The Mattress' Despair
“He’s going to see you,” the Mattress told herself quietly.
The day was bright and colorful. The pickle blossoms were feeling particularly friendly on this occasion- most likely because of the presence of ManWithHatter- and they gently nuzzled the Mad Hattress’ mismatched socks, purring and cooing like sleep-sweet infants. One pulled at the left sock, a purple and orange striped number, and with a tiny hand, the Mattress batted the affectionate flower away gently.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped in response to her own previous comment. She would have pulled her own hair, but that might have been counterproductive. It was much better to talk things out. “How will he see me?” she continued. “He can’t even see himself-“
“Shhhhhhhh! He’s just mad, not deaf!” she interrupted, and dropped to her knees with astounding agility. She hid behind a bunch of long thin stems, atop which pickled petals undulated lightly in the breeze. Through the waving blossom-bottoms, she could see ManHatta strolling through the field, looking confused and quite certain all at once. He hadn’t heard her, as far as she knew, and she knew at least a few yards or more.
One foul tempered blossom snapped at her suddenly, and she glared at it with a simmering violet gaze until it sighed and retracted in defeat. The Mattress resumed her speculation of ManHatta.
It seemed to her, after hours upon hours of careful detection, that this man with the hat was quite like herself. Sure, there were the obvious differences- he was a man, yes, and his hat was much larger than her own, yes- as well as many unanswered questions: she was not sure whether he liked six spoons of sugar in his tea as she did, or whether his socks matched or unmatched. But one thing was quite crystal: he was mad. And in that way, they were very much alike.
The first day she’d seen him, she’d been sitting amongst the pickle blossoms, drinking lukehot tea with her pinky out. He was far in the distance, scribbling wildly in a little book, and she could tell by the way he walked that he was mad (as well as by the way he theatrically announced his madness aloud for what seemed like personal clarification). She quite liked his suit, and she felt tidbits of desire bubbling in her ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and fingers.
The Mattress greatly enjoyed the occasional conversation with herself, and this paired with her unpaired socks was enough to expel her from sanity in Wonderland. She didn’t mind the madness. It came in great waves and filled her full with matchless satisfaction. The only problem was that sometimes, she felt a bit lonely.
For this reason and several others, she began to watch him. Her sureness of his dementia lead her to feel close to him, even if he had no knowledge whatsoever of her existence. She knew that together, they might be so terrifically crazed that they’d achieve normality; regularity, even.
And so she sat, hiding amidst the flowers, watching and waiting- for what, she was not entirely sure.
“I told you he wouldn’t see me,” the Mattress said depressively once ManHatta had left the field.
When she did not reply, the Mattress sighed heavily and picked a pickle blossom, ignoring its small shriek of agony as she did so. She began to extract its petals one by one, letting them fall gently onto the ground where they absorbed into the earth and grew anew.
The Mattress accepted the fact that ManHatta was gone, for tonight. The flower cruelly reported that he loved her not. Feeling inconsolably lonely, she stood up and wandered crookedly through the field, with nobody to talk to- not even herself.
The day was bright and colorful. The pickle blossoms were feeling particularly friendly on this occasion- most likely because of the presence of ManWithHatter- and they gently nuzzled the Mad Hattress’ mismatched socks, purring and cooing like sleep-sweet infants. One pulled at the left sock, a purple and orange striped number, and with a tiny hand, the Mattress batted the affectionate flower away gently.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped in response to her own previous comment. She would have pulled her own hair, but that might have been counterproductive. It was much better to talk things out. “How will he see me?” she continued. “He can’t even see himself-“
“Shhhhhhhh! He’s just mad, not deaf!” she interrupted, and dropped to her knees with astounding agility. She hid behind a bunch of long thin stems, atop which pickled petals undulated lightly in the breeze. Through the waving blossom-bottoms, she could see ManHatta strolling through the field, looking confused and quite certain all at once. He hadn’t heard her, as far as she knew, and she knew at least a few yards or more.
One foul tempered blossom snapped at her suddenly, and she glared at it with a simmering violet gaze until it sighed and retracted in defeat. The Mattress resumed her speculation of ManHatta.
It seemed to her, after hours upon hours of careful detection, that this man with the hat was quite like herself. Sure, there were the obvious differences- he was a man, yes, and his hat was much larger than her own, yes- as well as many unanswered questions: she was not sure whether he liked six spoons of sugar in his tea as she did, or whether his socks matched or unmatched. But one thing was quite crystal: he was mad. And in that way, they were very much alike.
The first day she’d seen him, she’d been sitting amongst the pickle blossoms, drinking lukehot tea with her pinky out. He was far in the distance, scribbling wildly in a little book, and she could tell by the way he walked that he was mad (as well as by the way he theatrically announced his madness aloud for what seemed like personal clarification). She quite liked his suit, and she felt tidbits of desire bubbling in her ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and fingers.
The Mattress greatly enjoyed the occasional conversation with herself, and this paired with her unpaired socks was enough to expel her from sanity in Wonderland. She didn’t mind the madness. It came in great waves and filled her full with matchless satisfaction. The only problem was that sometimes, she felt a bit lonely.
For this reason and several others, she began to watch him. Her sureness of his dementia lead her to feel close to him, even if he had no knowledge whatsoever of her existence. She knew that together, they might be so terrifically crazed that they’d achieve normality; regularity, even.
And so she sat, hiding amidst the flowers, watching and waiting- for what, she was not entirely sure.
“I told you he wouldn’t see me,” the Mattress said depressively once ManHatta had left the field.
When she did not reply, the Mattress sighed heavily and picked a pickle blossom, ignoring its small shriek of agony as she did so. She began to extract its petals one by one, letting them fall gently onto the ground where they absorbed into the earth and grew anew.
The Mattress accepted the fact that ManHatta was gone, for tonight. The flower cruelly reported that he loved her not. Feeling inconsolably lonely, she stood up and wandered crookedly through the field, with nobody to talk to- not even herself.
