Lost In Wonderland

I never made it to that party. Instead of being surrounded by flocks of young, talented stars, I found myself sat outside the bus station, smoking a cigarette with trembling hands. Beside me sat Ross, his hood pulled over his head as he blew hot air from inside his mouth. His dark, tired eyes scanned the people that strolled through the station with a calculated, stiff expression. I rolled my eyes at him. Sure, New York had its fair deal of murderers and shady characters but that didn't mean that every person that happened to walk by was only seconds away from driving a knife through my skull. As was his overprotective self, Ross threw an arm around my shoulders. I almost dropped my cancer stick in the process. With a glower, I dragged it to my mouth and sucked in the cancerous taste, letting it escape my mouth in a light puff of smoke. By some miraculous happening, I'd managed to find a fifty dollar bill tucked beneath the slats of the wooden bench, pocketing it hastily before Ross clapped his beady eyes on it.

"Why are we here?" Ross asked me after ten minutes of silence. It was true; the bus station had been my idea. The truth being that I didn't know. My feet carried me here not my brain.

"I was hoping that you'd get on a bus and leave me to live my life." I quipped in a steady voice, aware of my cigarette's ash dropping on my knees.

"Clever. Ever considered being a comedian?"

"I don't have the face for it. You, on the other hand," I trailed off and finished the cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, stomping it out with my foot. I ran my tongue against my teeth and bounced my legs. That had been my first cigarette in over three days, but, with the increase of cash (thank you Mr. Mystery Donor) I knew it would be the first of many.

"That was my cousin Greg." He told me, ignoring my deliberate offence. "He wanted to know who you were." At my look he elaborated, "I told him you were a friend who was interested in the business."

"Ha, hardly."

Ross told me of his cousin's position with the Jonas Brothers. I scoffed yet again at this news - who did they think were? Hanson? The new Jackson 5? And how Greg was a bass player and how he'd always wanted to see the world. Well, great for him. "And this affects me how?" I deadpanned, watching Ross as I waited for the answer to my question.

His answer was simple. "It doesn't. I just thought I'd let you know."

"Ross, if I wanted to die, trust me, I'd let you bore me to death. Hell, why didn't you do that say, four hours ago?" I lowered my voice to a mumble. "'Cause if I'd ever felt suicidal it was then."

Ross's neck turned so quickly I was surprised he didn't have whiplash. His hardened eyes stared down at me, his lips set in a straight line. "Repeat what you just said." He demanded.

"I don't think so."

"Oh but I do," he argued quickly, seizing me by the shoulders so hard I thought I’d have bruises. "Don't you even think about killing yourself, Fields. Because hell I'll murder you myself then."

The entire time I'd known Ross I'd never seen him so passionate about something. Sure, he played his drums every night with the band and seemed to really love it, but the fire dancing in his eyes at his words had me shift uncomfortably. If I'm honest, it scared me a little. Not like I'd tell him that. "Don't tell me you're going soft, Garbowsky."

"I mean it, Chlo-"

"Oh would you listen to yourself!" I cried, irritated at him. I watched as he took out his phone and began texting furiously. My eyes never left his face and I folded my arms crossly when he didn't answer me. Instead, he continued to text, smirking a little as he received a reply from his texting partner.

"What?" I demanded as he directed his cocky smile at me. "What?"

Ross laughed and, before he pocketed his T-Mobile something or other, he answered me. "I just set you up a meeting with Hollywood Records-" and before he could finish, I lunged at him, seizing his phone. I scrolled through his messages, my heart rate quickening at his words. I reached his inbox and found his most recent messages.

The first message. So who's the chick you were with tonight?

The second message. Yeah I can check. Don Radcliffe right? Text you when I know.

The third message. He seems pretty stoked about it. Something about a contract? 9am. Thurs.

The fourth message. The boys will be stoked. I think someone has a schoolboy crush.

And the fifth and final message. Sure. TTYL man. - G.

With a sudden confidence flooding through my veins I balled my fist and sent it flying into Ross's face. "What the hell do you think you're playing at, huh?" I screamed at him, not bothered by the stunned glances the station's other occupants were firing at us. Ross's hand grabbed his now bruised cheek and he stared up at me, perplexed. Pain shot through my knuckles but the adrenaline in my blood ebbed the pain to the back of my mind. I hit him again. Violence wasn't my forte but I was beyond angry. I was furious. "They made my life a living hell, Garbowsky and what, you're trying to make my life a fucking misery? Well congratu-fucking-lations. You did it. Now they've probably spotted the one thing that I hoped they didn't! Contract? Want me to tell you about that shitty, stupid little contract?" I spat at him, seeing red. His lip was cut and bleeding. I didn't care. Right now, I wanted him dead. "I fought through the loopholes to get myself out of it. They were so shocked they missed the one little sentence that would keep me under their thumb. They didn't want me running to the press about the abuse so they overlooked it. But hey, now that you've gone and fucked up my life I'm guessing they spotted it and once again, I'm back with them." And for the first time in over a year, the tears spilled from my eyes.

"Chloe-"

"Don't you dare Chloe me!" I hissed at him, wanting to swing at him yet again. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands and fought the urge to retch. "Because as of now, thanks to you, I'm not her anymore. I'll be Alice again. I hate Alice. I loathe her. She's everything I'm not and represents everything I've come to hate. Why'd I go tonight? 'Cause I wanted to warn Cyrus. I wanted to... I don't know, protect her." The tears were falling at an alarming rate now. It frightened me a little. “She’s just a damn kid, Ross.” I'd never felt so lost, so helpless and the one person who'd looked after me these past few years had broken me. My entire body began to shake as I sobbed, pulling at my hair, tearing it from my scalp and then, before I could stop myself, I collapsed and everything went black.

Whilst unconscious, I'd never felt more safe.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"...Fields. Birth date October 12th 1989. She's suffered a recent traumatic blow. Smoker and drug abuser, mains being heroin and according to the man who brought her in, occasionally large doses of cocaine. She hit her head on the way down to the floor I want x-rays where necessary. Jones, get me Dr. Martin from A&E and tell him I need him down here stat. She's going to need six, maybe seven stitches on the crown of her head. Her arms are bruised badly on the right side and it seems like she's still got the drugs in her system."

I'd been in the hospital a little under a week or so the Nurse told me when I came around the following Wednesday. It was dark outside and, after staring at the startling bright white walls for over a minute straight, I did the only logical thing I could do when found strapped to a bed with needles sticking out of my arms.

I screamed.

Cards littered the bedside table; signature little italised fonts and pictures of a Mouse and his crazy, animal friends. I turned my head to the side and, with as much air as I could manage, I blew them to the ground. The last thing I needed to see was Mickey's annoyingly happy face surrounded with false 'Get Well Soon!' messages.

My second thought when I woke up and began to process things? The crushed hope that I had actually died on my way to the ground because death surely had to be a better adventure than being ensnared back into the Mouse's regime.

A large bouquet of white lilies lay prettily in a vase on the nightstand. Two guesses as to who they were from.

Don had always remembered my favourite flowers.

Beside that vase a dozen yellow roses sat in delicate, floral paper. The tag on the side was written in a neat, manly scrawl. "Get better soon, Chloe. We look forward to working with you in the future. Yours, the Jonas Brothers."

My future was sealed. I was Disney's pawn once more and that night in the hospital, much like the nights I'd had over three years ago, was spent muffling my cries into my pillow.