Wonderland | H.S.

Chapter Four

Puffed by the hookah.
Here-here to the Caterpillar.

~

Presley's POV | Not Wonderland

~

Where was I going?

Truthfully, I had little clue as to where my path led after stepping through the onyx gates of Wonderland.

Walking down the frigid streets of Greenport felt similar to hiking up Mount Everest with flip-flops, Balvenie-piss, and cleared mental states. None of which happened to work for Presley Symmes, but I would be damned to let nonsense fly over my head like one-winged birds flew over the Pacific.

None of the fools—memory worse than my parents' attempt to stay in my life after dumping my little brother on the porch—followed me out of Wonderland.

Questions invaded my fickle mind, pouring queries in through the weakened and thinning veins. Questions had always run Tour De France's in my mind. The voices had urged me to ponder what made little sense—Pretty Boy's admittance of killing Levi, which he had. Still, despite the horrendous memory problems, the boy was coined as a murderer. Thank the Heavens.

Pretty Boy had told me he shot his best friend in the chest, and what did I do? I surrendered my naked body to the boy. I had sex with the potential Greenport Serial Killer—the one still running around the city—after the rueful news bounced off the peeling paints in my shack.

Cade and Harry had admitted their dealing of the drug I had been addicted to, and what did I do? I watched Alice in Wonderland, formulating theories about the dead-alive boy.

After finding the Tootsie-Pop center—taking two minutes—Pretty Boy explained how I would be nothing more than a statistic, non-sexually pounding hateful words into my skull with a sledgehammer, with his tongue. What had I done after? I went to Wonderland.

My legs sped down the pavement as nervous clouds formed with each exhale. Dusk waved her goodbyes, the setting rays tucking their golden legs under the covers of evening-tide. A rising moon accompanied by a frantic girl, the stars exhausted by the excessive amount of twinkling required.

Truth-be-told, I needed several things now, but the person I needed the most drank vodka instead of Balvenie. The person I needed the most needed to wrap a cold rag around his neck, breathing deeply to forget the events of the evening. The person I needed the most needed to cut his hair, the curls longer than expected.

I needed Hope.

But I was not needed.

Hopeless people did not dream. Hopeless people waited for darkness. Hopeless people did not dance under the stars. Hopeless people wanted to live amongst them. Hopeless people did not ask questions. Hopeless people didn't ask questions because hopeless people were scared of saying the wrong thing, of pushing people away.

But those people had Hope once before.

Hopeful people laughed with their enemy on their dreadful mattress. Hopeful people ignored the pain, for the heart smiled when the body ached. Hopeful people ran in the rain until their legs mushed into jelly; until their hearts beat for two reasons, one of the reasons stood before them. Hopeful people sat up in bed, throwing their legs over the edge as the sunlight pooled through the curtains. Hopeful people pulled their bodies from the springless couch. Hopeful people kept smiling because, finally, one of the smiles had been authentic. Hopeful people didn't ask questions. Hopeful people didn't ask questions because they found their answer in another human, in a soul.