She looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are wide. Her arms are bruised by harsh fingers. She looks at the bruises for a long time, wondering at them. They are beautiful, in a way. They are a deep green, branching out around the circumference of her little arm. Some are in the small shapes of fingers, complete with little half-moon cuts. Father should take care of his nails, she thinks. Others are fist-sized slams, although, these ones are already yellowing, becoming pale and livid. Down her legs are beautifully mastered, deep slices, open and gaping wounds eating up the pain of her insides. Some days, all that she can feel is the maggots that her father has lain, eating away at her heart. They dig themselves deeper and deeper, wriggling into her very soul, undulating with fear and hatred.

She walks slowly down the stairs, her legs a rubbery mess. She hears the heavy breathing of her father, a steamy breath soured by whatever alcohol he has been drinking. He lies like a dead man upon the sofa, a giant heap of stagnation. His face is swollen from the shoe she had thrown at him. She imagines he has a concussion. She hopes.

When she gets to the bathroom, she closes the door behind her. The click of the lock seems definite and impending. She is beyond tears. She is beyond pain. Her whole body seems to have been turned into a cavernous and hollowed vessel, a thing not of her own. She takes off all of her clothes, hoping to feel somehow cleaner, less tainted. She looks at herself in the mirror again, trying not to be bashful of her own eyes. She is not homely; rather she is quite the opposite. She has soft features, a seemingly beautiful body.

In her hands is a small paring knife, so gaudily sharp and precise. She holds it in her hands, and feeling an insatiable hunger to feel it's very sharpness, pricks her finger upon its tip. A drop of blood springs forth from her finger, growing pregnant before cascading from her finger in a voluptuous drop, poisoning the pure, white tiles with her pain. She knows the knife itself has a meaty desire to dig itself deep into her wrists, to taste her blood.

She begins to slice, and savors the pain that seers through her body, tearing apart her world with silent screams of crimson. Below the surface whirlwinds of pain, she knows that the effects of her abuse are festering and decaying. The cuts begin to open, releasing more shrapnel of wincing ache. She stifles a cry. A single bitter tear squeezes from two tightly shut eyes.

She remembers a mother she once had. She remembers the goodnight kisses and lullabies. She even remembers a father that didn't douse his fires with vodka or gin.

The world begins to move, and she lies down upon the floor. The cold prickles her skin, seeping to her very bones. Her eyes begin to see giant plumes of sunbursts, creating some sort of façade before her. She sees dust dancing and settling, going on about their little dust-lives. She knows that soon the dust will settle on her. Soon her body will crumble, and she will be no more than what she always felt inside of her: dust. Everyone equals in the end, she thinks.

As her blood begins to poison the room with its heartache, she feels the room begin to fade away. The world seems to be quietly withering, like a slowly waning moon that one doesn't know is disappearing until it's but a sliver in the sky. Like a thinly pursed smile. The strength of her limbs has dissipated to nothing now, and she suddenly feels a strange clarity. Her mind seems transfixed, in a cobra-trance. She doesn't feel bitter, or angry, or abandoned, or alone. She simply feels…alive.

Like a sputtering candle, though, she loses her clarity. She lays back her head, her mahogany curls swimming in a lagoon of her own vital fluids.

I'm going back to Wonderland, she thinks, and maybe this time for good.

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Author's Note: I don't own Alice. Everything I write is my own little spin-off of whatever came from the book or the video game. This chapter was a little short, I know, but they'll get longer later on. I'm a little new at this whole fanfiction thing, so please leave some reviews. Just for some general info, I'm not some weirdo depressed teen, high off my own angst…just an average teen writing what she sees. Thanx~ Mel.