My name is Alice, from your old bedtime story. Your parents used to tell the tale of my dreams and adventures in Wonderland. You might think it’s odd that I’m writing to a 17-year-old person but here is the story of my dream. The true, gruesome story. I lie in bed awake at night with my pen and hanky by my side. I always carry a black-inked pen in my hand. I write on my skin the thoughts lingering my mind. As Dark as my pen, my daydreams are pitch black too. And my hanky is where I carry my weapon of self-defense whatever it is I get from my bedside table, my parents’ desks or even from our own little kitchen, any pointy objects does the trick, really. You might ask, “Why does a small girl like her need pointy objects to defend herself?”
Let me tell you my secret. Alice in Wonderland is not a fairytale. It never was.
It is a nightmare filled with razor blades and chagrin.
The creepy cat is real,
the twins are real,
the red queen is real,
the mad hatter is real.
But the difference is…they’re all coming from within me.
I create those monsters in my head,
they are the result of my own doldrums and misery.
Except sometimes I’m being chased down by those card-soldiers
but they’re never as dreamy as you saw on the books or even the movies.
They wore masks and carry guns.
They sometimes even made the floors I’m standing on disappear.
I don’t know how they do that, they just can and they did.
I always wanted someone to wake me up from my stupor but once I’ve woken up there will always be red stained sheets and blood spattered blade on my hand.
Slashes of red wounds around my wrists and no one sees I’m hurting even if I tell them my dreams.
Maybe everybody else is fighting their own daze and I’m all alone in both my nightmares and reality.
Waiting unattended for my sweet, sweet demise.