Dirt had caked itself into every crease on my hands, like chocolate frosting, only more disgusting. I cringed and looked up at the empty ceiling, and the hole I had been thrown through. My only little bit of sunlight.
The walls were caked with dirt, but when I felt madness creeping over me like an old friend, I would scratch away the layers of grime until it began to crumble away on its own, burying itself beneath my once-manicured nails and revealing time-aged paintings and etchings on the walls. I think by some fleeting hope I was expecting an escape to be hidden under that dirty mess. I must’ve been half-mad to even think I had any hope of escape.
Most the time, I just lay on the floor and stare into the light. My hair clumped together, coated in grease, and spiders would crawl over my fingertips. It didn’t matter anymore, though, because I wasn’t the girl who was afraid of spiders, or the girl who needed to look pretty. I didn’t listen to U2 and live for the next episode of The Hills. I didn’t even know who that girl was anymore.
In that hole, I became somebody else. I grew a protective outer shell, like a turtle, and I could hide within it whenever I needed. I could bury myself in my emotional shell and I was safe there, and my body could interact with the environment however it wanted. I wasn’t mad. There is no such thing as madness in Wonderland. I learned to protect myself in the only way I could.
I hid behind a shield of mental instability. It was the only place that I felt sane.
Word: Identity. || Time: 8 minutes. || Character: Yvette Hatter.