it's all in my hand.
don't you dare look at me like that, like i don't know what i'm saying, 'cause i know. i know too well. extra well. über well. well, hell. hey, you hear me?
you know what? my family is so wicked. we are all Underlanders, but I like it more as Wonderlanders. for that, 'cause of my imagination and delusions and dreams, father dearest calls me a Witch. he speaks in monotone and curses my technicolor musings - he is so stiff and King-ly and hearty and snappy and boring and dulllll... that i feel like puking.
my uncle is no better now. really, he isn't. he clings to me as if i'm his wife, he touches and kisses me as if i'm his lover. he lays me beneath his lean self, puts his mouth on my marble neck, lets me play with his blood red hair and lusts after me with his jaded eyes. he is a lecher, even if his wife is dead. a raper, a pedophile, for i am seventeen yet and he is nearing thirty. he is a very handsome man, despite his hair. father cannot be related to him.
"mark my words, honey. mark 'em, they gonna do you good." these words are all my uncle the Mad Hatter keeps telling me. like there's anything to mark.
"i don't have a pen, uncle." i always answer, my eyes giving into boredom.
why does he bore me so? he didn't use to, there was a time when i loved spending time with him. now i don't. i don't know why. i bet he doesn't know for sure either. he still keeps coming, though. he comes to our house and drinks our tea and talks to me or anyone else in our house (one-sided conversations laced with boredom strands) and he sits on papa's chair before he says he has to leave and instead goes to the garage to find out if the stones are the colour of his hair yet. then he goes to the kitchen and without asking, he opens the bottles and driinks till he can barely stands. i join him sometimes. he's a sad madman, is all. i don't like leaving him alone. but then he covers me with sloppy tracks of his wet kisses and his calloused fingers enclose around my wrists and although it hurts and excites me at the same time, i let him devour me. we are both mad, my uncle and i. we are sad and we are mad to the point of no return.
besides that, my maman, the White Queen, is dead. she was lovely as a daisy, flighty as a pollen, bubbly as my orange fish and she is as dead as the rose i've just plucked. dead is what she now is. she is dead. d-e-a-d. dead, gone, in hell or heaven or purgatory or nowhere. it guess it's nowhere, 'cause if you don't go to any of the first three, then you are (in) nowhere. i wonder how nowhere is, would apples taste the same in there? i guess not. every taste changes everywhere. everything depends on the place you are in, you know. it all depends on where you are. yeah, it does. to me, that is. maybe it doesn't to you. and who am i to judge if it's not to you?
my uncle keeps coming to our house. father doesn't say anything, he never does. he only minds himself, the bastard. that makes me the daughter of a bastard, but see if i care, you jerk. 'cause i don't and you know it well. you know too well. extra well. über well.
i hate people. i hate the World. isn't it so full of pretendings and hurtings and beginnings and endings and tragedies and prejudices? i love nouns and adjectives and adverbs yet i loathe verbs with every fiber of my being. i hate the World and know that i can't change it. so why not create a new World of colors and life and laughter and bubbles? talking plants and animals and things - i could have more friends around and less males, then. i abhor males. they are simple. they grab and force and stick and thrust. they ridicule me. father keeps snapping at me. uncle keeps clinging to me. the last and the least male, the worst of all, he loves and hates and leaves me simultaneously.
oh, there he is. my least and most favourite of the males in this sentimental life. sentimental has a strange wave to it, doesn't it? he isn't sentimental. he isn't emotional. yet he's passionate, more than you or I can ever be. there used to be a time when i envied that passion of his. i wanted it all for myself, no one else. it proved to be wrong - he does love difference, my dreamy darling deadly Knave. he loves passionately, caresses tenderly, touches roughly, kisses slowly and leaves suddenly. i ache for, despise, make love to, spit at him. he loves me loves me not loves me loves me not loves me - not. i hate him. i love him. i drink him. i breathe him. i love him hate him love hate love hate - love him. he loves me too. and probably also hates me for loving a wreck like me. his eyes are grey, like the incessant fog that curtains our town almost every day, and his hair is messy and darkest brown i've ever touched. we don't have sex, we make love - rough and hot and steamy and perverted. we explore each other as if we are both undiscovered continents, as if we want to learn where one of us begins and where the other ends as our sweaty bodies are entwined. we grab and bite and nip and suck and drink and cut and do all those unspeakable things your parents don't want you to know. but it's not fucking. we don't fuck, we make love to each other.
well, there's not much to say about me. i like tension. and suspense and the thrill of doing wrong, i live for them. i am strong, powerful and mighty - don't they all mean the same? my aunt knows they do. she is the sister to my maman, and she is all-knowing and ignorant: she is the Cheshire Cat. she is here and there, sometimes and often, day and night, always and never, crude and kind, prudish and perverted, caged and free - all and none. she advises me to listen, she orders me to sleep. she tells me to eat, she sings as i read. she loves and hates and likes and dislikes and pouts and smiles. my uncle has his arms around her when he thinks i'm not watching and wets her lips with his long purplish tongue. he takes her in the cupboard, in the kitchen, in the toilet - never a room, never outside. he takes her and takes her greedily, like he has never taken me. he takes me needily. he doesn't wet my lips, he bruises them. he takes me where father isn't and can't see us. i bet he'd watch us doing it, the pervert. for my family consists of lechers, perverts, psychos, lunatics and sex-maniacs. really, we are a bunch of sick, twisted, crazy, sex-obssessed idiots.
but isn't everybody?
the worst is the female lot. how i hate females. they have those... those balls on their chests as their protecters and curses, they have their soft red lips swollen with kisses and bruises, they have their rights and wrongs, "do"s and "not do"s, pros and cons, prose and poetry, art and junk, this and that. they come to me, make me trust them; they come to me, seduce me and i give in to them; they come to me, read me like an open book; they come to me, make me love them and leave me then, make me shed my tears down to meet the ground and merge with the soil. my maman, the White Queen, left me so soon, i couldn't breathe in her earthly scent much as i wanted to. my sisters, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, died with and within her, before they were even born.
and the Red Queen... she's a real deal, now, the Red Queen. my Knave is taken by her, the Red Queen. he leaves me and goes to her, then returns to me and leaves again. a never-ending cycle of hurt happening all over again. how can i stand before her or with her? the Red Queen is ruthless and indifferent, she pays no mind to the whims of someone in love with the Red Queen's prize. oh, the Red Queen, almighty and vain, beautiful with her cascading chartreuse hair and starry eyes. and my Knave, with his my Knave is the motionless perfection to my chaotic imperfection and she dares to take him away from me. i shall rid our World of this Big Bloody Head as soon as the sun goes down, and then burn her whole being postmortem so she can never be resurrected again. i shall be the heavy fragments of reality taking over her body and mind and soul, and i will torment her until the very end.
for i am the Jabberwock and nothing ever escapes me.
and here, there is no Alice to slay me.
no idea where this came from. it seems i'm going insane with all the exams. well, hell.