Short Story: Down The Rabbit Hole

Short Story: Down The Rabbit Hole

“In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was going to get out again . . . There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked, and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.” [i]

I put down the book and placed it on the arm of my chair. I decided it was probably time I resigned myself to my bed; it was 3am after all.

Sleep evaded me like fog, and like the fog I felt clammy and heavy. All I could think of were thoughts I wanted to dismiss. “I’m not good enough…” I whispered. My voice frightened me, images suspended in my head.

On the outside I was disgusting – hair that frizzed, eyes too far apart, uneven front teeth and enough fat to “muffin-top” my jeans. On the inside I was worse. The real me never has been the person people know. The real me is a bottomless soul that could engulf a loaf of bread and still have room for more – a vacuum.

I don’t know and therefore could not tell you what possessed me that night. I don’t know what made me go into the bathroom next door, wipe my eyes on my sleeve, and stick my fingers down my throat. I took a step into that room, tumbling down the rabbit hole. The only reason I have to explain my actions would be that the toxin was already coursing through my bloodstream and I wanted it out. The graveyard shift of haemoglobin started and blood circulated around me. Get rid of everything. Start again. Like an industrial batch process – every so often you need to start from scratch.

With one hand holding back my hair I vomited into the toilet. When I was done I looked at the toilet with its silver handle. I looked at the undigested food that filled the bowl and was struck by an intense feeling of pleasure. Wiping the grotesque remains of mucus and saliva off my right hand and forearm I flushed and staggered away. Relieved I could do this; that I could be in charge of this sensation. It excited me. With a throat of sandpaper, I crawled back into bed. I didn’t feel better about anything at all. The only thing I took from this was that now I had a reason to feel as horrible as I did.

Disappointingly, nausea still filled my body, stopping me from moving and enclosing itself around my bones with a grip that crushed the very crux of me. My muscles turned to liquid. They strived to drink up the oxygen that plunged inside me. I wanted to remind myself that I had once been good for something but all I could think of were negatives. My bodily functions began to slow. My eyes were being enticed shut. Conversely, then, I didn’t want to sleep. I would summon up far too many thoughts – my mind was superior in its ability to retain all these thoughts.

“I am your excuse, your outlet for pain and your best support. You've needed me to survive the last few years. I make you isolate and forget your problems. I numb your feelings and make you warm inside. I protect you from the world which can be so bitter and heartless. I make you sick. I make you cry. I make you crazy. I make nothing else matter. And, if you don't let go, I will kill you.”

I did manage to sleep, though not for long. The day before was fresh in my mind. I awoke and turned on the lamp next to my bed; blinded by the brightness of the bulb. They say sleep is the greatest healer but there was no cleansing as you might expect.

When morning arrived I was bustled about in a room thick with people who made everything worse. Things were happening too fast in a place I didn’t belong. I’m tiny but when I need it I have strength, and with this newfound strength I ran out of the house.

Puddles had formed over the road. They seemed to be swallowing all the light from the lampposts. Each puddle a hungry orphan consuming the light as if it were food. I made no attempt to avoid them. My feet were soaking, my shoes saturated. I didn’t know where I was headed – and so I came to a standstill. Smoke from my cigarette danced around me in intricate circles. I threw it to the ground, stamped on it and put my hands in my pockets.

I had ended up at the far end of town. Without a clue what to do; there was nothing left. I turned my back on my dismal home, said my silent good riddance, flicked my hood up and carried on walking. I don’t know how long I walked for. Soon enough however, it felt as if I had reached my destination though I hadn't consciously plotted any course. I stared down into the quarry floor and I began to shake as my imagination painted a picture of the potential scene which was about to unfold.

My mind’s eye filled with an image of my body in tatters several hundred feet below. The rocks before me stained with the blood still flowing from the remnants of my skull.

I recoiled from the images. I sunk to my knees as the quarry began to engulf me. I surrendered to it – swimming in and out of consciousness.

Time passed and I realised that the water running down my face was not merely tears but rainwater. I began to shiver - unnoticeably at first - but then my body began to shake uncontrollably.

I am too weak. Even for this.

“…and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried.”[i]

[i] 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll