Chapter Text
I’ve been in this room for a while now. In this attic, I have to correct myself.
I’ve looked at every wall in this disturbing place, hearing each creak of rotten wood coming out at me. The room smelled of rotting flesh, complementing the dying wood. I didn’t like it much, though. I don’t know who would.
I am unaware of how I got here, how I ended up trapped behind the splintering floor and the equally sickly-looking walls.
There wasn’t much room to move, but I had enough to stand. There was a boarded-up window at the end of the room. I sometimes saw sunlight through it, but couldn’t tear down the wood. How long have I been here? I don’t know, my stomach hadn’t started to hurt, though.
I had been sleeping on a crummy mattress, with stained sheets that reeked almost as much as I was beginning to.
To the end of the room, where there appeared to be some sort of doorway— boarded up, of course— but what was in front really caught my attention.
It was a basket-like material stroller, which might’ve doubled as a place for a baby to sleep if the wheels were removed. It was big, something clearly vintage. Next to it stood a wedding dress, or what I assumed was a wedding dress.
It was beautiful, to say the least. An empire waist, paired with a lot of different lace going up the neck, and sleeves that were clearly Edwardian.
Some other stuff lay about— a long, dull piece of metal, crumbling brick, a pillow, and a porcelain doll.
I picked it up, unmistakably holding it tightly to not drop it. How I hadn’t thrown everything in this room yet was beyond me. I didn’t feel a pull to leave, I’ll say. Weirdly, I was content in the decaying room. It fits me well.
I felt like I was going crazy, in a way. Yet, content in the place I was trapped. I heard no other noises in the room or outside of it, and it seemed no one could hear how I screamed and banged on the walls. It was better than other places I had been, I guess.
The attic seemed to breathe around me, its walls contracting and expanding with an almost living quality. I'd stopped trying to count the days— or nights, I could never tell which it was here. Time moved strangely in this place, like honey dripping from a spoon, thick and meaningless.
I sat on the mattress, my knees pulled up to my chest, and stared at the wedding dress. It was the only thing in this entire rotting space that didn't smell of decay. The lace caught what little light filtered through the boarded window, making it shimmer like something from another world. Another better world.
My fingers traced the edge of the porcelain doll's face. Its painted smile was cracked, but its blue glass eyes still held some strange vitality. I wondered if it could see me, if it judged me for not escaping, not screaming, not fighting harder against the boards that kept me prisoner.
The metal object lay beside me now—a rusted knife, I realized with a jolt of something that might have been fear or excitement. I didn't know which. The brick was cold and crumbly in my other hand, pieces of it flaking off like dead skin.
I heard something. Footsteps? Breathing? It was hard to tell. The sound came from beyond the boarded doorway, rhythmic and deliberate. My heart hammered against my ribs.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence pressed in around me, thick and suffocating. I held my breath, though I didn't know why. This was my prison. I knew what came next.
'Who was at the door?' I wondered to myself as I reached for the rusted knife, holding it tightly in one hand as I scrambled to my feet. Why had I been on the floor? When did I get there? All thoughts were meaningless as I still held the dolly in my arm, a rusted knife ready to defend.
Defend from what? I could only wonder. Either way, it didn't concern me much what it was.
The footsteps resumed, slower now, deliberate. They echoed through the attic with an unnatural clarity, as if the very air was conspiring to carry every sound directly to my ears.
I stood frozen in the center of the room, the rusted knife trembling in my grip. My knuckles were white against the metal, and I could feel the weight of the porcelain doll in my other arm, its glass eyes seeming to watch me with an unsettling awareness.
The footsteps stopped just beyond the boarded doorway.
"William..." The voice was soft, almost gentle. It slithered through the cracks in the wood like smoke. "You don't need to be afraid."
My breath caught in my throat. I knew that voice. I had heard it before, in dreams I couldn't quite remember. Dreams of a place that wasn't this, wasn't here.
The boards creaked, and I felt a surge of panic. My hand tightened on the knife, the metal biting into my palm. Blood welled up, dark against my pale skin.
"Who's there?" My voice came out smaller than I intended, cracking at the end.
"Your other half," came the reply, and there was something almost tender in it. "The one who understands you. The one who sees you."
My mind raced—the other half. The words echoed in my skull, and I felt something shift inside of me— a recognition I couldn't name. The boards groaned again, and I took a shaky step backward, my heel catching on a piece of rotting floorboard. I stumbled, barely catching myself with one hand while the knife clattered to the floor beside my feet.
I couldn't think, no, couldn't pause for a moment when one board fell, a slender pale hand slipping past it. Then another fell, echoing in the attic.
"I-I don't know who you are!" I spoke, trying to find the metal knife I dropped. It was hard to move around with my foot now aching and the doll in my arms. I couldn't place her down, though. If I did, I ran the risk of breaking her. The boards fell one by one with a series of hollow thuds that echoed through the attic. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrambled on my knees, searching for the knife. My fingers scraped against the splintered floor, finding only dust and debris.
"Liar," the voice said, and it was closer now. The boards continued to fall, one after another, revealing a doorway that had been hidden behind decades of decay. "You know who I am."
My hand finally closed around the knife handle, the rusted metal biting into my palm. Blood welled up between my fingers, but I didn't care. I didn't care about the pain, didn't care about the doll anymore, dropping her, didn't care about anything except the primal need to survive.
The last board fell with a groan of protesting wood.
My breath caught as I looked up, the knife trembling in his grip. My hair fell across my face, matted and unwashed, and my skin was pale in the dim light filtering through the window. I probably looked small, fragile, like a bird with a broken wing.
But my eyes— even in my terror, even in the confusion, there was a flicker of something else. Recognition. Or perhaps it was resignation.
"I don't want to talk to you," I said, my voice steadier now, though it still shook. "Just... just stay away from me."
The figure that emerged from the doorway was tall and thin, wrapped in shadows that seemed to cling to it like a second skin. Its face was obscured, hidden in darkness, but I could feel its eyes on me. Watching. Always watching.
"Poor Will," the voice whispered, and there was genuine sympathy in it. "So brave. So defiant. But you're tired, aren't you? So very tired of running, of fighting, of being the one everyone forgets."
My grip tightened on the knife. "I'm not tired."
"You are." The figure took a step forward, and my breath hitched. "I can feel it. I can feel everything you feel. That's what it means to be the other half."
"You're a monster," I mutter, watching him warily. He's taller than me, his shoulders broad, but he was a slim man. He has messy blond hair, almost like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are a light blue, almost purple in the dark light. He's handsome, dangerous-looking.
“Monster?” He chuckled at me, his voice just as smooth as I expected it to be, “Why, I am no monster, little William.”
“You… aren’t?” I asked, the knife in my hand lowering just a bit.
"No." He took another step forward, his shadow growing longer on the floor. "I'm just a man. A man who understands you better than anyone else ever will." He paused, his head cocking to the side as he studied me. "That knife..."
I stumbled back again, my bare feet sliding against the wood. I winced at the feeling of my foot against the wood once more, slick with something I knew to be a crimson color.
“I’m not afraid to use the knife.” I lied.
He smiled then, a slow, dangerous smile that sent a shiver down my spine. "I can see that," he murmured, his eyes flicking down to the knife in my hand before meeting mine again. "But you're shaking, Will." He took another step forward.
“...I’m not used to this,” I confessed. Why had I done that? “T-to a man… to a person, when I’ve been stored away in— I don’t even know where I am.”
"You're in my attic," he said softly to me. "And I know exactly where you've been. Hidden away, forgotten. Like a precious secret." He took another step, closing the distance between us. "You're shaking because you're scared, William."
I stood straight, just to keep some distance between us. I didn’t need him smelling how I probably needed a shower. “Why am I here?” I asked, ignoring his offhanded comment.
He paused, his blue eyes moving in the dim light. "Because you belong here," he said simply. "With me. Where you're safe. Where you're understood." He reached out, his hand hovering inches from my face as if he wanted to touch me but was holding back.
I tried not to flinch, but failed to stop myself. His hand, so close to my face, I worried he’d grab it and make me do things. Hit me, even. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my head away, anxiously holding the knife closer, “I’ll use this!” I told him, shaking under his watchful gaze.
His hand dropped back to his side, and when I opened my eyes, I saw the hurt flicker across his face before being replaced by that same calm, collected mask. "Go ahead," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Use it. Show me how brave you are."
I hesitated, obviously, but suddenly raised my hand and slashed at his arm that was still leaning towards me, even with his arm to his side.
He hissed as the knife bit into his arm, a thin line of blood welling up. He didn't pull away or shout in pain. Instead, he looked at the wound with a bizarre fascination before meeting my wide, shocked eyes. "There's my brave boy," he murmured, almost proudly.
“I am not your boy,” I snapped back, but my eyes lingered on the bleeding wound on his forearm a bit too long. I should apologize, I injured a man.
No, what was I saying! He kidnapped me. I have to get home!
"You're exactly my boy," he said, his voice dropping to something lower, almost intimate. "My sweet, brave, foolish boy." He took another step closer, ignoring the blood sliding down his arm. "That knife is rusty, you know. You might have given me tetanus." He smiled then, and his teeth didn’t show, “That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?”
“I…” My voice trailed off, a linger of shame in my throat. “It was… I’m sorry.” I apologized softly, again, unaware of the tone I was using when apologizing to this grown man.
He smiled wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "There's my good boy," he cooed, his voice softening. "Always so polite. Even when you're being attacked, you apologize." He shook his head, tsking. "Such a sweetheart." He was condescending, the prick. I didn’t respond to him, still shaking.
He reached out with his uninjured arm and gently took the knife from my trembling hand. "Let's get you cleaned up, hmm?" He set the knife aside and used his bloodied fingers to tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You're shaking like a leaf, little William." His thumb brushed my bottom lip gently.
“Cleaned… up? Me?” I asked, clearly confused. He was the one bleeding everywhere. But getting clean did sound nice right now.
"Mm, yes. You." He let go of my chin and glanced down at my filthy appearance—the matted hair, the dirt-stained skin, the blood from my scraped palm. "After all, we need you looking your best for me." His thumb came back up to wipe a smudge of dirt from my cheek. "When was the last time you had a proper shower?"
“Uh… how long have I been up here?” I replied, getting a chuckle from the man.
"Long enough that you've forgotten basic hygiene," he answered with a small chuckle. "Come." He stood up straight and took my hand in his bloody one, pulling me up from the floor. "I have a shower downstairs. We'll get you cleaned up properly."
I held his hand, even once I was up from the floor. I walked with a slight limp towards the open doorway, grateful it seemed to be nighttime, for my eyes were having trouble adjusting to even the gas lamps along the walls. I looked down at my foot, finding my body caked with dirt, as well as a trail of blood left from my dragging foot. Must’ve been when I scraped it against the splintering floorboard.
His gaze followed the blood trail left by my injured foot. Without a word, he swooped down and picked me up bridal style, ignoring my surprised gasp. "This will be faster," he said matter-of-factly, carrying me towards the stairs. "And safer for your foot."
I nodded, a bit happy that the pressure was lifted off my foot. It made the aching easier. I couldn’t look at myself, too focused on looking around me with dry eyes.
He carried me downstairs carefully, his arm supporting my weight comfortably. The house was dimly lit by oil lamps that cast long shadows across the walls. He navigated through them expertly, keeping me secure in his arms. As we reached the ground floor, he pushed open a door, revealing a small bathroom.
I didn’t speak, couldn’t. Who was this man? Why was I in his attic? Not only that, but what he was talking about earlier— none of it was making sense to me right now. I couldn’t think.
He sat me on the counter of the small bathroom, filling a tub with warm water. I peered into the water, but drew back when I noticed him looking at me.
"Don't be shy about it," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "You're filthy, and that foot needs proper cleaning." He reached for the hem of my shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. "Will you let me help you, or do you want to try doing this yourself?" The water was steaming slightly, filling the small room with a comforting warmth.
"I can do it myself," I snapped at the older man. He wasn't... old. But older than me, I think.
"Of course you can," he replied smoothly, unfazed by my tone. He stepped back, giving me space but not leaving the room. "Take your time. I'll be right outside if you need anything." He lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning over my thin frame once more before he finally turned and left, closing the door with a soft click.
I had taken off my clothes after, tossing them to the corner. I easily slid into the bath soon after. As I sat in the water, slowly turning pink, I had time to think.
But what was there to think? My mind felt like it was controlled, subdued by a force that wasn’t myself. It was sickly familiar, tearing at my skin to expose muscle and bones.
The blood washed off my foot, and it seemed the cut was closer to a gash on my heel and down to my arch. I didn’t like this, but what was I to do?
He waited outside the door for a while, giving me the illusion of privacy. But I could hear him moving around just beyond the door—water running, cabinets opening and closing. After what felt like an eternity, there was a soft knock before he eased the door open without waiting for a response.
I curled in on myself, looking up at the man. My legs came to my chest, a feeble attempt to hide my boyish body.
He entered the bathroom quietly, his eyes immediately drawn to my curled-up form. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face before he quickly masked it with a neutral expression. He carried a small first aid kit in one hand and some clean clothes draped over his arm. "May I come in?"
I nodded and watched as he placed the clothes and first aid kit on the counter. I watched his every move, trying to understand and failing. He was opening the first aid kit slowly.
He pulled out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some gauze pads, and a roll of bandages. Without asking, he knelt beside the tub, reaching for my injured foot. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he lifted my foot out of the water and began to pat it dry with a clean towel.
I winced as he touched the injury, still dripping blood. I leaned back against the porcelain tub as he held my foot. It was small in his hands, I noticed. I don't remember being this small. His hands were large, dwarfing my small foot completely. He cleaned the wound carefully with the hydrogen peroxide, his brows furrowing as he inspected the gash. It was deeper than it looked, he realized. Without warning, he grabbed a gauze pad and pressed it firmly against my heel.
I cried out again, a soft noise from the back of my throat coming out. I knew this was to help, but it still hurt, stung more than normal.
"Shh, almost done," he murmured, applying steady pressure to staunch the bleeding. He watched the gauze soak through with blood, his expression unreadable. Once the bleeding slowed, he began to carefully wrap my foot with clean bandages, his fingers moving with practiced precision. "You're very small," he finally said, his voice contemplative.
“Uh, thanks?” What an odd thing to say to the boy found in your attic.
He paused in his bandaging to glance up at me, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Not an insult," he clarified, returning his attention to my foot. "Just an observation." He tied off the bandage securely before placing my foot on the rim of the tub, careful not to disturb the injury.
Nothing came to my mind as I stared at him, carefully watching him. Wide eyes stared at him, and he didn’t seem to notice what I was doing. If he did, he didn’t say anything as he cleaned his arm up and placed things back to their rightful places in the bathroom.
He moved around the small bathroom with ease, cleaning up the mess he'd made and putting away the first aid kit. When everything was tidy once more, he turned his attention back to me. "You can get out now," he said quietly, picking up the clothes he'd brought with him.
I didn't speak, but continued to watch him. I slowly unplugged the tub. I stayed, covering myself as the water drained.
He gave me space as the water drained, his eyes occasionally drifting to me but never lingering too long. Once the tub was empty, he offered me a clean, fluffy towel—larger than anything I could remember having before. "Dry off, then put these on," he instructed, placing the folded clothes on the counter beside me. "They're clean. Simple."
I wrapped the towel around myself, carefully getting out of the tub and leaning on my non-injured foot. I stared over at him.
"Can I have some privacy, please?"
He blinked, seeming surprised by the request. But then he nodded slowly, his lips quirking into something that might have been a smile if it wasn't so small. "Of course," he murmured, backing out of the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.
I went to the counter, finding the clothes. I noticed a lack of underwear and sighed. The ones I wore before were dirty, too dirty to wash. I was given a pair of khaki shorts and a collared, button-up shirt. It was a soft pink, feminine on my frame once I had put it on. The shorts, too tight around my waist and too loose around my thighs, ended around mid-thigh.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, feeling self-conscious in the clothes that were almost just right, the man was waiting just outside the door. His eyes scanned me up and down briefly before he turned away, leading me back to the attic.
I didn't follow him after a moment, leaning against the wall.
He paused mid-step, noticing my hesitation. Without turning back, he asked softly, "Problem?" His tone was neutral, but there was an underlying current that made me feel like he already knew why I was hesitating. He stopped again, his back still facing me. "Come along,"
“No,” My shaky voice scared me as it came out instantly, “I’m not going back to the attic.”
His shoulders tensed noticeably. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around to face me. His expression was unreadable, dangerous. "And where, pray tell, do you think you're going to go instead?" His voice was eerily calm, too calm. He took a deliberate step closer.
“I don’t know. But I am not going back up there. If you really think… think I’m your ‘other half’, why put me up there in a dusty attic?”
His eyes flashed with something intense, something that sent a chill down my spine. He closed the distance between us in two quick strides, reaching out to grab my arm. His grip was surprisingly gentle yet firm. "Because that's where I keep my precious things," he whispered.
“I’m not a thing, let alone one you need to lock away.” I snapped, trying to pull away, but was picked up and thrown over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” I yelled beyond myself, hitting at his back with fists that did nothing against his cotton button-up.
He ignored my struggles completely, starting up the stairs with me thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His arm banded around my legs to keep me in place, his large hand splayed across the back of my thigh. "You're not making this easy," he commented dryly as he climbed the stairs.
“Well, I’m not going to. You kidnapped me!” I yelled once more, feeling his large hand sprawled on the back of my pale thigh.
He reached the top of the stairs and started down the attic hallway, completely unaffected by my protests. His hand even slid slightly higher on my thigh as he adjusted his grip. "I saved you," he corrected. "And you're going right back where you belong until I decide otherwise."
I kept trying to thrash around, but I fell short with his grip tightening on the side of my upper thigh. It hurt, but didn’t stop my protesting fully.
By the time we reached the attic doorway, I was breathless from yelling and fighting, my small fists aching from beating against his back. Without ceremony, he dumped me onto the mattress, making me bounce slightly. He loomed over me, looking irritated but not angry.
He was an interesting man, and I stared up at him with tearful eyes. When had these gotten here?
He ran a hand through his blond hair, exhaling heavily. "You're going to stay up here until you learn to behave," he informed me sternly, but there was an underlying warmth to his tone. "I'll bring you food and water."
“I don’t want food and water,” I cried out, but we both knew I did. I couldn’t help how much I cried; the fears of facing the man settled back in after a shock in the bathroom.
"Whether you want it or not, you need it," he retorted firmly, his voice echoing slightly in the large attic space. Turning abruptly, he left without another word or glance back.
The doorway was lacking a door, and I could’ve made a run for it. I would’ve, I think, if it weren’t for my bandaged foot and the fear of being caught.
The man seemed to be sensible, sensible enough for a man who kidnapped a kid. He wasn’t cannibalizing me yet, so I guess that was a good thing.
I stayed in the attic for what felt like hours, listening to the sounds of the old house creaking and settling. The window cast long shadows as the sun began to set— or rise, I couldn’t tell anymore. When the man finally returned, he carried a tray with a simple meal of bread and cheese and a glass of water.
I glanced at it with distaste at the simple and bland food choices that wouldn’t feed a mouse or dog, let alone me. “I thought you were bringing me food.”
He raised an eyebrow at my tone, setting the tray down on the floor beside the mattress. "This is food," he said evenly, not taking offense. "You're not getting anything fancy until you start acting as if you belong here." He leaned against the doorway, watching me closely.
I could’ve said something about his last comment, and decided not to. I didn’t know what this man was capable of, or what his plans were.
To eat would give him satisfaction, I could tell. I had to weigh the few options I had. Do I eat and risk that or poison or something worse, or do I refuse to eat and grow weaker? One would make him happy, the other would not.
He seemed to be waiting for my reaction, his arms folded over his chest. When I just stared at the tray silently, he sighed and pushed off from the doorway. "Suit yourself," he muttered, picking up the tray again. "But don’t come crying to me when you’re hungry later."
"Wait!" I called, "I... I am hungry." I sat up, my legs sprawled as I leaned up with my hands propping me up. My legs were killing me, I admit, folded on the bed.
He turned back immediately, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes at my admission. He walked over and set the tray down on the floor beside the mattress. "Eat then," he ordered gruffly, not offering to help me sit up or make things easier for me. "All of it."
I glanced once more up at him as he walked to the doorway before leaning down to slowly pick up the tray of food.
He watched me from his spot by the doorway, his expression unreadable. When I brought the first piece of bread to my mouth, he seemed to relax slightly. He was silent as I ate, his eyes flicking around the attic space before landing back on me.
Each piece of bread was, I’ll say, heavenly. It truly was amazing. Soft and fleshy against my tongue and easy to tear with my teeth. The cheese paired nicely, but my focus was truly on the bread. The texture was something I hadn’t had before.
The water, something I was spending time apart from, clenched my dry mouth and sore throat. The taste was amazing— simply just the taste of aged cheddar and fresh bread going down.
I didn’t care about his eyes on me as I ate what seemed to be the most delicious thing in the world. Why had I almost denied myself this? I didn’t care what sick thoughts this man got, or didn’t get, because this was the softest piece of flesh I have had.
Flesh, I repeated in my mind, opening my blinking eyes to stare down at the rotten piece of meat I held. It was grotesque, a sight no one should see. The fatty part of the meat fell off and onto my lap. I held it in my hand before dropping it to the floor, knocking the tray down with it as well.
I stood, too fearful of what I had seen. I reached for my mouth and began to retch as I pulled back my bloody hands. The sight in front of my feet was that of decayed skin and muscle.
I didn’t think to stumble back or go anywhere; the smell was too much as I bent over, feeling the vomit crawl up my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut as the warm, liquid acid left my throat, as well as chunks of what I could only assume was the eaten meat.
He watched me with growing concern as I gagged and retched, his expression shifting from curiosity to something darker. I couldn’t see very well. He crouched beside me, not touching but close enough that I could feel his presence. "It was bread," he said slowly, his voice patient but edged with impatience. "Bread and cheese, nothing more."
“What?” I groaned, opening my eyes to see the fallen tray. The water had spilled, and it truly was bread and cheese. Now, laid my vomit on top of the food.
“I… I thought— I saw it…” I tried to speak, but my head was pounding.
"You saw— you thought—" Henry stared at me in utter confusion, his face draining of color as he took in the scene before him. The vomit-stained bread, the spilled water, my shaking form. Slowly, he reached out and gently grabbed my shoulder, steadying me. "Look at me," I looked up at him, sobbing, racking my throat, barely concealed.
"You're hallucinating," he said slowly, his voice careful like he was talking to a child. Which— well, I am. "That—" He nodded at the tray. "—is just bread. Cheese. Water." He paused, then asked softly, "What did you see?"
“I don’t know,” I cried, “I don’t remember.” I reached up for my face, rubbing my palms up and down my face.
He watched me wipe my tears, his expression softening slightly despite the mess before us. "It was probably the hunger making you see things," he murmured more to himself than to me. He stepped carefully around the vomit and picked up the tray, setting it aside.
I sat down on the mattress, exhaustion settling over my muscles. My eyes couldn’t stop the flood of tears, nor could I make eye contact with the man.
"Hey," he said softly, crouching down in front of me. "Hey, look at me." When I didn't, he gently reached out and tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. I met them reluctantly.
His thumb brushed away a tear from my cheek, surprising me with its gentleness. "It's okay," he said quietly. "You're just hungry and tired. It's making your mind play tricks on you." He paused, searching my eyes for something before continuing softly, "You're not crazy."
I kept my gaze, before a broken whisper came through. “Who… who are you…?”
He sighed softly, his thumb pausing in its motion. "My name is Henry. Henry Creel." He said it like it should mean something to me. When I just blinked owlishly up at him, he shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the situation.
“What am I doing here, Mister Creel?” I asked, knowing it would be useless. Still, I tried.
His smile faded, and he released my chin, standing up straight. "You're here because you don't belong out there," he said firmly, gesturing vaguely out the window. "You're safer here with me." He began wiping up the vomit with an old rag he'd pulled from his pocket.
Was I safer here? With a man I knew nothing about, away from my mother, brother, and friends? Where were they? Didn’t they try to search for me? Better yet, where was I?
I wondered if I simply fell asleep on top of a book and took inspiration from the story. Alice in Wonderland, maybe. Think of me, Alice, lost in a world I knew nothing of, yet was sickly familiar. This man, was he the white rabbit, something for me to chase? No, he couldn’t be.
Dare he be the Hatter, crazed man who sought to keep each moment lively and people on their toes. Could he simply be a distraction to a bigger picture, like the two identical kids— what were their names? Possibly something more powerful, but a Queen of Hearts.
Was it possible he was something of the White Queen? A frail and anxious thing that truly needed Alice more than Alice needed her. No, that simply didn’t sound right. This man was nothing akin to anxious. He was something worse.
As I watched him clean up the mess, my mind raced with questions and theories. Was this man truly my captor, or was he trying to protect me from something worse out there? The way he spoke about safety made it sound like there was something dangerous lurking beyond these walls. And what about my family?
Was I stuck in a fairytale? One of daring knights and lost princesses, locked away in towers to be hidden from the world. A sleeping woman to be awoken by a kiss— be I that? Upon these thoughts, am I the lost princess? Prince, I guess, would be more fitting.
Simply, I could be somewhere beyond a story. While I tried to ease my mind with stories of Wonderland and Kingdoms grand with beautiful women and men, I know this is true. I know the sound against my ears is truly that, a sound that no dream could replicate.
I need to figure out how to escape from here, how to get out of this rabbit hole.
My thoughts were broken by a clock chiming— a grandfather clock. I had briefly seen it earlier, something lost in my sight as we headed to the bathroom earlier. It startled me, truly.
The grandfather clock down the hall chimed ominously, pulling me from my thoughts. Henry glanced up at it, his movements pausing momentarily before he resumed cleaning. As the last chime echoed through the room, he suddenly straightened, turning to face me with an intense expression. "It's seven." He told me.
“What?” I frowned.
He repeated, his voice slower and more deliberate. "The clock just struck seven. It's seven o'clock in the morning." He set the rag down and walked over to me, crouching down to my level. "You've been sitting there thinking God knows what for fifteen minutes." He said quietly.
“Sorry… I don’t feel that good.” I told him with a mumble in the back of my throat.
"I know," Henry said gently, standing up again. "You're not feeling well because you're hungry and tired." He paused briefly before continuing more firmly. “Come on.” He extended his hand towards me.“Let’s get you something to eat.”
I took his hand, letting him help me up.