Alice
The white rabbit was hurrying down a few paces ahead of you. You could see the chain of its wristwatch bounce again its tuxedo; you considered the way even in such a haze it brushed a paw over its ears, to preserve a professional look. It was indeed very late to see the Queen and you thought that she’d be angry, as she often was. The Queen tended to give one the illusion that she was stuck in some permanent state of rage against the people, made you wonder how she behaved in her personal life, in the quiet safety of her own chambers- whether she laid like a popped-out balloon or she kicked her stools and bedside tables, angry still. The rabbit yelled out of general terror and of its lateness before it jumped down the rabbit hole, casting a look behind only for a moment. Its ears flopped as it fell down and you followed quickly without hesitation. You crawled at first, a few paces, and then you fell, clutching the metal of your weapon so that it did not bang against the walls.
You fell slowly even when you realized you were falling. You could hear the rabbit squeaking somewhere beneath your feet and thought of dropping something to see how deep the hole was, but decided against it. Your blue and white dress waved all around like a flag on a summer’s day, the heels of your shoes dragged against the walls and your blonde hair almost floated above your head as if you had been trapped in some magical illustration. You fell in a pile of leaves and almost shouted, but caught yourself at the last moment: a hunter should never betray their position. Your back hurt only a little and you stretched your arm, furrowed your tiny brows and tightened your hand around the gun. That damned rabbit had no chance of escaping you.
“Oh dear, oh dear, I’m going to be late,” the echo of its voice reached your ears, and how those blue eyes widened and the knuckles of the hand turned white against the cold metal. Small heels clinked against the marble floor like wine glasses- and down you ran, rushed as fast as the wind, rolling across a corridor that seemed endless, switching shapes like those big mirrors they have at the circus. You took a turn here, another one, said a hasty word or two aloud and there it was, the white rabbit, right near a curtain small and red.
It had spotted you, thrown its white gloves far away and was fumbling for the key, shaking whole, its ears trembling like leaves of autumn trees, its paws dragging a small key out of its pocket as in manic agony it attempted to fit it through the tiny keyhole of the short, round door that lead to the garden- lovely garden, vivid one, beautiful, painted an hour ago. But it was afraid, too much, and its whiskers were falling off and its whole fluffy body was run through by waves of terror. It pleaded for its life in broken whimpers, it swung its wristwatch as a silly weapon -harmless before your power- and the key stood steady in its sweaty paws; but you were too fast for it. You aimed straight and low and you held your cartoon head as high as you could, your lips came together in a line and you shot two times, one in the skull and one in the ribs- and there, there, the white rabbit lay dead, conquered. How proud you had felt! The blood pooled, that bright red that seems fake, and you did not think, your empty brain, you were only a pretty girl, a pretty girl with a gun, you were unstoppable.
Verity lives in Wales, and studies English literature and Creative writing at Aberystwyth University. She began writing as a kid and has since been published in After Dinner Conversation and Confluence Magazine.