed she would have hated the world if her name were Bootsie and crazy Aunt Tildy carried her around, so she really couldn't blame the poor creature.
"Who, Auntie?" Jeremy asked, blinking a bit owlishly at the elderly woman.
"Our Hamish and little Alice, of course! They haven't eloped, have they? You can't elope! Isn't right! Only hippies and pregnant women elope!"
"They aren't getting married," Prudence said with a lip curl that suggested the words made her ill, though she leaned forward and said in the lowest whisper Tildy could still hear – which meant the Pope in Rome probably heard every word she said – "At least, that's why they say. I imagine I'll be sending wedding invitations out very soon!"
"Very soon," Jeremy muttered under his breath, earning himself a reprimanding glare. "What? I was agreeing with you!"
"You don't agree in that tone of voice, Jeremy."
"Oh, Prudie, leave off the kids. They're mates, why should they have to be anything else?"
"Perhaps you don't want grandchildren, Jeremy?"
"He's twenty-three!"
"Want some tea, Bootsie, love?" Tildy stuck Bootsie's face into a saucer with lukewarm tea. Alice and Hamish slumped down in the seats, prodding their salads with forks, and tossing dirty looks at the elder Ascots.
"If there is a God," Hamish muttered seriously, "Lightning will strike us dead."
"JubJub bird attack," Alice was chanting under her breath, "JubJub bird attack!"
"Bootsie, you bad boy! Stop now, and drink your tea!" Bootsie did not take kindly to having his face shoved in a saucer of tea, extra cream added or no.
"Death by Bootsie," Alice rapidly switched her chant, "Death by Bootsie."
"Alice and Hamish would make beautiful grandchildren!" Prudence was tearing up by that point, dabbing at her aristocratic nose with her linen napkin, "I just want Hamish to be happy! And Alice is already part of the family!"
"Alice'll always be part of the family," Jeremy insisted a bit desperately, "And Hamish will be happy with whomever he falls in love with, and chooses to marry!"
"You don't love them like I do! I have a mother's heart, and you're a – a man!"
"I can't win this," Jeremy admitted more to himself then his wife. "Jonathan, brandy please." He gestured – a bit desperately to the butler the Ascots had employed for the past twenty-five years. Given the length of his employment, and the fact he was one of Jeremy's favorite hunting partners, he did nothing to hide his smirk as he went through open terrace doors to fetch the called for brandy.
"Bootsie, you naughty kitten! Come here, now, puss! Drink! Your! Tea!"
"Stab me with your knife," Hamish peered intently at Alice from under the flop of his ginger hair, pointing towards the side of his neck. "Right here. I'll be dead in a matter of minutes."
"All we need is my mother showing Tildy our baby photos, and dad making inappropriate jokes. Dinner will be grand this evening, won't it, Hammy?"
"Lightning," Hamish implored the sky with a dramatic flop of his neck and large, pleading eyes. "Please?"
"Bootsie!" Tildy shrieked, seconds before an ear splitting yowl of feline rage cut through even Prudence's delicate, lady-like weeping. Blood blossomed along Tildy's gnarled hand, and Bootsie clawed his way up her shoulders. He took a flying leap – an act of faith, given he had sight only in his right eye – and soared towards Alice, claws extended, eyes flashing with an insanity born of twenty-some odd years of being Tildy Ascot's cat. Despite the fact it he was aimed directly for Alice it was Hamish who shrieked, which wasn't really all that surprising, Alice supposed. He toppled to the side, legs of his going upwards as his skull rebounded off the terrace.
Alice ducked – just in time – and Bootsie hung by his front claws off the table. He scrambled upwards, kicking Alice in the throat to do so, leaving her to wheeze once and wonder at the strength Bootsie possessed in one desperate paw. He made it to the tabletop, but in the process upended Alice's salad plate with a rather badly made lunge for freedom. The plate shattered, soggy salad covered Alice and stuck in the thick length of her ponytail, and vinaigrette made its way into her eye. She yelped, pressing the palm of her hand to said eye, hopping to her feet, even as she bent at the waist.
"Ow! Ow!" And then, "You bloody cat!"
"Bootsie!" Tildy began to wail, "No! No, come back to mummy!"
"I think I've gone blind," Alice informed whoever might have been paying attention at that moment.
"Didn't kill me," Hamish muttered, "Figures."
"Now, calm down Aunt Tildy," Prudence began to fan her hands at Tildy, who was clutching the fabric over her heart and looking torn between fainting or having a heart attack. "We'll catch Bootsie! We – Hamish! Go save Bootsie!"
Hamish, still lying on the ground, twisted a bit, watching as Bootsie made for the forest on the other side of the Ascot's garden.
"Alice dear," Jeremy stood and made his way to Alice, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Are you alright?"
"Vinaigrette in my eye," Alice explained, "I think I've gone blind."
"Spinach in your hair, as well."
"Lovely."
"Go clean up. Hamish, listen to your mother! Go get that bloody cat!"
"But dad -"
"Get the bloody cat, I said!"
"Stupid cat," Hamish grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. "Why can't Alice go?"
"Because she's got salad dressing in her eye, son. Now be a man, and go out there, and get that bloody cat before Aunt Tildy hurts herself!"
"Just a concussion," Hamish muttered, "No problems here, I'm fine. You'll be sorry when I fall over dead."
"Hamish Charles!"
"I'm going, mother…"
"Jeremy, here – hold this over Alice's eye, I've put some water on it. Take her upstairs; I'm going to stay with Aunt Tildy. Now, don't worry yourself, Hamish will bring Bootsie home safe and sound."
"Alice gets all the luck," she heard Hamish mumble, before Jeremy began to lead her into the house.
Hamish was not entirely fond of nature. He approved of it from a…poetic, yes, a poetic standpoint. Trees and flowers, bushes and twigs were all very nice and had their place in the world, but their place was on the other side of a window. He liked looking at trees, or walking through the gardens that were his mother's pride and joy. Having been born allergic to everything from grass to dust, flowers to feathers, he was not ever inclined to wandering through the sprawling wilderness that was part of his childhood home, however.
If he recalled correctly, the last time he had been an active part of a nature scene, he had been nine. Alice had dared him to climb a tree. He'd scraped his knees and hands, been poked in the eye with a twig, and had fallen several feet. It was a wonder he hadn't broken a bone, of that he was sure. He had landed in a patch of poison ivy, however, and had spent the better part of two weeks wearing a pink lotion that clashed terribly with his freckles and ginger hair, all the while scowling at Alice, who had cheerfully dubbed him Sir Scratches.
Hamish really couldn't blame Bootsie for fleeing to the woods to find a nice shady spot to lie down and die in. The poor feline didn't have enough peace to die in Tildy's presence. Hamish rather suspected the poor creature had passed several times over, but Tildy's wailing, teeth gnashing, and neck jarring shaking of his limp body had jarred his heart back to beating. Had to feel sorry for the poor puss, really.
"Blasted trees," he grumbled as a branch snagged his coat, "And blasted cat! Come here, Bootsie! I don't blame you for running away, but you are the only creature on Earth that can possibly make Aunt Tildy stop carrying on. So you must take a hit to the chin, chappy, and go back! Bootsie! Bootsie, here kitty! Idiotic puss!"
Hamish was incredibly glad that no one – say, Alice, for example – was anywhere in the woods to hear him shriek like a girl and attempt to do what he had sworn never to do again; that was, climb a tree. Out of sheer fright, because that raccoon had death in its glimmering, beady little eyes. Probably afflicted with rabies. Oh, Aunt Tildy had to leave him a grand inheritance after this. Gone into the wilds to find her puss Bootsie, attacked by a rabid raccoon, tree bark and pollen doing it's best to swell his nose shut, while his eyes narrowed to slits and threatened to start watering.
"Bootsie!" Hamish had never been so happy in his life to see the scraggly, coarse-furred creature. He sat on a branch directly out of Hamish's reach, flickering his tail and giving Hamish a look that was best described as 'Considering How To Kill Hamish'. Hamish wasn't sure why all of nature's creatures were out for his blood, but the fact remained that everything with fur, feathers, or scales wanted him dead. Or for dinner. Probably not at the same time, either.
"I don't suppose you'll be a good boy and come down willingly? Come on, puss, come here! Come here! I'll…I'll give you fish!" Bootsie gave a mew that was most assuredly the feline equivalent to "Fuck off," and began sharpening his claws on the branch. Hamish briefly considered the merits of knocking it on the head with a rock to induce unconsciousness, and a graceless fall from the tree branch. He finally conceded that PETA would hear about it (they had cameras in the trees, didn't they?), and he would be skinned and made into a coat to be taught a lesson. Blast.
"All right, then," he said firmly, "Don't come down. I will come get you. As I said, I really don't blame you for running away. But I can't take Aunt Tildy gnashing her teeth and acting the mourning pet owner a moment longer. So you must come home." Hamish hoped the sound of his voice would lull the cat into a false sense of security. On the chance that Hamish's fears were correct and the creature understood every word he was saying, he hoped it would bow the logic Hamish was putting forth.
He carefully balanced himself on a root that was poking, quite helpfully, rather far out of the ground. He kept one hand on the base of the tree as he stretched himself onto tiptoes, doing his best not to fall backwards into the rabbit hole behind him and sprain his ankle. What a kick Alice would get out of that, certainly after all their childhood games of falling down a rabbit hole and going to Wonderland. Even if he didn't sprain an ankle, Alice was going to find the whole story terribly amusing. He'd probably never live it down, actually.
"Come on, puss," he did his best to croon, though he only sounded rather strained and in dire need of a tissue, "Come here, Bootsie…"
Sharp white claws flashed outwards when Hamish's hand came within a mere inch of taking hold of Bootsie's leg. Hamish howled as the cat scored several long gouges into his hand, leaving him to jerk said appendage backwards. He tottered dangerously for a long moment, pin wheeling his arms and doing his damnedest to hop forward and away from the rabbit hole.
He failed, of course, because if Hamish didn't have bad luck, he would have had none at all.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact. Possibly his skull rebounding off a rock, leaving him to bleed to death in the woods. The animals would feed on him, and when he was found, they would be forced to identify him by his dental records, as he wouldn't have a face left at all. He hated nature. It was terribly depressing to realize that was probably going to be his last thought. He had hoped it would have been something amazing like, "I can't believe I took down seven pirates before I was captured," but no, it was only, I hate nature.
Here Lies Hamish Ascot, he imagines his tombstone will read, Killed By Bootsie the Cat and a Badly Placed Rabbit Hole.
Impact never comes, however. Only air whooshing past his limbs, his stomach darting into his throat. He twists blindly before he opens his eyes, and finds himself peering down the longest, strangest tunnel in his life. A rather large book smacks him in the head, and he is sure there is lit candle three feet up.
Hamish screams as he had never screamed before. He doesn't even pretend he is bellowing in a manly fashion. He screams, shrieks, wails, and when he sees a piano hurtling towards his face, he begins to pray to every deity he can think of on such short notice.
"Don't let me die here, Oprah," he babbles (best to cover all his bases) helplessly, before the piano goes jerking upwards and away from his face, "Oh my God, don't let me die like this!"
He slams into the ground with a sickening thud. He has no more then gathered to the strength to lift his head when the world tilts, and he falls down once more. To the real floor, he can see after a time. He had crashed through the floor and onto the ceiling. And hung there for a time, hadn't he? Gravity, he assumes, had fallen much more slowly then he had.
"Oh, God," he breathes, "Oh, no, this is not happening. I have head trauma. I am bleeding on the forest floor, thanks to Bootsie. This is not happening. This is not happening!"
It is happening, though.
He sits in a room filled with doors. Doors, he knows, that is locked, and will not be opened. There is only one door that can be opened, and to pass through it, he will be forced to drink Pishsalver and shrink to an impossible height. Beyond it he will find the mad, terrifying world of Wonderland; where Mad Hatters carry on endless tea parties, and Jabberwockies are slain with Vorpal swords by Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh.
"She found a key on the table," Hamish mutters numbly, pressing a hand to his throat. "And she tried every door. But it didn't fit one! Not even one? Not even one. But when Alice jerked back the curtain – sure she would find a Right Proper Sized Door – she found a door fit only for dolls and cats! 'What a silly door,' Alice thought, but she tried the key in the lock all the same. And it swung open! She poked her head through, her head and a bit of her shoulder, and she found – she found Wonderland…"
Hamish trails off, his stomach quivering violently.
Just like Alice's beautiful, mad stories – just like in the haunting artwork she creates, pictures that speak more then words and never quite leave the viewers imagination – Hamish has fallen down a rabbit hole into twisted, beautiful, wonderful Underland. Hamish is positive, somewhere in the back his mind – or far away, beyond the garden, in front a decaying windmill, he can hear a mad, broken voice raging –
"Why did you die, Alice? Why did you ever leave me? Alice? Alice!"
"There are three options," Hamish seriously informs the bottle of Pishsalver he holds, fingering the little tag that read Drink Me. "One: I hit my head, and am now in a coma, while wild animals debate the merits of eating my tender, juicy flesh. Two: Alice put LSD those chocolate biscuits she made, knowing I would eat them before we left for mum and dads, and I am now experiencing the worst trip seen since Woodstock. Three: I…" Hamish pauses, throat sticking on the words.
Twenty-three years he has been friends with Alice. Twenty-three years of watching her fly away, somewhere past Reality, Time, her own mind, even. She was born with another world living inside her, a crazy, mad, beautiful world that she has always allowed Hamish to glimpse through her artwork and stories, crazy, rambling discourses to her easel about Why Alice's Will Not Lust After Fictional Characters, and their childhood games of Jabberwocky versus Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh. Despite the fact that he is the closest person to her, despite the fact she has never once not allowed him those glimpses, even brief moments where is allowed to fly away with her – despite those things, Hamish has always longed for more.
Prudence Ascot could not stop Alice from flights of fancy and her exuberant, insane dance that sounded more like a vulgar sexual act then – as she termed it – a dance of unbridled joy. Hamish, on the other hand, came from her womb, lived under roof, and had absolute control out of him for the vast majority of his life. He was forced to think a certain way, act in a certain manner, and never – not ever – fly away and follow Alice.
He has always wanted to, though. There is something…magical about Alice's words and pictures, the faraway glint to her eyes, the mischievous tilt to her lips as she whispers, "Can you imagine what the Cheshire Cat would say?" when Hamish's mother gives them a tongue lashing. He has always believed, in the deepest part of his soul, that Alice is magic, and her Wonderland is real. Even if it's only her mind, that beautiful land is tangible.
And here he is. In the Room of Doors, holding Pishsalver, wondering if he is concussed, tripping, or if the impossible is possible.
"Maybe," he whispers to the bottle, as though he is afraid his mother might pop out of a corner and twist his ear off for even suggesting it, "It is possible. Maybe…Wonderland…" He draws a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and says,
"Three: Alice's Wonderland is real, and I am in the Room of Doors. I've fallen down the Rabbit Hole."
Hamish has never realized it before, but Lies and Truths have a taste. When he speaks Three, a taste like spring wind and honey bursts to life on his tongue.
And he knows, without any doubt, he is in Underland.