Chapter Text
The snatches of a dream were what greeted him first, in this accursed world – like gentle words before the unsheathing of a knife. An ache flared behind his back and light streamed down onto his face, but Pure Vanilla squeezed his eyes shut, for once desperate to not wake to reality.
Fingers carding through his hair, the jaunty humming of circus music, and a voice, oddly pitched, yet endearing all the same, whispered into his ear.
Y’know…they say madness is a contagion. Tell me, Doc’: Do you still want to be in the company of a madman?
Pure Vanilla tried to open his mouth, tried to face whoever was speaking to him. But he couldn’t keep the person with him, they were gone now. His dreams melted away to the pull of light, rhythmic ticking, and above all, the throbbing of his backside. His waking up was expected, inescapable, and yet why did his heart squeeze in sorrow?
His eyes fluttered open.
He was lying on top of a table, entangled in a red table runner and surrounded by shattered tea cups. The air around him, thick with the smell of moist soil and moss. With a wince, Pure Vanilla craned his neck up to a tiny pinprick of blue framed by dirt and roots, miles upon miles away from where he was.
He blinked. Once, twice. His situation seemed too absurd, too impossible for his mind to comprehend.
“This is another dream.” he laughed, breathless, edged with desperation. It felt weird being the one to break the silence; the walls snuffed out his voice like a tomb, but still, he spoke. “This has to be a dream. Why else would I be at the bottom of a hole, if not for some prank? Wouldn’t I have injuries if all this were real?”
It was true. As he rose, his hands and fingers were pristine, if not for a few calluses. There were no signs of blood on the shards of china, either. Nor on the white table cloth. It took a full minute to inspect all his limbs, but he was healthy as could be. Even the pain in his back had faded away.
Pure Vanilla tumbled off the table, grabbing one of the chairs to steady himself. He surveyed his surroundings. The little room/cave he was in had an assortment of clocks: Pendulum clocks, cuckoo clocks, analogs, and one sole grandfather clock that was as tall as his waist. Sitting on the grandfather clock was a tiny golden key, no bigger than Pure Vanilla’s pinky finger, a small bottle labeled with the words “DRINK ME”, and a small cake that was marked in currants to spell “EAT ME”. Behind him was a set of wooden doors.
Of these last, Pure Vanilla wandered to the doors, tracing his fingers across the delicate branches etched into the oak. As luck would have it, they were locked. However, there was another smaller door set between the ones he was trying to open. Pure Vanilla furrowed his brow at the keyhole.
“This really is a weird dream,” he muttered.
“Are you sure about that?”
Pure Vanilla started, and whirled around, but he was met with nothing but distant birdsongs, muted, far above the surface. He squinted into the direction in which he heard the new voice.
“Is anyone there?” he asked, his own voice sharp and brittle as a stick. “I mean you no harm.”
Something brushed past his white robes. Laughter spilled across the silence of the room, Pure Vanilla swallowed. “Please, show yourself.”
A giggle this time, coming from his right. “Am I here? Am I there? You won’t find me, silly cookie!”
But Pure Vanilla lunged, hands grasping something sticky. And out of nothing, colors bloomed like splotches of paint on paper. He gaped at a small creature wriggling in his grasp.
“Agh! You can’t just grab me like that!” it whined.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he fumbled. “Who are you?”
“Put me down, you dough-blob!”
With a poof, the chameleon transformed into a short cookie with pale mint green dough and a chameleon’s tail. They pulled themselves away from Pure Vanilla and glowered at him.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes widened. “You’re a cookie?”
“Well, obviously!” they scoffed. “For it is I, the Master of Survival in this land of Wonder: the Cheshire Chameleon! But I also go by Carameleon Cookie, too. It’s nice to meet you…”
“Pure Vanilla Cookie,” he offered, shaking Carameleon’s hand. “But what did you mean when you said this isn’t a dream?”
Carameleon raised a brow. “Wow, you must be in denial, huh?” He approached Pure Vanilla, taking to walking around him in circles. “You’ve landed yourself in Wonderland, old man. A world of madness, where lost souls touched in the mind end up. All that stuff.”
Pure Vanilla drew back as if struck. “But I—there’s nothing wrong with me,” he protested, bringing a hand up to his head. “At least…I don’t think so.”
The words from his dream resurfaced, wrapping around his throat like a scarf, an old lover.
They say madness is a contagion.
Pure Vanilla clenched his arms, shivering despite the summer warmth down in the hole. Perhaps his dream wasn’t a dream, but rather a memory. Who had told him those words? He tried to rack his brain, but…
Nothing.
“ Aaaand here comes the realization you’ve lost your memories!” Carameleon sang. “Don’t worry, don’t worry! Some of them will return the longer you stay here, Pure Vanilla. It’s natural.”
Carameleon cut through his confusion and panic like a fog light. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re speaking like this has happened before.”
“Haven’t you heard what I said? This is Wonderland, where lost souls –plural–arrive. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last Cookie I’ve had to act as a guide to.”
With this new information, the gears in Pure Vanilla’s head began to grind. Carameleon could be lying, but with how he had been able to transform from animal to Cookie, this clearly wasn’t the real world. And if Wonderland was where lost souls came to, then was he…dead? Pure Vanilla shook his head. “There must be some mistake. I need to leave this place.”
“Well, don’t look at me!” Carameleon exclaimed. “You’re on your own for this one. I’m meant to show you around Wonderland, not lead you out of it. Even I, the Cheshire Chameleon, don’t know where the exit is.”
“Then who does?” he demanded. “Carameleon, think. You must have seen several souls come and go. At least one of them should have wanted to leave, no?”
Carameleon’s face paled. “I-I’m not supposed to divulge in that area,” he stammered. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t accept the probability that I might be dead. Please, Carameleon.”
“Things did not end well the last time I told someone. Sorry, Pure Vanilla. I can’t help you with this.” With another poof of smoke, Carameleon transformed back into a chameleon. “Take the drink on the clock to leave this cave. If you need directions, follow the signs or call my name three times. Take care, old man!”
“Wait no–!”
But Carameleon had already vanished.
Pure Vanilla sunk to his knees. Now what? The room seemed to be closing in on him now that his mind had finally caught up with the truth of his situation. He plunged his fists into the grass, frustrated and helpless.
“At least give me a name,” he whispered into the silence. “Just a name.”
And whether or not Carameleon Cookie had heard or not, something dropped in front of his blurring eyes. It was an invite.
This invite will get you a tea party with the illustrious,
handsome, performer extraordinaire: The Mad Hatter!
Afternoon Tea is at 4:00 sharp, so please … Be as late as you
wish to be!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Pure Vanilla wiped away his tears. This was a start, he could work with this… Mad Hatter . He glanced around at the clocks around him, but all were ticking around at different speeds, chiming whenever they pleased. He bit his lip. Right. Wonderland was a world where madness reigned supreme. Of course, it would disobey the rules of time.
He rose, brushing off grass from his robes, and turned to the items on the grandfather clock. The key, he knew, was for unlocking the door, but as for the food…He pocketed the cake, and held the bottle up to the light. There was an amber colored liquid inside. Pure Vanilla swirled the liquid before screwing the cap off. He didn’t know where, but instinct took over. He sniffed the bottle for anything that could give it away as poison. Bitter almonds meant cyanide, garlic or horseradish was arsenic. The liquid inside, however, smelt of buttered toffee.
Finally with a shrug, Pure Vanilla tipped back his head and downed the liquid in one gulp. He gasped. The drink tasted exquisite: an explosion of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast that all surprisingly mixed well together, dangling and lingering on his palate. Apparently, he dimly noted, Wonderland also rebelled against the rules of food.
He was so caught up in the aftertaste, he didn’t realize he had shrunken down, clothes and all, with the small key in his hand and the cake still safe in his pocket. He was now small enough to go through the door.
Pure Vanilla clenched the key, big enough to be a staff. He slid it through the lock, releasing a sigh at the quiet click. The door creaked open to reveal towering grass, beaded with dew. Right in front of him was also a sign that read: Eat the cake to grow bigger. But somewhere, Pure Vanilla stiffened. Somewhere, he could swear he heard music. Carnival music. Like the one the person in his dream had hummed under their breath.
He clenched his chest, hoping, for some reason, that the far off music would spark another memory. It was a desperate hope, but a hope nonetheless. One that made his heart flutter, and his breath caught between his lungs.
And so, Pure Vanilla placed one foot across the threshold, his first step into madness with no limits.