THE RABBIT HOLE, THE GARDEN OF COSMIC SPECULATION
TIME REMAINING: 12 HOURS, 01 MINUTE
I wake up to a continuous beeping on my phone.
Eyes still blurry, I reach for it blindly until I clasp it by accident from the floor. When I bring it to my face, I am shocked by its size. It looks as big as a plasma TV.
How so, when I am gripping it in the palm of my hand?
The pain in the back of my head attacks me, and I remember that I am under the influence of the pink drink in the bottle.
Did it really shrink me, now that I think I am smaller than my own phone?
But I’m gripping it. What kind of mind-bend is this?
Through my hazy vision, I realize that almost everything around me is much bigger than me. Or I am much smaller than them.
Even the small door at the foot of the wall.
Then again, when I reach for it, I can touch it as if it’s small, not big.
The phone keeps beeping.
I push the overly big answer button—the one that is also small—and find more than a hundred messages from an anonymous number.
It must be the Hatter.
What you’re experiencing now is no hallucination—although it is in a way. It’s a medical condition, induced by the pink drink. It’s called the Alice Syndrome.
What?
Furious, I message back:
Why don’t you just talk to me face to face, instead of hiding behind the alphabet of your messages!
The reply arrives instantly:
I don’t think that will be useful since you can’t talk at the moment.
Suddenly, I remember my numb tongue. I try to say my name but can’t. My tongue is just dangling like an earring from my mouth. I suppose it was also induced by the drink, but it feels horrible.
What do you want from me? I message back.
A reply arrives:
To continue playing the game until it has to stop.
I don’t even know what that means. He continues writing:
You will crawl through the small door and find yourself in a vast tunnel system underground. Then, with the GPS coordinates, I want you to find a place for me.
I write back:
How can I even get past the door?
He writes back:
Don’t worry, I will tell you how. You haven’t asked me about the place I want you to find. I’m starting to think you’re not taking this seriously. If you don’t, I will set the rabbit loose on the streets of London.
I have no idea how he’d send the rabbit back to London or where the rabbit is right now. All I know is that I am dealing with the craziest maniac I’ve met so far. I don’t think I can ask him where I really am.
Where is that place?
He responds immediately:
If I knew, I’d have found it myself. Only you can find it. It’s either in Wonderland or the real world. I am not sure, but I know it can be accessed behind that small door—and don’t ask why.
My tongue still feels numb. I write to him:
I will do as you say, but you will show me the rabbit’s place in return when I finish your mission. Again, does the place have a name?
He takes a bit longer again:
It’s called the circus.
A lot of memories flood into the swimming pool of my brain. It’s as if I know this place, but I can’t really tell. I remember the March Hare telling me about the circus in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation, and how dangerous it is. Why did he warn me about a circus? Isn’t it supposed to be a fun place? Unless you meet the clown, of course.
I type back:
If you don’t know where the circus is, how am I supposed to find it?
A response arrives:
Once you pass that door, memories of your past should come back to you. That’s when you will know where the circus is.
I type:
Are you saying you’re one of those who believe I am the Real Alice?
The reply:
You better be, or a lot of people will die. Now get past that door.
Furious again, I write:
How?
He responds:
What do you mean how? I suppose you think you need a key. Not all doors open with keys. With some, you only have to knock, and they will let you in.