Alice vs. Wonderland

Chapter 3.

Alice woke up in a cold sweat, her whole body trembling. The horrifying images from the past still lingered before her eyes. She sat up in bed, trying to take deep breaths. It took at least five minutes before she finally calmed down, and her mind returned to reality.
It had been seven years since her mother's death, but the nightmares reminding her of that day still haunted her. That day became an anchor, dragging her life into the deep, dark abyss of the ocean, from which it was impossible to resurface. Her life had split into "before" and "after," changing her beyond recognition. She was no longer the Alice she once was. Gripping the worn edge of the blanket, she looked at the only small window in her cold and gloomy abode. "Outside these walls, people live their happy lives, not even knowing what awaits them tomorrow. I didn't know either," she muttered, adjusting a stray lock of hair. She was about to get out of bed when, suddenly, the door flew open, and old Morvena entered the room. "Well, little one, it's time for your meds," the old woman smirked, pushing a cart filled with pills and a pitcher of water into the room. Alice got up from the bed and took the empty glass from the bedside table. Holding it in her hands, she walked over to Morvena, as usual, extending her hand for her dose of medicine. She caught a malicious gleam in the nurse's eye. "Here you go," she said, placing a handful of pills into Alice's hand. Then, taking the glass from her, she poured water from the pitcher into it. "Drink it all, dear. I'll wait here today to make sure you actually take your meds. You've been a bit too spry for this place." Alice realized that running into the old woman in the corridor today was just her bad luck, but there was nothing she could do now. Trying to cheat would only get her into trouble. She swallowed two pills, one after the other, and washed them down with three large gulps of water. "Now open your mouth," Morvena commanded, roughly grabbing Alice by the chin. She turned her head from side to side, carefully peering into her mouth. When she finally let go, Alice looked at her with eyes full of hatred. "Good girl," Morvena said smugly. As she was leaving the room, Morvena stopped at the door, and with a sickly-sweet smile added, "Sweet dreams." Alice stood in the middle of the ward for a while, fists clenched in anger, until the old woman disappeared behind the door. As soon as the cart vanished around the corner, she stomped her foot. "Witch! Old witch!" she hissed through her teeth. "I've been hiding those damn pills behind the damn table for so long, trying to clear my mind! And now she knows... knows and won't leave me alone for a second!" Alice began pacing the room anxiously until weakness overtook her body, and black spots began to dance before her eyes. "Damn," she muttered, feeling her legs give way. She made her way to the bed. "I have to get out of this place while I can still think like a human..." She lay down and pulled the blanket over her head. The next ten hours of sleep turned into an endless string of memories. ---Alice sat in a large armchair upholstered in green velvet, holding a plush rabbit, a gift from her mother for her eighth birthday. Two years had passed since her mother's death, since laughter was last heard in the house, and since all the servants left, except for old Francis, the butler who had served in the estate for most of his life and stayed only out of pity for the young mistress. Alice absentmindedly ran her finger along the surface of the dining table, looking at the dust that had collected on it. She wiped her finger on her blue dress. Francis, though he tried to keep the estate in order, was old and alone, and the estate was enormous. Occasionally, you could see a thick layer of dust on the furniture. The estate's dining room had once been a lively place. Just two years ago, at least three times a week, the Liddell family hosted afternoon teas for guests here. It was a spacious room with high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings that cast strange shadows on the walls. In the center stood a long oak table, which used to seat dozens of guests, but now it seemed awkwardly oversized in the cold, empty space. The walls were lined with darkened portraits of ancestors, their silent presence only deepening the sense of decay. The servants began leaving the estate shortly after Mrs. Liddell's death. First, the maid Agatha left, unable to bear the ominous silence in the corridors. Then the coachman Henry followed, claiming the horses had become restless and were not sleeping well at night. The cook, Mrs. Mabel, never returned from the market one day, sending only a note that she "couldn't stand the house any longer." The last to go was the gardener, John, who packed his tools and left, saying that there was no life left in the estate - neither in the garden nor in its people. Thus, the only thing separating the estate from total abandonment was Francis' will to keep it alive, but it seemed that even he was on the verge of packing up and leaving for good. Mr. Liddell never recovered from his wife's death and spent days on end at his factory office. Mr. Liddell was the successful owner of a textile factory located on the outskirts of a small industrial town in central England. His factory, which produced fine cotton yarn and fabrics, was one of the largest in the region. Opened in the late 1840s, it quickly earned a reputation for providing high-quality goods that were in demand not only in England but abroad as well. Mr. Liddell took pride in his accomplishments, particularly that his factory had become a symbol of progress and prosperity for both his family and the surrounding community. The factory building was massive and imposing, made of red brick, with a tall smokestack that billowed thick clouds of smoke day and night. Inside, numerous machines worked tirelessly, driven by a huge steam engine. The heavy rhythm of the machines could be heard miles away. Along the walls were rows of workstations where dozens of people, mostly women and children, sorted and processed cotton that arrived at the factory from the colonies. The factory was profitable, but after Mrs. Liddell's death, its grim walls, soaked with the smell of machine oil and cotton dust, became less a place of work for Mr. Liddell and more a refuge from memories and pain. Spending days in his office, pouring over account books and blueprints for new machines, he sought distraction, but his eyes, once bright with ambition, now seemed dull. Alice had long forgotten what it was like to have warm conversations with her father over a cup of fragrant tea. The shadow of loss had fallen between them, forever severing the bond that once existed between father and daughter. She didn't even want those conversations anymore; without her mother, they seemed entirely meaningless. As it turned out, Mrs. Liddell had been the link that held the family together, and after her death, the chain had broken. She heard a faint rustling under the long, dusty dining table and squinted, bending down to peer beneath it. However, in the dim light under the table, there was nothing-only shadows cast by the chairs. Alice slowly straightened up, and suddenly, an unexpected guest stood before her.