One rabbit hole. Two looking glasses. Glistening blue and white, pale as the Reaper. Unassuming little friends at the hollow of her cupped palm. Down the throat. Alice tumbles.
The world without time. Her favourite chair, plush and beautiful. Her favourite tea, today it is Jasmine. Her favourite friends, her favourite day. Unbirthday. Maybe she can be young again with each unbirthday, maybe she can undo her life away, one thread off the rug at a time and soon there will be no more rug. Just blissful emptiness. The world before the rug- oh, she meant, surely: The world before the world. Obviously.
Summer lays her heat, layers upon layers of warmth on the deep chocolate floorboard. Her golden hair spread about on the unwashed floors, slow heart, slow heart. Thin and shallow beating smilingly at tea-coloured life. Grow, grow. A tendril of smoke grew within her, coiling upwards from between her long shapely leg. Impossibly green leaves unfurling, is that Beethoven at the background? Ah, its the neighbours little boy. Piano lesson. From ten in the morning, every day except on Sundays on the account of church. Home-school.
She takes her tea with two sugars and a lot of cream. She tosses her head heavily, bumping one side against her coffee tables leg. Yes, please, and some milk, if you dont mind. The growing ghastly thing has thick roots, dark green and chunky. Mind you, sir, thats not a considerate place to be at. Between her legs. The one with the hat hands her a dainty cup with tiny pink heart motif at its lip. She thanks him, But whys the crow-?
Hold now. Cow or crow? How brown!
Little fingers on piano keys. She was so full of promises too, many years ago. Small feet dangling from piano stool. A large recital, was it. Never seen so many people, no sir. They are all watching her. Spits the tea out secretly, turning to ones side so as to be polite. No more, no, please, no more. Places one hand above her empty cup. NO!
The hare sighs and throws his face away from her. It suddenly becomes cold and dark all the sudden. Is it already night? Or maybe it is just the gloom of the stage. So many people. So many eyes. Mother read to her once, when she was still young and safe, of the monster Minotaur. A hundred faces and more, and all of them hers and all of them faceless. She dreams awfully.
Ah, stop. Stop.
Stop? Or Top? If you stop, you cant be on top.
What is this now, speaking at her. The vegetable thing with its massive root now has a face. A speaking flower? How novel. She must gather herself presentably, now. Yes. Ah, quick, find something smart to say! Hurry now, before you disappoint your audience! Yet again?
A slap on her wrist. Mother is angry. Mother is disappointed. How could you do this to me? How could you. Alice rolls her eyes upwards, a moan escaping her lips. Not yet. She does not want to go to that awful place, yet. The garden. Her garden, with the ornamental pink flamingos and her prized Azaleas. The white Rotan long bench and his giant friend, the fig of Benjamin, sit side by side mutely year in and year out. Coolness creeps her tiny follicles up as she sleeps on the bench within their embrace, hiding away from screaming voices and taut lips. She wakes up, and the cat-bird goes, Keek-keek. Keek-keek.
Bruising from the side of her temple. Not yet. Please lets not go to the garden. She kicks about. Frenetic limbs, shivering at the smaller joints involuntarily. Knocks over the little table, the tall vase comes crashing down on her. Water and lilies and glasses all. The garden is here. She can not run away. She sobs. Lilies and water spreading around her like a funereal decoration. Crimson strands leaks warmly, shards of glasses sticking out of her bare legs. A shrapnel of blood and white flower upon the golden-haired maiden.
Maiden? Maid.
Her mother the maid. No. No. Yes. Yes, she was just the maid. The mistress a barren woman and so very kind. Until she finds out that the girl was her husbands, after all. And the cat is painting its own stripes on its back. Kill-Kill. Kill-Kill.
She knows those stripes. On old television, black and white stripes with chains on their ankles. Sinners all. Feline malice rains down softly. Mother? Her voice tiny.
Not Mother. Not your mother. Do not Mother me. No more.
The Mistress locks her real mother away. The Mistress wants of child. The Mistress Rose. The Mistress in red. The Mistress is red. The Red Mistress. Alice moans again, pitifully and low. Please. Not the garden. Too late. She is here.
Roses fingers close in around Alices throat. Off with your head. Long manicured fingernails digging into the childs flesh. Red, red.
Each stripe a sinister grin upon the cats back. Laughing. Off with her head.
Alice gasps. The leaves shake violently, swishing and rattling. The white bench under her creaking, shouldering the murder taking place on top of it. Alice whimpers. Alice wails. Alice wraths.
Tiny hand searching in panic. Grabs the shovels handle from underneath the Rotan.
Swings it as hard as she could. Roses white face. Painted red now. And smashes again. Just to make sure. And again. Just to be sure. And again. Hee-hee. Hee-hee.
Please.
Is it over yet?
A small girl stands by the woman in red. Both of her hands a fist of blood. The edge of her nightgown smeared with sin. She is breathing evenly, and the cats stripes disappear one by one, leaving its mouth last. Quite quiet, quaintly.
Secret the moon keeps. And the strange cat in the rabbit hole. And her Vorpal blade- ah, she means, shovel, in the mirror worlds. Obviously.
World underneath.
I cant be on top, if I stop.
Tap twice on the new mound. Rest now, Mother.
A sudden gasp.
And then the woman picks herself off the floor. The sounds of afternoon insects playing now, no more Beethoven. She looks down and frowns at the mess around her. Dampness and the smell of lilies mix strangely with blood. She sits up and touches the side of her head. Pounding.
Such a mess.
Alice swears this is going to be the last time she takes those pills down her throat.
She always swears the same every time.
