A girl turns restlessly on the floor, unable to find a comfortable posistion. Stringy, unwashed black hair lies wreathed around her tortured face. Her once pristine gown is now no more than a dirty excuse for cloth; it offers her neither comfort nor modesty. Bruises mar her porcelein skin, physical proof of the horrors she has faced. Lying in a fitful sleep in an aslyum, she looks like a broken and forgotten doll.

Night Terrors they say.
Shadows of the Mind others reply.
Dreams of Madness comes yet another response.

Men argue emphatically over her condition while letting her rot in a padded cell that isn’t nearly as comfortable as it sounds. The girl turns over as the men exit, and opens her eyes knowingly.

As the door closes, spindly purple finger looking out of place in this reality curl around the doorframe and slide it open silently. The girl on floor starts to sob softly and curls tighter in the fetal posistion.

“Alice,” the voice comes wafting around the door," What have you done, Alice?"