♥️ All Hail The Queen of Hearts ♥️

Ch♥️pter 1

Clouds were forming into numbers and numbers were forming into letters which formed into syllables that was beginning to create a story in my mind. Of a small girl who was guillotined for stealing the tarts of an even smaller boy king. The king was angry and held no mercy for the tart snatcher. It really was a shame though. For both. The seven year old girl for being nearly starved to death by the cruel castle guards and for the boy who had been thrust into a role far bigger than him at the ripe age of five due to his parents rather sad but nether the less gory deaths fit for a monarchy. Those tarts were all he had left of his mother. Now they, along with the girl, are gone.

"Chad?"

I open my eyes to stare at the pretty person whom's lap I am currently resting my head upon and earned myself the view of them frowning in disappointment. They had an essay gripped tightly within their slim fingers and they looked as if they might crumble it if it dared to insult them any further.

"Yes Hannah?" I say though I'm not sure if it's a Hannah day or a Harrow. When they didn't comment on the use of their female namesake, I knew I could use female pronouns.

After three minutes of silence, I trained my eyes from her onto the ground where a couple of black ants were attacking a flower. The flower was pretty too. A promising shade of yellow with such a soft white. Hmm, what type? Ah yes a daffodil. I could distract myself easily when it comes to conversation. But it doesn't seem I need to as she wasn't really saying anything.

I was beginning to get frustrated. After knocking me out of my cloud induced story, which I was enjoying immensely, she held no response to my answer.

Seven minutes.

Perhaps I should give up and go back to viewing the clouds for inspiration.

"Chad?"

I lazily looked back up at her and met her gaze. She was worrying her poor bottom lip and looked as if she might cry. But this wasn't exactly unusual of them. Whether they were Hannah or Harrow, they were almost always comically overemotional.

"What is upsetting you?" I ask though I know it could be literally anything or everything. She, though they were Harrow at the time, once cried over a beetle that their classmate Parker accidentally squished under her too big feet.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply before sighing out all the air within her lungs. Looking as if the information she held was too much for me let alone the world to handle.

"I believe your great great great great great great grandfather might have been a pedophile." She finally rushes out, eyes closed tight so as to not see my reaction.

I, of course, know exactly who she's talking about and the information really isn't new.

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson or "Lewis Carroll" has always been under scrutiny when it comes to the topic of his intentions with the various little girls in which he kept company. Especially Alice Liddell, his inspiration for the curious Alice in his famous story, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

"It's not exactly news Hannah." I say detachedly, as to let her know I was bored with the current topic of our conversation. It works with most people. But sadly, Hannah isn't most people.

"That doesn't make it any less wrong Chadwick." She shot back heatedly. Another thing about them, they have such a hot and easy temper. Easily offended and conclusions quickly drawn.

"I didn't say it wasn't wrong. I am merely just bored with everyone pointing it out. His rumoured pedophilia hasn't yet and may never be proven so I don't see why everyone must drag it on like a bad joke." I reply with laziness I never realised I possessed.

In all honesty, I don't care about whether or not he was a pedophile. His clean record isn't why I like his book. Therefore a bad one would have no ill affect on my hero worship of his writing skills. Pedophilia is disgusting obviously. But isn't what makes him a good or bad author.

"You're a sociopathic jerk!" She screeched like a barn owl as she pushed my head off her comfortable lap and onto the hard ground of the School courtyard. She quickly got up to glare down at me and all I could really find in myself to do as a reaction was shrug.

Which of course caused her to storm off with an angry huff.

Usually in a situation such as this, I would follow after them and apologise because that's what you're supposed to do when you've upset someone, but I'm not really sure what I did wrong here. Did she need a more dramatic response from me? Like a oh no that's horrible?! Or perhaps a No my too-many-greats Grandfather was far too pure for such an atrocious crime!

Hmm perhaps I could have tried harder with my response and used one of the two above. However, they were both lies, the first for implying I hadn't previously known of his questionable relationships with little girls and the second for claiming Lewis to be too pure to ever be considered a pedophile. I hadn't known him. Maybe he was a pedophile. I'm not certain and neither is anyone else. But still, Hannah would have enjoyed them more than the response I chosen.

Too tired to get up and apologise though. And far too tired to put on a play for her.

I had hoped cloud gazing would help my insomnia for a day but it instead only gave me a story I will never write but rather imagine constantly on loop within my head until it is replaced by another story my mind decided to cook up so it wouldn't eat itself in boredom.

Speaking of boredom...

I sighed and slowly sat up to view an empty school yard. Which was expected, it was a Saturday. Hannah/Harrow and I come here everyday anyway just to escape the loud voices of the other children that seemed to follow us even in our homes. But no child, besides two it seems, would ever willingly go to the school on a day when they didn't have to.

Which is why it makes such a lovely hiding place. But I now believe it's time to go if the darkened sky is considered a valuable witness.

I stand up with as much grace as I could muster, Two weeks spent with only three hours of sleep maximum each day can make this task quite impossible when it comes to gracefulness and balance, and shakily walk down the hill towards my rusty pink second hand bike.

The bike used to belong to my older sister Allison. Who was, not surprisingly, named after Lewis's beloved heroine. It has been a tradition in my family for the past 5 decades to name your daughters a variation of the somewhat popular name Alice. Cue my other older sisters, Alicia and Alois. What about the sons? Complete free range. They don't care name him Chicken if you want. As long at the girls model the story everything will be fine.

I force my leg over the side of the horrifyingly unstable source of transportation and began to peddle back to my home. Only one peddle remained intact on the poor thing so I propped my right foot on the bar beside the front of the bike and did as I always did when riding, hoped for the best.

I was well past the school and on to Numberscratch road when something caught my eye. Something white? I stopped peddling and scraped my right foot against the pavement as a method of brakes. What was that?

I suddenly was pierced with bitter cold and everything around me seemed to stop- or no they were all just moving very slowly. I blinked at a hummingbird, whose wings were much more visible to me now and turned my attention to where the white thing was. Or rather where I thought it was because it was suddenly right in front of my bike.

A rabbit.

It's a white rabbit.