Writer Intro. To begin, thank you for following this blog! My name is Róisín! I’m 24. PST. I work freelance and therefore my schedule is random, hectic, and I can go weeks being busy or being totally available. Of course, with quarantine, I’m not working as much, but I still tend to take breaks. I do not care to maintain a regular presence here, only a presence which is fun and laid back for me.

Muse Intro. This is a blog for Alice Liddell from American McGee's Alice franchise, with particular emphasis on the game Alice: Madness Returns. So far there are no canon divergences, but as I develop Alice I'll be sure to give a heads up on if anything shifts.

Triggers. I will tag all triggers accordingly. This blog, due to its source material, has the potential to handle sensitive topics which are commonly triggering, such as pedophilia, CSA, psychological breaks with reality/depersonalization, gore, body horror, family death, child death, and possibly other subjects falling within the aforementioned categories. I will always tag these, and most often they'll be addressed in metas and in her biography only as opposed to in interactions (except for gore/violence and potential references to Alice's trauma when appropriate).

Personal Triggers. My own triggers are car accidents (specifically people being hit) and head trauma, if you could tag text and image based mentions I’d be super grateful. Also, please refrain from following or interacting with me if you are a pro ana, pro mia, or Billy Hargrove/Kylo Ren blog.

General Rules Apply. No godmodding, I am mutuals-only, I refuse to interact with sexualized or aged up depictions of minors, or in general with anyone who is inappropriate, makes me uncomfortable, or refuses to adjust their behavior after being alerted of something they’ve done that was offensive. I do support call-outs and will reblog them if I feel it warrants the attention. Just don’t.... be gross……

Exclusives. Currently there are no exclusives for this blog, but as they arise I'll list them here.

THANKS FOR READING! PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ASK ME IF YOU NEED CLARIFICATION ON ANYTHING AT ALL.

• ABOUT.
• PINTEREST.

#VORPELS

i. Alice Liddell, 19. Former maid at Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth. Current whereabouts unknown, current status unknown.

ii. Family included Arthur Liddell (father), Lorina Liddell (mother, and Elizabeth Liddell (older sister). All perished in a house fire supposedly caused by the family's cat, Dinah, knocking over an oil lamp. It is later discovered by Alice that it was, in fact, the doing of Dr. Angus Bumby, a former student of Arthur's whose predatory infatuation with Elizabeth led to a murderous outcome.

iii. It has been a consistent discovery by all those close to Alice that the girl is very slow to trust, if she will at all, and very internally oriented. She cares little, it would seem, for the world outside of her own mind and self. She is routinely tortured by the memory of her parents calling for her help, for the reality that she left her family to die, for the years of torture at the Asylum that stole her childhood from her. She is simultaneously enraged at her loss, and guilty for what she perceives to be her hand in it.

• RULES.
• PINTEREST.

The Liddell Home

The Liddell family was a darling one, with two lovely, loving parents and two perfectly admirable daughters, albeit the youngest had often got her head undeniably stuck in the clouds. Still, they were very much picture-perfect.

Arthur Liddell, intelligent patriarch, was a dean at Oxford. It was a normality that he would invite students and cohorts over for long-winded discussions, during which Elizabeth would feign passing interest in, good daughter she was, and Alice would happily ignore, playing instead in her dreamworld. A wonderland of imagination, where flowers spoke and rabbits bumbled and hatters held tea at every hour. Far more interesting than the dreadful topics passed about between velvet armchairs.

There was, however, something sinister brewing amid the walls of books her father kept, as those charming conversations took place, and an eye would wander. An eye belonging to Angus Bumby, an undergraduate student of Mr. Liddell's.

But that's not the concern of children.

Rutledge Asylum

The asylum is not lovely. It is not as sweet, or caring, as the home Alice remembers so kindly in the fragments of her shattered memory – broken, of course, for her benefit, or so her doctors not-so-sweetly remind her. It is, after all, the only hope of sanity she holds, she thinks. Constantly, she considers this: that she is better off to forget, no matter how tightly her mind grips onto the bits and pieces.

But she is doing better, now. So what use is a history? What use is piecing together the particulars of a childhood lost to an unconscious world, as she laid, mindless, in a lumpy cot for so many years, imagining herself elsewhere, imagining herself in a nightmare of her own creation. Of someone's creation, at least.

The mind is so dreadfully powerful. In pockets of her own, Alice keeps a firm grasp on these little details, these funny things, the words said to her through the years. These cruel and heartfelt words, with their edges equally soothing as they are cutting, but every single one laced with just a drop of arsenic or acid or something that corrodes. It sparks a spread, a reaction, perhaps due in part to Alice's steadfast attempts to follow the advice of those around her. This reaction tries to set fire to her mind and memories, to work her into something different. Another person. A clean slate.

She would so love to be a blank page. To forget what she saw the night, the night of, when the centaur, strange creature, strange figure – it is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget. It is better to forget.

Moorfields, London

It is inevitable that things will change with the passage of time, and with the passage of thoughts, which are tucked away so strategically so as to make this girl, an aching girl resembling a closed fist, into someone, or something acceptable. Eventually, she is let out of the asylum, regaining her mind. Losing it, rather, but these are details, details, only details – she has taken many things with her from her stay in Rutledge, most of all the understanding that details are what lead to insanity. The focus on them. Useless, pointless, worthless.

With the help (help, help, assistance, help, with the aid, with the aid –) of one of the nurses, Pris Witless, from Rutledge, Alice got settled in Moorfields, in the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth, where she would receive room and board in return for her employment. There she found herself reunited, unwittingly, with someone from her past. Now doctor Angus Bumby, who treated the orphans at Houndsditch, would soon begin to treat Alice herself, trying to help her sift through her broken memories, and further repress them.

In doing so, Wonderland was buried, after having reclaimed it and brightened it while in the Asylum, suddenly it was cast, yet again, into something dark and corrupt. It plagued her in dreams, nightmares more like, and hallucinations. It was worsening, and in an attempt to help her, Dr. Bumby would prescribe better, stronger medicine, and force the thoughts away as well as he could.

It was worthless, pointless, useless, really. It was a relentless memory, the world of her making, the bloody and oily remains of it. But it is better to forget, you'll remember, dear Alice. Alice? Alice, you have to come back to reality. You must forget. You must forget. Alice?

Alice?

🐇

Wonderland

The cobblestones of Moorfields give way. The air is thicker, somehow, and smells now not of industrial smog and rotting fish, but of something sickly sweet. Spoiled milk, in some places. It smells like the taste of blood that fills your mouth when you lose one of your baby teeth.

Wonderland is corrupt. It is a land of nightmares and horrors and dangers and monsters of viscous black liquid. This isn't my wonderland. This isn't it, I don't believe, because it seems so different, and strange, but –

There are familiar faces, as the Cheshire Cat proves, leading dear Alice yet again through the perilous oddities of her mind's hellscape.

Dear Reader, you have been lied to. A lie by omission, still a great sin, in this fragmented journey. Do you know what happened to the Liddell family? Do you know what happened the night of November 5th, as little Alice slept in her room – no, as little Alice tiptoed through her home, as she saw the shadow of a centaur, but not a centaur. As she saw the shadow of a man, atop her sister's bed, but it simply couldn't be that. And so it was a centaur, and Alice hid alone in her room, and took herself to Wonderland, and met with the Hatter and held tea, and they laughed, and he fumbled, and she dreamt, and imagined, and didn't think of the man in her sister's room –

It was the night of November 5th that Wonderland burned alongside the Liddell home in an attempt to rouse Alice awake. It worked, and left three victims in the aftermath, her mother and father and sister, murdered by flame (and a man, a centaur, a thing, a creature, she would find).

The mind is certainly a powerful thing. Wonderland knows much more than little Alice does, it knows that she ought to run, then, the night of the fires, and that now, instead, she must stay, and sit in her memories, recall them fully and horrifically, in order to save herself from the clutches of the centaur.

It is revealed in this nightmareland the treachery of those around her, of the nurse who helped her, of the doctors who tortured her and the orderlies who abused her. Of the man she trusts with her own mind, of his atrocities against her sister, and against the children of the orphanage, and against her, herself. Doll parts, they all are, to rotten, horrible, terrifying players. There is no one to trust, she finds, only herself. Only her fear.

But in that there's a strength she can accomplish, as reality and dream bleed together, and she finds herself, this mad savior, standing before the man who ruined her life.

Moorgate Station

She pushes the good doctor, Angus Bumby, onto the train tracks, and takes back what he took from her. Every ounce of fear, every drop of trust, she rescinds it.

It is best to remember.