Page 72 of Madness

I love fast, but I was sceptical of Al, of how detached he can be, but he shows up, and he proved that when he and the others came looking for me while my sister played doctor on me.

I’ve spent so long in Wonderland, surrounded by chaos and pain, that the idea of someone coming in here and wanting to share the burden of my pain is almost surreal.

“Al,” I murmur, my voice quivering as the tears finally spill over, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but this place… it changes people. It’s changed me, and I’m more of a monster than I am human.”

He tightens his hold on me, “Let me be the one who helps you find your way back,” he says, “We can face Wonderland together with the others. You aren’t alone.”

I look into Al’s eyes, searching for any hint of doubt, but find none, “I don’t know if I can trust myself,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, but it seems to echo in the tiled bathroom, “What if I become a monster like my sister?”

“Then I’ll remind you of who you are,” Al responds without hesitation, “You entranced me from the moment you stepped out of your room, and I was so convinced that the madness in my mind conjured you instead of you being real, and I didn’t care. You are the one delusion I would have accepted without any hesitation.”

A shiver runs down my spine as memories of the horrors of this place flash before my eyes.

My sister.

Hare’s file.

The patients down in the rabbit hole are drugged so much that they don’t even know what time it is.

Wonderland has become a twisted maze of torment, breaking even the strongest of people.

The men I’ve grown to love and care for in my time here they’re like a lifeline pulling me from the abyss.

“Promise me,” I say, “Promise me you won’t leave me in the darkness alone.”

Al cups my face, his wet hand leaving droplets on my skin, “I promise neither of us will ever be left outside in the cold darkness again.”

I stand from the water, stepping out of the porcelain tub and holding my hand out for Al to take. He doesn’t hesitate, placing his wet hand in mine and stepping out, too, following me to my bedroom.

Both of us are soaked, our underwear clinging to us and leaving nothing to the imagination.

His sizeable ‘problem’ is prominent, and I lick my lips at the thought of having my lips around his thick shaft and how he would taste on my tongue.

I step closer to him, loving how his chest rises and falls as I get into his space, “Do I make you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t have to.” I try to reassure him, but he shakes his head. “I want to.”

“Alright then. Let’s paint those roses. I hate seeing the white.”

The white roses stand in their vase on the table where I left them, their pristine petals mocking me. I reach into the drawer, pulling out the knife, its blade catching the light as I hold it tightly.

The pale skin of his forearm is unmarked, unlike mine, and I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to mar his skin as I’ve done to mine.

He takes my hand in his, leading the blade to his skin, and I take a deep breath, pressing the blade to his flesh and slicing with a practised hand.

He hisses in pain, but his cock juts in his boxers, and his breath hitches, “Fuck.”

His eyes never leave mine as he dips his fingers into the blood pooling on his arm, then touches it to the first rose.

The red stain spreads quickly, turning the white petals a deep crimson.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, utterly entranced as he coats each petal delicately. Each stroke of his finger leaves a trail of blood, transforming the flowers from pure to art.

I take the knife from him, needing to feel the slice of the blade on my skin, and the weight of the blade in my hand feels like home.

The blood flows freely, warm and sticky, and I dip my finger into it, mimicking Al’s actions.

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