Whether you are a prying child, a nosy employer, or a burglar seeking

something of value among my meagre possessions, youve no good reason to

read this. I catalogue my past only so that I may stuff it under my bed
and never think of it again.
If you are an ordinary, sane person, this account will likely make
little sense to you. If you, like myself, are mad, then perhaps you will
relate to my plight, and have the decency to return these pages to
whatever dusty corner you found them in. If you are my future self, who
has somehow forgotten the contents of these pages, then I urge you to
READ ON AT THE RISK OF YOUR OWN SANITY!
Sincerely,
Alice Liddell, 1875.
 CHAPTER THE FIRST: IN WHICH I BEGIN MY
NEW LIFE AS A LUNATIC
I went mad on a cold night in November. I was little more than a
child, sixteen or seventeen at most. My clothes were soaked through with
rain, I had not eaten in well over a day, and I decided that Id had
enough of it all.
So many novels and paintings and newspaper illustrations depict
desperate women plummeting from bridges and precipices as tragically
beautiful, gazing wistfully at the sky with hair and skirts billowing.
By the time I reached London Bridge and sat on the railing, I was
weeping hideously, wiping my nose on my filthy sleeves and glancing out at
the passing people and carriages, half hoping and half fearing that someone
might notice me and talk me out of my capricious self-destruction.
For a long while, I could only stare down at my worn-out boots and
the churning water below them.
I felt a small hand on my shoulder. I turned to see a woman smiling
at me with bud lips in the same shade of crimson as her gown. Her
shoulders were bare, but she did not shiver. Her gown had a train of
several feet, but there was no dirt upon it. She reached out and touched
my chin with long, cold fingers.
Go ahead, my dear. Her lips barely moved as she spoke, and her voice
sounded strangely distant. Jump. Be free.
I could not speak at first. What? I gasped. II dont think
The strangers smile fell. Stubborn child, she sneered. A filthy,
wretched thing like you? Picking innocent pockets and snatching up scraps of
bread that might have gone to some more deserving child? What right have
you to continue wasting food and space and breath? I know what youve
doneyouve killed your family!
Who are you? I whispered. What right have you
She took her hand from my shoulder, and I smelled smoke. Where her
hand had been, tiny flames ate away at the threads of my shawl. I
shrieked and flung the thing off, but the fire merely spread to my dress.
In my panic, I slipped from the side of the bridge.
The water felt as though it were boiling. I gasped involuntarily, and
it burned my throat. It stung my eyes as I squinted up at the passing
shapes of rubbish and fish
If you have been unlucky enough to suffer from deep melancholia, you
may have discovered that there is a considerable difference between wanting
to cease living, and wanting to die. My desire to end my life had been
genuinereasonable, even, given that cold and hunger had been killing me
alreadybut when the water actually surrounded me, I began to struggle
without a second thought.
I kicked and thrashed until my limbs ached, but my petticoats clung
to my legs and the currents dragged me ever deeper into darkness.
A vague, empty agony settled in my chest, and I knew I could not
bear to hold my breath much longer. If you, my unauthorised reader, fail
to understand how that felt, I advise you to stop reading and hold your
breath for as long as you can. I doubt you would make it beyond a minute
without giving up or passing out cold.1
I could not prevent myself from coughing. Waterwhat felt like
gallons and gallons of ittore down my throat. Pain spread from the
center of my chest and out to my ribs. I clasped my arms around my chest,
half-expecting it to burst wide open.
Oh God, I thought. Thats my lungs giving out.
I didnt think drowning would hurt. I had read books, and even seen
paintings of drowned and drowning womenpale beauties in flowing gowns,
or Shakespeares Ophelia with flowers in her hair. They always looked sad,
but peaceful.
I went limp, too exhausted to struggle any longer.
I saw a light, too bright and warm to be moonlight. It was peculiarly
clear, and I touched my eyelids to confirm that they were indeed closed. It
drifted closer, and I could see the silhouette of a creature, upright but
too small and soft to be human.
Alice, it said. Come back. Come back to Wonderland.

1
If you do pass out, I hope that you drop these papers in the process, and allow
them to fall into a river, before a train, or somewhere else where prying eyes such as
your own will be unable to find them.
 ***
My next memory was of many hands yanking at my arms and
rubbing flannel up and down my limbs. I jerked and
twisted in a fit of coughing as foul-tasting water
pulsed from my mouth and nose. By the time
I managed a single breath, my entire body,
from the thrashing limbs to the
waterlogged nose, throbbed from the
effort.
I lay gasping and trembling on
a rough wooden surface, with my
head propped up on some-bodys lap.
My eyes still stung from the
filthy water; I could see nothing
but the glow of a lantern overhead.
I covered my eyes with one arm
for a few seconds before
attempting to sit upright.
Someone, or perhaps a few
people, took me by the shoulders and held me back. Easy now, girl, a man
said. Youll be all right.
It was by the roughness of the hands that I realized I had been
stripped to a single garment. I clamped my arms round my chest and curled
up on my side. Around that time, I was so terribly disheveled that I
detested having strangers look at my face, let alone my body, which was visibly
malnourished and covered with scars from a long-ago fire.
Dont ask about the scars, I tried to say, but I could only manage a
few wheezes; my throat was raw from spewing up water, and every breath
sent pain shooting to the very bottom of my lungs.
To my considerable relief, the strangers did not ask about the scars, and soon
took to restoring my modesty and warmth by wrapping me in layers of blankets
and hot water bottles. Exhausted, I ceased wriggling and shut my still-
stinging eyes, only to be roused by the urine-like stink of smelling salts.
You mustnt sleep yet, child, least not if you mean to wake again. I
squinted up at the man who had spoken. He wore a police officers uniform
and an exceedingly bushy moustache.
Still unable to speak, I gave a weak nod. After months of living on
the streets, I knew well how the chill of night could drag one down into
drowsy death.
While the constables discussed what was to be done with me, I maintained
(with the aid of more smelling salts) enough consciousness to provide a few
monosyllabic responses to their questions, assuring them that I could not
possibly afford the services of a proper doctor.
After what felt like a terribly long time, they loaded me into a
carriage to a workhouse. I had spent a few desperate nights in workhouses
before, and I assure you that they are every bit as dismal as the late
Mister Dickens described in his novels. The work was both difficult and
tedious, the food was scarcely adequate, and the staff was needlessly cruel
so we wouldnt settle in too long, Id been told.
One small mercy; being brought in by police escort was a much simpler
process than admitting oneself. I was simply changed into an itchy but dry
nightgown, and carried off to the infirmary. The infirmary was little more
than a large hall filled with beds that looked more like boxes, or coffins.
The ceilings were high enough to amplify the chorus of coughing and moaning.
Within a few minutes, I curled up and closed my eyes, only to receive
another face-full of smelling salts.
 I squinted up to see a woman in a workhouse uniform standing at the
foot of my bed. I opened my mouth to introduce myself, but found the act
of properly breathing far too difficult.
The attendant did not make conversation either, but simply placed a
new set of hot water bottles under the bedclothes and gave me a spoonful
of brandy. It burned all the way down my throat, but helped to wash the
taste of sewage from my mouth. All the while, she flipped through a small
book. I craned my neck to get a good look at the title: Domestic Medicine
for Household Emergencies.
After this, she gave me full permission to sleep. The mattress was
nothing more than a coarse sack of straw, and it smelled of mildew and
sweat, but I was so exhausted that it felt as soft and gentle as a cloud,
assuming that suspended water vapour would have such qualities.
 Alas, I was not asleep for long; the sound of coughing roused me well
before dawn. I glanced to my right, where the woman in the bed next to
mine was writhing and covering her face with a blanket. She paused and
fell back gasping on the pillow. In the dim light, I could that her eyes
and cheeks were pale and sunken, and there were flecks of dark liquid on
her blanket and lips. She began coughing again, even more violently than
before.
Was this consumptive woman doomed to die in the bed beside mine? I
shivered, partially because of the cold.
I felt like I ought to have said something to her, but I couldnt
think of any words that would offer the slightest comfort to a person
dying alone in such a dismal place as this, even if my throat were not
still raw and sore.
I had to focus on my own well-being firstspecifically, I needed to
leave the workhouse as soon as possible. Now that my sinuses were beginning
to clear, and my exhaustion no longer overwhelmed my senses, I could feel
and smelljust how wretched the infirmary was. There were very few
windows, and the beds were pushed close together. Such crowding and poor
ventilation would have resulted in filth, even if the inhabitants were all
healthy. I had no doubt that even the streets would be more conducive to
my health At the very least, they would be a slightly more dignified place
to die.
I watched restlessly as the first traces of sunlight filtered through
the skylights, and resolved to complain as soon as possible.
After a breakfast of gruel, which tasted of nothingness and despair
but eased the burning in my throat, I addressed the mornings makeshift
nurse.
Pardon me, I said. Im feeling much better now. May I go home
sometime soon?
 She gave me a skeptical glance. Where is your home? You oughtnt to
walk far, if youre convalescing.
Not far from herenear the docks. I did not like to lie, and I
could tell at once from the nurses grim smile that my guilt had shown on
my face.
Street address?
IIve been My living situation isnt the most stable right now, I
admitted. Ive spent the last few nights in the old grave-yard behind
Christ Church. Blackfriars Road and Burrell street.
She nodded, taking a scrap of paper from her cart and writing
something down. I know the area While youre feeling up to it, might I
ask a few questions of you? And for your own sake, be honest!
Very well. I leaned back on the pillows and looked at the text
inscribed near the tops of the walls: GOD IS JUST, and GOD IS
MERCIFUL, and so forth.
Name and date of birth? the nurse asked.
Alice Liddell, fourth May, 1856.
She continued taking notes. Married, single, or widowed?
Single.
Hair colour Black.
Its auburn when its clean, I said.
She drew aside the blankets to poke at my ribs. Weight Thin.
Youre not much fleshier yourself, I said defensively.
And according to police reports Here she paused and frowned at
the page, as though trying to read illegible handwriting. You were caught
trying to drown yourself in the Thames?
 I nodded.
She was silent for so long that I shut my eyes and nearly fell asleep
mid-conversation.
Why? she asked, so quietly that I could barely hear her over the
ambient suffering of the workhouse.
What do you mean? I asked, not entirely certain that she had
spoken at all.
Why would you do something like that?
The question caught me by surprise. I had been suicidal for so long
more than half of my life, as of that yearthat I had rather forgotten
that most people have a genuine and consistent desire to live.
Realizing that I had been silent for longer than custom permits, I
simply blurted out the truth: I was on fire.
She looked at me as though Id said something absurd. How do you
mean?
I meant what I said, I replied. I was standing on the bridge and
a woman passing by told me to jump. I refused, and she lit my skirts on
fire II know it sounds strange, but it really did happen like that.
The attendant gave me a long stare, so full of pity that it made me
feel sick.
Do you think Im lying? I demanded.
She shook her head no, but said There are several witnesses listed in
the police report here, and I think they would have written it down had
anything like that happened.
I propped myself up on my hands. How could that be? I remember it
clear as day!
A long pause.
 We need to get you off the streets. The tone in her voice made me
wince.
Ill be fine, thank you, I said, although I knew there was no
getting out of whatever help she had in mind. I wondered how long Id
be trapped in the workhouse. Weeks? Months? Even years?
Do you have any family we could contact? she asked.
All dead.
Friends? Neighbors? Any-one at all?
I get by on my own, I said, although the wavering in my voice no
doubt gave away the truth.
I see. She wrote something down, frowning. Ill bring this up with
the doctoror medical officerwhoever he is. For now, is there anything
you need?
Id like to get out of here, I muttered.
Me, too, she admitted, smiling grimly, but you know that isnt our
choice to make. Anything else?
Ive left my things behind, I said. I I didnt think Id need them
any longer.
Ill ask around. Where are they?
In the grave-yard where I was sleeping, I said. I told you where
that was, right?
She nodded. Ill make a note of that, but Im not sure any-thing
will be done about it. You know how things are around here.
I nodded and thanked, not particularly hopeful.
A day or two later, a constable did in fact show up with a sack
containing my belongings. Although I was, of course, grateful for this
courtesy, the condition of these items was much worse than I had
anticipated. What little food Id been able to find had turned to mush in
the rain, and the bits of metal Id scavenged from the riverbanks had been
stolen.
I dug through the sack until I found the one item I had in mind
a small plush rabbitbut resignedly allowed the rest to be sorted between
the drying rack and the rubbish bin.
The rabbit was a rather homely creature, covered in patches and crude
stitching. Its once-white fur had turned a splotchy grey from years of
London soot, and one button eye had come loose, hanging only by a single
black thread.
I turned the little creature over in my hands and shoved a loose bit
of fluff back through a tear in its hind leg, and then clutched it to my
chest, not bothered by the dampness. It occurred to me that I made for a
woeful sight, a mostly-grown woman clinging to a childs toy, but I did not
let go.
It had been in my arms while a terrible fire consumed my home, my
family, and my dignity. It had survived with me, and served as the one
solid reminder of the happy child I had once been.
In the effort of thinking about anything other than that night, I
clung to the rabbit even more tightly, and for the barest degree of a
second, I thought I felt it twitch. I flinched and let go to get a better
look at it.
It was looking back at me. Its head had turned of its own accord,
and stared urgently with its button eyes.
Alice, it whispered, save us.
My gut droppednot merely from shock, but because I was literally
falling. My bed was no longer in the workhouse; looking about, I could see
only a dark void. Something about the lighting made me think of a deep
pit. Every so often, an object would pass byhere a broken watch, there a
jar of marmalade. Some of the items seemed to be moving faster than
others, and a few even appeared to me moving upwards, which was most
certainly in violation of natural law.
Rabbit? I asked. Is this your work?
I heard no response; the creature had either vanished or slipped out
of my arms.
I peered over the edge of the bed, and saw a tiled floor growing ever
larger beneath me.
Rabbit? I repeated. Where are we going?
Again, nothing. I clung to the bedframe and braced myself for a
messy demise.