Chasing White Rabbits
Summary: The Mad Hatter becomes engrossed with a strange human girl. What begins as a break in a routine and to destroy the perfect exemplar of a human, ends in the unloved to be loved. But this love soon fails, for a fallen angel could never be loved nor love.
Note: Belial is a WO-man (well, as woman as an angel can get). No question about it. She has no male parts. So, henceforth, Belial will be referred to as a "she".
Disclaimer: I do not own Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, nor do I own Jefferson's Airplane's White Rabbit. And yes, I do believe Mr. Carroll was smoking Opium while writing Alice's Adventures.
Chapter One
Sea of Tears and Other Strange Occurrences
Rain called to her from the cool restriction of her tiny town flat. Rain, the patron saint of loneliness, was calling to her subtly with its pitter-patter on the tin roof. She took so many streets without looking where she was heading and finally came to a stop. Could it be that she found her location or couldn't possibly risk herself getting even more lost than she already was? She let the rain wash away her bun, once kept in such pristine condition atop her head and wash away the paint on her face to reveal a weariness that wouldn't have existed otherwise.
One was so passionately in love with the human race. With all its fragilities and it being fundamentally corrupt. One wanted to break away all misconceptions of such a strong and dominate race. To expose it for what it was, a poor mix-match of D.N.A. and cells, an experiment. One wanted to watch as their little worlds crumbled and everything burned with them. Yet One was on a mission. Not to disrupt the cycle of life and what-not, but to find a suitable bride for my Lord.
Was it the mission or the passion burning, wishing to consume me, which called me to her? I have been watching her for so long. A poor little young woman, thrust out into the world by the death of her mother. Her mother was a pious woman, instructing her children the only way she could, through the Bible and the Church. There was only one way, the way of Goodness, of Virtue and the path of God. There was no question, until she gave birth to her daughter. Once her daughter was birthed, the Devil had taken away her husband violently by the temptation of the drink. He drank so heavily it had taken his life, silently, while he slept on a train bench waiting for his mail.
This young woman knew nothing of the world but what was fed to her and by the many dusty novels in her library, romance novels that took her away on an indeterminate journey. They became dusty, not by their idleness, but by their new home on her nightstand. She would stay up by candle light just to whisk herself away for one more moment.
The rain began to numb her flesh; she no longer felt her skin retract onto itself. It almost felt liberating to be so damned cold. To feel nothing but the washing away of everything was liberating. The rain bringing everything down into the sewers, where her filth belonged, liberated her. She wanted nothing more than freedom from her own shackles. Nothing more than to escape what she had become; this drone, failing everything she dreamt to be.
But she never failed what other's perceived her to be; this nurturing young lady, meant to care for her ill brother and hold light-hearted tea parties with the pretty little dolls she calls "friends". One loved to watch as she would pass the borderline between the proper and the scum of France, just averting her eyes for a moment, to catch a glimpse of the shadows her mother isolated her from. Just for a moment, so no one else could see her properness falling astray. One wonders if she ever caught a glimpse of Oneself as One leant on an ancient building, smoking, watching...
Her properness makes One shiver with delight. She is the perfect exemplar of the failure of an "ideal" human. There exists not perfection... Not even in the eyes of such a delicate young lady.
One let my umbrella lean forward to catch the drops that pelted down on her pastel dress, rendering it nearly see-through. Her eyes opened from her ecstatic slumber, wondering where the rain had gone. Had it left her, just like everyone and everything that trampled through her life? One loved to see those pretty little eyes light up with curiosity and wonder. With her eyes, One could see a million questions being asked.
"You look rather cold, ma chère," I offered, holding out my hand to pluck her from the sidewalk.
She smiled politely, "thank you. But I suppose I deserve what I get."
She stood up by herself and walked in the direction she imagined was home. One followed, not willing to let our meeting rest on these few words spoken. One wanted to expose her, One wanted to slice her mask up, wanted to tear her charade into little pieces. She walked in a steady pace, realizing suddenly how cold she was and how her body trembled, trying to fight off her abuse.
"Please," I called to her, "allow Moi to take you home."
She looked behind herself, without stopping, "no, no. I'm quite all right, thank you." But her eyes weren't in front of her and she didn't see the sudden brake in the cobble walkway. She fell forward and landed on her wrists. One hurried to dive in and pick her up but she had already decided to get herself off the ground. She pushed at her hair that lay in random strains, pasted on her face to reveal a sickly looking creature. She looked ill, with her rosy blush running down her face, revealing years she lived that could only be matched with the years lived by a ninety year old woman, poor and childbirth-ridden. She was mighty old looking, beyond her years and it begun to show in the wrinkles of her frown and the cave-in sides of her cheeks. She worried for those times she laughed, ten-fold.
One laid One's jacket on her shoulders, gathering her under the umbrella, "Let Moi take you home, ma chère."
She was swept up by this final act of generosity or perhaps she had given in to my persistent nature. She did not particularly like this idea of being scooped up in the arms of a stranger and letting said stranger take her home. But little did she know that One was not a stranger; One knew her better than anyone else. But she was thankful all the same, for if it wasn't for One, she would have been lost forever and wouldn't have found her way until she died of pneumonia. It was One's subtle guiding that led her back into the comfort of her town flat, tiny yet warm.
She looked to One as she opened the door, "would you like to come in, kind stranger? Warm yourself by my oven and fire; I can't have you being ill." Yes, yes, obligation; it was her obligation to let me in. It was out of kindness that she led me. It was of properness that she hid her curiosity under kindness and obligation.
"Moi would be terribly honoured, ma chère."
She led One even further into her home, not daring to let One linger any longer outside. This was to be discrete and out of obligation and out of kindness... Oh, how One loved to see her tear herself apart, trying to understand just exactly on what side of the tracks she belonged to.
One was to sit at the petite table that once was made to sit four, but with the dwindling numbers of family and friends, it was cut down to a two-seated table. One sat down, nonetheless, watching as she prepared tea for two. She lit the new cast-iron stove she purchased after years of saving pennies and placed her finest pot. The one she loved to use with her high-class dollies she would have over from time to time.
"Please excuse me," she went hurriedly to the stairs that led upstairs to where she hid her room. She had noticed how almost bare she looked in that little pastel pink and yellow dress she had made from left over material.
She came down in a hurry; her hair had the time to be quickly scuttled around and pulled into a bun. She pulled the kettle off of the burner and took the tea leaves out. She settled down and got back up just as quick, her nail on the index tapping her lip in punishment: she had forgotten the milk and sugar cubes. She hated milk's creamy scum it would leave on the skin of the tea. She hated how the sugar stole the tea's lingering bitterness. She would set out the little condiments for One and smile in apology, but she won't touch those things just to make a guest feel comfortable.
She poured the water and pushed the can leaves towards One's hand, and waited for the guest to be served. Such a gracious hostess. Such a fine of hostess. Once One was served she cautiously served herself, trying to make it not apparent that she was quite strange in her tea drinking habits. One was curious; how did tea taste? One put nothing as well, drinking the liquid in a savouring fashion and found the whole experience quite educational. I was taught that tea was just fine on its own, quite fine actually, and the bitterness seemed to be growing on One fondly. She was wary to smile; could this stranger be mocking her? But One wasn't the type to let such harsh feelings linger, "so strange Moi had to try it."
"And did you like it?"
"Moi will change Moi's tea drinking habits from now on."
"Alice! Al-icé!" It was the call of a frantic brother charging down the stairs. One was certain her was out to work. One had ascertained we would be alone.
"Ma crevette, Alice! Tu la mis--!"
He entered the kitchen, his shirt not completely tied, his collar lifted and his neck tie nowhere to be seen. His eyes searched bewilderedly for a broom to shoo away a stray cat such as Oneself.
"Francis!" She introduced, "could have sworn you lived in a barn."She hissed aside from possible spectators.
"Who's this?"
"Your neck tie is in your room on the door." She tried to usher him away, pretending to have heard nothing.
"Who's this?" He tried again, louder this time.
"Um—"She began, a red blush creeping her cheeks.
"Oh, excuse Moi for any possible rudeness against the young master," One held out One's hand and the brother had taken it being caught off guard, "Moi's name is of no importance; but they do call Moi the Illusionist in these parts. "
"Illusionist? What are you?"
"Francis!"
"Ah-ha, an excellent question. " One took off One's hat and pulled out a flower, which One placed to the nose of One's newest fair maiden, "Moi is none other than a traveling magician."
The wonder in the young woman's eyes was not mirrored in her brother's, but he knew One meant no harm, yet.
"Where did you say my neck tie was?"
"In your room."
Yes, he still had a duty. And he knew that One wouldn't be long. Young Alice could drive away men; explained how alone she was. But One had far better ideas. One took a card from One's hat and placed the card in her hands. One then garnished her with the blue rose in her hair.
"Moi must leave, ma belle Alice. À toute à l'heure."
She placed her hand on One's arm, a gesture of a friend, "yes, we will see each other again, Illusionist."
A\N: I've completed an outline of this story. Now all that's left is actually writing it. I personally don't like this chapter. But it's rather necessary and I can't see any way of making it better. If any of you have any advice to give a poor writer, I'll be more than happy to hear from you!