Cheshire kitty

cat

I ran and ran, flying past the same handful of gnarled trees, adorned with the hanged corpses of those who kept their mind when all else was lost, but could not handle the harrowing truth. How I envied their rotting carcases, crushed souls free of this place, or so I assume, what's left of their body's swaying harshly in the violent screaming winds. Lucky bastards.The sight of an old friend of mine's severd head staring at me caught my eye. He looked so peaceful. "I'm happy for you." I whispered, stopping my frantic course to pick up his remains, placing him gently in what was the heart of the garden, a once prosperous and joyous place, but now just a bed of withered and colorless flowers, newly hosting the bloody head I just dropped in with them. I lay him down with a kiss and started running some more. For a minute, as the cold soft dirt hit my bear feet, it felt like old times.

That was till I passed his head again. And again. I turned the other way and sprinted, only to come across it once more moments later. Damn. I hate this part. Try as I might, and believe me I will, I'm stuck in this loop till they let me out. I tried not to think of the grim reality.

They might not.

 With in mind, I kept up my race against nothing and no one. Avoid the trick roots hidden by the fog, pass his head, duck under the abandoned wedding arc, then repeat. 'Oh well' I sighed to myself, fastening on a grin as my thin crimson dress whipped around me due to winds and, if I do say so myself, remarkably impressive running speeds. After a few hours of this, I came back across the largest pile of leaves on this endless circle, and lay down for a dreamless night. Such a shame, I used to dream so many vivid things, and now I can't even muster up fearless nightmare. When I came to, I was in the Hatter's hattery, rapped up in a gold net. I didn't think much of it. These things do happen after all... I laughed heartily at this, because, well... Because I suppose it was funny! I kept laughing till the Hatter came in. "Yes, I thought I heard psychotic chuckling...How do you do mademoiselle Cheshire?" He inquired in his poshest accent. "Not horrendous, Monsieur M. Hatter, just stuck in the loop for a while." He tensed, looking at me sadly. He really did hate that saddistic treadmill, and he was very worried for me. I winked at him to let him know I was fine. I hate when people get intense, it makes me very uncomfortable. I put my hand on his shoulder and reassured him. "Out now aren't I?" we stared at each other for a second, then we laughed.

A lot.

____________________________________

I walked our of Hatter's house and looked back at it, sighing. It was a sad sight, a prime example of wonderlands tragic deterioration. Ironically, nothing screamed pauverty like his top hat shapped buildings dishevelled state, yet it was once the staple of elegance in this secter, and the pride and joy of Hatter's father, the original Mad Hatter. But that was before all this twisted darkness, the horror that this generation now calls home, came and abolished most everything one may consider positive. 'Oh well, grin and bear it...' I thought. That was something my father used to say. I miss him, but I'm so glad he's dead. He died before all this. He died before the happy nightmare that was this fine land turned into the eight circle of hell it is today. If there even is a today anymore. He died before he could encounter the misfortune of transforming into this wretched human form. He died before he had they sobered him up and made him find the mind he tried so hard to lose. Where ever he is, I'm sure he's wishing death on me too, and I'm grateful.

Most of wonderlands original generation didn't survive the first invasion, as they most certainly were not going to keep anyone who could remember the better days, as to insure no one got any ridiculous and crazy ideas. Like hope. Cuz that's none sense... But fortunately, it didn't work, as the few survivors wrote books, created elaborate codes through which they told marvelous fables and even painted fantastic scenes of now destroyed landmarks on hand made canvases made from materials no longer available to us. Our culture would not die, even if they did.

Poor father, only 540 years old...In human years, I think that's 54! Why, humans have such a pathetic lifespan! At least I'm only 15.

I grinned at this.