She was dead.

Hatter was hiccuping as tears poured down his face, cradling her chopped up body in his wrinkly arms. The hatchet was tossed to the side, blood still hot, sticking on the silver blade. I fumbled with the tea vial desperately, trying to do something, _anything, _that would fix this. But it was hopeless. It was all hopeless.

I was never getting out of here.

Never.

And now Isabella’s dead.

She's _dead_.

My head felt foggy, the sickly scent of roses flooding my nostrils. Hatter was still hunched over Isabella, grasping absent-mindedly for the chisel under his woodworking desk.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell until my vocal chords begged for remorse and my throat bled. Instead I just stood there, trembling. The broken marionette puppets, crumpled to the ground, stared at me as Hatter turned around.

"You," I said, jabbing my finger at him, voice hoarse, "killed her."

His pupils had finally stopped spinning. He was curled up, scared and speechless, like a terrified piece of prey. Like a mouse. He looked just like his granddaughter. I knelt down and ripped his hat off him. He opened his cracked lips to speak, but no words came out. Rubbing my tears off my face, I glared down at him.

"I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I _didn't!"_ he whimpered.

“You did!” I croaked, “it’s all your fault!”

“I’m sorry Alice I’m sorry Alice I’m sorry Alice I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry Alice,” Hatter screeched.

“That doesn’t-that doesn’t _mean anything! _Nothing you ever say means anything! Sorry won’t bring her back! Listening to the Queen won’t bring her back! Nothing-“ the lump in my throat stopped me from yelling further.

“I’m sorry, please, please I’m-_please I don’t want to die want to die don’t kill me please I don’t want to die. Die? Die, she’s dead she’s dead she’s dead dead dead, she’s dead!” _He said, sobbing.

And that’s when I knew that, while he was aware he did something bad, he didn’t understand why it was bad, like a dog being scolded for the first time. His mind was too fragmented to ever really realise he’d just killed his own granddaughter.

So, not knowing what else to do, I swallowed hard, shoving the nausea and the fear into the pit of my stomach, and smashed the tea vial to the stone floor.

Hatter lunged for it, his gnarled fingers stretching like the roots of a tree, still bloody and cut from the hatchet. The vial crashed to the ground, glass shattering and flying across the room.

Not being able to bear looking at her mangled body, I ran.