She whispers to the darkness, knees tucked tight to her chest, blonde hair plastered to her cheeks, face blank, eyes wide. She’s been here for some time now, lost in her own little world, never quite back on earth among the flowers with her sister…
Over and over she’ll scream about the white rabbit,
“He’s late! He’s late! The white rabbit! Follow the white rabbit!”
But there is no white rabbit to chase or to follow. There is no one late to wherever they may need to be, no white rabbit late to wherever he needs to go. He pulls out no pocket-watch as she tries to relay to the doctors, now little suit worn upon him, for he is not there…
She touches no real world, only the feel of what her mind has produced. Things unreal, fake colors, pretend people: it’s not there they say.
But she continues to fight, raging about falling down the hole after the rabbit, that white rabbit who’s late, who’s leading her down the hole, all things of sorts from clocks to dishware to cabinets to blankets bobbing around her…
Every night she screams, twisting about the jacket that encases her, wild and rabid about needing to join the March Hare and his friend with the crazy hat for tea,
“Mad Hatter! Mad Hatter!”
She’ll shriek and writhe, clawing around inside the jacket, crying and sobbing about how she’ll be late, that she mustn’t miss their party for she was invited to and must go. And she will always speak of the white rabbit whom she must follow, the one not there, who will occasionally join them for a sit down…
And in some mornings she’ll go off about a caterpillar of knowledge, one who speaks of great things not of this world, but the one she has trapped herself in.
She talks amongst the air, smiles abroad, as she thanks nothing in particular, only what she can see and that is a supposed caterpillar smoking hookah who tells her she can grow larger be eating the mushroom…and in her state, she picks to gnaw at the carpet.
Other times, she’ll get ruffled, downright defiant, but not at the outside world. No.
Towards the one she has claimed to calling the Cheshire Cat, always ranting about how she’s not mad, that he’s mad, not her. She’ll stand in the corner, holding herself as she talks and she’ll yell and shout at said cat, always taking both sides as if perhaps she was both at the same time,
“But I don’t want to be among mad people.” She’ll remark.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” She’ll reply to herself, “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know that I’m mad?” She’ll retort.
“You must be,” She’ll say, “Or else you wouldn’t have come here.”
Many times she’ll get angry. She’ll go into a rage, screeching to a woman that she’s deemed the Queen of Hearts.
She’ll rave and riot to this one woman over and over, unknown and nameless to reality. Always something about her indecency fit as a ruler, about her precarious ways over her people…and many times she’ll take the nearest rod-like object and bat around the floor with it, as if playing an old game of croquet.
She takes to calling it a dodo bird.
Yet, throughout all this, as she quivers in her lonely form, she’ll cry. She’ll cry about wanting to come home, that her sister is waiting for her with a story, out in the field of pansies, and not lying among the ones that talk to her, behind their home.
She’s told she can, but that’s she’s ill, that she’s sick, and for now, she must stay…
She’ll cry about a place called Wonderland, a place one can assume she’s locked up in, about how one pill makes her larger, and the other makes her smaller. She’ll cry hard enough that she starts to wail for creatures no one can see who seemed to have drowned in her lake of tears; she’ll cry for them.
She’ll cry in confusion and frustration, complaining and whining about two creatures mentioned constantly by the names of Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.
“You make no sense, you make no sense!”
She’ll cry, she’ll cry, she’ll cry.
She’ll cry for her faded life that now lies in shattered pieces, ignored by her completely as she can no longer find them. And she’ll cry for her Wonderland, and for the new home she’s come to create from it.
We’re all mad here