Between Sleep And Wake

Alice and Peter

Peter and Alice had many deep conversations. About life, about pain. About never truly belonging.

Alice also never saw herself as prisoner, as Peter never prohibited her from leaving the hut. She would wander the forest, other days she hunted for food. Alice did not get queasy or suffer from a faint of heart. She sought and killed animals—it was needed for survival. After what she'd endured in Wonderland, this experience was a cakewalk. Either she hunted or she died of starvation. The choice was obvious.

Some nights she would stare at the sky and wonder if her family missed her. They had viewed her as a hindrance, an embarrassment. Crazy, batty Alice. That was her known name amongst the community. They assumed she didn't know, but she overheard her parents' conversations with family and friends.

People would ask, "How is poor Alice?"

"She is mentally unwell," was her sister's common response.

Her mother would advise that her delusions and hallucinations were getting stronger, that she had lost her grasp on reality.

Alice would sit by the top of the stairs, listening to these inaccurate reasonings, wishing she could fall sleep and wake up in another world. It was easier to lie in safety beneath her covers.

"Do you ever wish to go back?" Peter asked one night as she gazed out at the stars.

"No," she admitted. "I have nothing to reminisce about. If there is not even one moment I'd willingly and happily recall, there's no use for me to return home."

"I will never understand why your family did not cherish you. Mine—" He stopped, his pause abrupt. He glanced down, as if he were rethinking his words. When he looked back up into her eyes, he was smiling. "It does not matter. They did not deserve you."

Often, Alice could detect sincerity in others, and both Peter's countenance and tone displayed it clearly. She leaned forward, her lips pressing against his, taking in his warmth.

He did not immediately return the affection. His stilted reaction suggested disinterest, or perhaps shock. Once he retreated, his brows furrowed and his eyes searching hers for an explanation, she knew it must be the latter.

"What?" she asked.

"Is—is this what you want?"

"I wouldn't have done it had I not wanted it," she replied.

His hesitation dwindled and he gave her a feverish kiss, pulling her close.

That night, and many nights that followed, he would take her to bed, and she savoured the heat of his bare skin. Momentarily, her head cleared of self-reproach and the resentment she had towards her mother and father. She enjoyed this feeling, and extended it as much as possible.

Alice did not know if she was the first woman Peter had been with, and she did not ask. He could have been with women; he could have been with men. It did not matter to her.

They would lie side by side and Peter asked her to tell him more about what it was like back home before she was determind to be deranged. What was she like as a child? Why did she dread picture books when she was young? What were her friends like? His investment and interest in her life was one of the reasons why Alice admired his company. He seemed so fascinated despite how negatively she spoke of her life. She could not fathom it, but she was grateful regardless.

Peter eventually began inquiring about her time in Wonderland. He always acted like an attentive child listening to an adult recite imaginative fairytales.

"Why were the Walrus and the carpenter friends?"

"I don't know. You would have to ask Tweedle Dee or Dum. They did not explain that to me."

"Why did the Queen want to behead you?"

"She wanted to behead everyone. She loved to scream, Off with her head! I believe she suffered from limited vocabulary."

"How big would you become when you ingested the magic mushrooms?"

"Bigger than the tallest trees!"

"And how small?"

"Smaller than a key."

"Did you ever kill anyone?"

Alice was not perturbed by his slew of previous questions, but that one made her eye him with surprise. "No! I didn't," she replied. "Have . . . you?" She wasn't certain if she wanted to know. The way he brought the subject of murder into conversation in such a casual manner was troubling.

"I had to," he replied. "Everything here once belonged to someone else, but I needed them. They were selfish."

"Who was?" she asked, lifting the blanket up to cover her chest. A pointless attempt at modesty. He had already seen her nude countless times.

"The other Lost Boys. They refused to help me, after all I had done for them."

"What did they do?"

"They betrayed me and I could trust them no longer."

"How—how many of them have you killed?"

He smirked at her. "I lost count," he replied. "We should go hunting soon." Before she responded, he pushed the blanket away and stood up.

Alice did believe in punishment, when it was justified. In these instances, it was not. She didn't know if what she felt towards Peter's unhinged behaviour was fear or disgust. These boys were probably desperate for survival. And even if Peter felt betrayed by them, it did not warrant killing them.

Their physical intimacy dissipated after that; she became purposely distant, refusing to continue with their poignant, immersive conversations. When he asked her to take a gander outside, she would say, "I'm fatigued."

"You were not this fatigued before," he pointed out, and she knew he wasn't fooled by her silly excuse.

"I am now."

"What did I do?" he asked her. "You are unlike yourself."

"Who're you to determine I'm unlike myself? You don't know me."

"I do know you—you can not possibly have forgotten the stories you shared."

"I was lying. My life was uneventful and mundane; I fabricated my past to amuse you."

"They were not lies," he said, with a firm tone. "You are lying to me now. You do not want to be near me. What have I done to you?"

She could not believe he was oblivious about the motive for her sudden drastic shift in personality. Did he think she could condone what he'd done? "I'm going to bed," she muttered.

"You have decided to foresake me." The pain in his voice was apparent and, surprisingly, gutwrenching.

No. He was a killer. He deserved nothing from her.

"I am fatigued. I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

The sun hadn't even fully set, but she didn't care.

That was when she planned her first of many escapes to come.