Cold, unfeeling hands reach toward unseen dreams; small colorless fingers clench tightly as she grasps imaginings in an iron grip. A demented smile plays across her thin lips, and she begins to laugh, a high-pitched, childish laugh as she crushes what only she can see. Then the laughter dies in her throat, replaced by a horrible, racking cough. She doubles over, her fingers curling and uncurling spastically. She is sick, everything about her is sick. Her parents look on from the corner, huddled in fright, scared for their only daughter who is hardly human anymore. So many doctors, so much money--she shall have only the best--but no one can help her. Frantic whisperings--she's dangerous, we must get her out-- fall on deaf ears, and she remains a secret. No one can know what lives in the attic, biding her time, planning.
Heads will roll.
Alice in her looking glass, staring out at the world's reflection with haunted eyes.