Author's Note: I didn't plan this, but the wild idea came while writing Alice's POV on my 'Paranoia' fic. Shortly after, I had two unpleasant work situations and said to myself 'You're gonna write this to pour all blackness and ruin into it and be cleansed of it." And I did.

I have seveal warnings to make though. The nature of Bumby's character, adding to the fact that I wrote this in first person. I don't use this method much, and normally I avoid from writing demented povs. The writing itself may not be too explicit, but Bumby as a whole is.

Advisable to read back to back with 'Paranoia', with Alice's mind warning about her surroundings.

Disclaimer: Obviously don't own American Mcgee Alice.

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A cocktail of mental disorders. It's not that I am surprised by this particular bundle of broken nerves, because in all reality, her madness does not spark surprise. I'm intrigued, normally. A feeling that occurs often enough to actually overcome my usual boredom or annoyance over these such cases.

I so often have to mask interest, care, for these pests... it's naturally easier to put on the act if I am intrigued however slightly.

The girl has developped an understadable, albeit nerve wrecking, paranoia. Or it should be nerve wrecking... but it's making me anxious.

Anxious for the breakthrough.

Or the break point.

My business is the most profitable, and I have the most ripe set of skills, contacts and status for it. Every successful case - every brat that behaves accordingly and is sold - is exciting. Does it get monotonous?

Does money ever bore? No.

But it's not just about the money. If it were, I would have an alternative means of entertainment and profit.

The power to have someone vulnerable in your hands, these fragile creatures coming out of their miserable traumas and somehow manage to feel just a bit confident in the help offered by a stranger... a nice person, a good doctor... and you can do whatever you want with them. Turn them into killers, into dolls, little sex slaves, into suicidal shells... That has no price.

So helpless. So alone.

So perfect to bend and mold into their roles.

There are some who stand out. Either the utterly damaged, who barely need any handiwork; and the utterly unyieling.

Being a doctor here, in this such fine institution for the poor forsaken creatures... I'm much well positioned than in any mental asylum.

Asylums create creatures like Alice.

Ah, dear Alice.

Not that she wasn't off her head before. I'd see her, that look in her eyes, different from her sister's - frigid, deranged. The girl was off. Rutledge Asylum did the rest. And that pathetic Wonderland of hers puts any person on edge to slap some sense into her. Of course, I know how to use such a thing into my advantage, molding it like I mold anything and everyone. I'm almost curious as to whatever macabre corruption her little paranoid head is adding in there, my influence spilling in her mind.

She's not as teasing as her sister, but she is a mynx, I'll give her that. Little bitch refuses to let go of her percieved guilt. It's almost pathetic, and certainly laughable. She's turning more paranoid and yet whichever black plot she thickens in that little head is still ridiculously away from the truth.

Normally I would feel enraged, a part of me stirring to reach over that table and strangle her, bash that insane skull against the corner of the desk and let that thick red blood marble her pretty face and make more room for her head problems. But I don't.

That part of me is there, here, inside, yes, and its claws are seductively scratching and itching in dark antecipation, but it lays patient, waiting for my other part, the composed doctor, to manage the ripe scenario that will leave us both languished.

Alice. Dear, sweet insane bitch Alice. To see her paranoia and her delusion and all her panicked hold of past memories ever so deformed by me, to see when she makes an enemy out of everything and everyone, so desperate to hold on. To see her break and whimper instead of screaming, mumbled words out of those button lips rather than her sharp replies - that is what will quench and satisfy every part of me.

That sweet tongue rolling a dragged 'Doctor...', unresisting, a little slave, as I finally run fingertips over her neckline, palms over her full matured breats and venture to all the sweetness her insanity hides, moaning and sighing like she's drowning, mind far away in that fragmented mad Wonderland of hers.

Breaking Alice and driving her past the point of madness is what I thrive. She won't be able to even try to understand what's happening and why; not that I seek someone to understand me. A personal game, to make up for the loss of money she'll cost me. Because this one doesn't have a buyer.

Alice is being wrapped just for me.

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the end

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Author's Note: and she throws you into a subway train. Fuck you.

Anyway.

I threw a bunch of Emilie Autumn quotes in here for my personal enjoyment. Characters like Bumby and people like Alice are thoroughly featured in her songs, after all. It didn't feel that inappropriate.

Thanks for reading, corrections to English and comments are appreciated.