"Get out of here. Prove to them Wonderland exists," a patient in striped pajamas and bunny slippers wails. No wonder she believes in Wonderland. Doctor Tom Truckle told me once that I had great influence on patients, telling them about Wonderland. I don’t remember any of that.
“Don’t go out, Alice,” a woman, holding a pillow as if it were her cat, pleads. “I think the world outside is even crazier than in here.”
I keep on running.
The asylum is turning into a mad house. I hear the heavy footsteps of the guards approaching. All I can think of is hiding in the bathroom. I hate bathrooms because they have mirrors, but I have no other choice.
Another patient reaches out his hand from between the bars and grabs me by my gown. He pulls me closer to the bars. He is unlike the rest. He doesn't believe escaping is possible. He has bad teeth, and smells of turtle soup. “Where do you think you’re going, Alice?” he whispers in my ear. “You're insane. You belong here."
"Let go of me," I punch him with my elbow and run to the bathroom.
Inside, I shield my eyes with my hands as I dash into one of the stalls, avoiding the mirror. I sit on the stool, holding my pot tight to my chest. Those damn lunatics messed up my plan.
Breathe, Alice, Breathe.
I tap my feet on the floor, contemplating my next move. Then I hear someone singing outside my stall. It's a familiar voice. It has this unexplainable sinister mockery in it. I hate it, but I can't stop it:
When she was good she was very, very good.
And when she was bad, she was horrid.
"Shut up," I cup my ears with my hands. "I'm not insane." I know the voice comes from the mirror. That’s why mirrors scare me. But in order to leave the bathroom, I will have to face it. With a drumming heart, I pull the stall's door open. What I see in the mirror paralyzes me, like always. There is a man-sized rabbit inside the mirror. It's white with pink floppy ears. I can't see its features because it has its white hair dangling down in its face. It taps a pocket watch with its fingers, still singing the nursery rhyme. This time it alters a few words:
When she was good she was very, very good.
And when she was mad, she was Alice.
“Tell me I am going to be alright,” I plead to my Tiger Lily.
“You’re not alright,” the flower talks back. "You're insane, Alice. Insane!" It spreads it petals and spits in my face. I am hallucinating again.
The guards bang into the bathroom, and one of them buzzes me with his prod. I shiver and drop the pot, losing my Tiger Lily to the wet floor. When I glance back at the mirror, the rabbit is gone. They will throw me back into my claustrophobic room and probably send me to shock therapy.
As the guards pull me back down the hallway, the turtle-smelling patient sticks his head closer to the bars, shouting at me. "You're not sane, Alice!" He laughs at me and grabs the bars, "You’re not. We're all mad here!"
Chapter 4
VIP Ward, the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum, Oxford
Doctor Tom Truckle, Director of the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum, stood mouth agape among his assistants. They were staring at a cell in the VIP ward, where they kept the most dangerous patients. Well, it was only one patient the ward was built for: Professor Carter Pillar, publicly known as Pillar the Killer, one of the world's most dangerous psychopaths.
Unlike Alice's cell, this one was almost as big as a luxurious single room in a five-star hotel. The walls were the color of ripe mushrooms, with all kinds of vintage portraits hung on them. They were mostly portraits of plants and flowers and they made the room look like a forest. The furniture was modern, mostly curvy, with dominant motifs of green and cream colors. It had a refrigerator, a widescreen TV, and a writing desk the color of ravens. Books were piled up in one corner with a couple of tobacco packs on top. A Cuban cigar, a pipe, and dried mushrooms were scattered on the couch. Two lamp stands shaped like bending roses and violets, added a sincere cozy light onto the big creamy couch in the middle, all facing the bars overlooking the hallway where Doctor Tim Truckle stood. A blue hookah stood right before the couch, threads of smoke still spiraling in the air.
There was one thing slightly wrong with Professor Pillar’s cell. The professor wasn’t there.
"This is a joke, right?" Doctor Truckle growled at the wardens and nurses who were rarely allowed to leave the underground ward—today was an exception, due to the Pillar’s disappearance.
The staff lowered their heads, afraid to meet Dr. Truckle’s intimidating eyes. Truckle had fired employees for much lesser issues than an escaping patient in the past. The asylum’s reputation meant everything to him.
"I think..." a recently hired nurse began.
"You think?" Truckle grimaced. "You don't get to think in my asylum. I'll tell you what I think: you're fired."
Immediately, Ogier took her by the arm, and showed her out.