A/N: I can't believe I haven't written fanfiction for this fandom in four years. My obsession with it has never gone away, but apparently, inspiration for PandoraHearts fics escaped me. Time flies.
Anyway, welcome to PandoraHearts Week 2020, guys! I love everyone in this beloved fandom. Bless all of you. As it says in the summary, this was written for day 1, with the prompt "dreams." It has (hopefully) solved the month-long writer's block hell I've been experiencing. I have mixed feelings about this fic—that is, it's super short, and I'm not sure it's as good as it could be. But I hope somebody out there can enjoy it!
Just a few side notes: This fic is set somewhere in the first quarter of the manga. Also, I'm not a huge fan of Alice, but I decided to challenge myself by writing about her. Despite my personal reservations, I attempted to explore the nuances of her character. Apologies if my personal opinion shows through—I'm hoping it doesn't.
She keeps having these dreams.
She doesn't like being confused. But these days, she wakes up in a haze, mind foggy as her sleep-glazed eyes. She has considered talking to Oz. In moments of desperation, she has considered talking to Raven. She always decides against it, because though she presents herself as an open book, proud and with nothing to hide—well, there are some questions that are just for her.
She can't explain why. They just are.
Sometimes, keeping her dreams to herself nearly drives her mad. She can feel them burning in her bones, frustration boiling over because she doesn't understand. The images filling her head are part of something bigger, something she knows must have meant something to her, but the pieces don't complete the puzzle. No matter how many fragments haunt her in the evening, beneath the speckled moonlight, she can't fit them together. She can't see the full picture.
And she doesn't know how to ask for help.
She doesn't request, she demands. She doesn't talk to, she talks at. She doesn't tell anybody more than they need to know; she never makes herself available, never makes herself vulnerable. She is only comfortable when she holds control. She doesn't know how else to live.
Why, then, must she feel so helpless?
She's stumbling through a gallery blind, trying to recognize paintings by feel alone, her hands slipping over the contours of image and intention. In her head, she sees dapples of sunlight, a spatter of blood. A tower, damp and cold, stones upon stones. The clatter of something petite and metal across the floor.
Her lips tremble, a feral roar escaping the back of her throat in fury. She turns to rage when she has nowhere else to go. It's easy. It's simple. But her eyes are watering, and deep inside, she knows the truth—that there's nothing easy or simple about the hollowness she feels.
Who was she?
Who is Alice?
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