I miss Wonderland with a depth of my soul that I never knew I possessed. It's those memories that comfort me as they poke me with needles, cut into my skull, or beat me within an inch of my life. Today isn't one of those days, though.
"Alice, if you can say three words, I will approve for you to go out into the gardens." I look up at the doctor, her words like music to my ears. The only problem is, I'm not sure if I can actually speak three words. My ability to speak comes and goes. But I want to try. I want to feel the sunshine on my face, even if I'm left out there too long and get sunburned. I would give anything to feel something so normal again.
"Out–" I swallow when the word doesn't come, but I try again. "Out . . . side."
The doctor nods her head and scratches notes on my thick file. "That's one. Two more."
"P . . . ple . . . please." My voice is so soft, I'm afraid she won't hear me, but she nods her head, encouraging me to continue. "Sss," my voice breaks off, and I want to cry. I need to get the word out. "Sun . . . li . . ."
"That's it, Alice."
"Sun . . . light.” The word is dragged out and barely discernible, but it's enough for her. She smiles at me and steeples her fingers.
"Very good, Alice. I will tell the orderlies to take you outside after our session."
The doctor spends the next thirty-odd minutes discussing options and how great I'm doing. I suppose I probably am doing okay. After having three lobotomies, I’m certain I should be dead. Instead, I'm somehow managing to continue on. I think I'm some sort of anomaly to them. I've never heard of another patient surviving two treatments, let alone three. Even in the insane asylum, I'm a freak.
When she dismisses me, I breathe a sigh of relief. Sunlight. I'll get to feel the sun on my face again. I'm placed in a metal wheelchair, the leather straps buckled down without worry. They rarely worry when I'm being rewarded. My anger only comes out at the worst times, when I've been stuck inside every day. The fits are the worst after the treatments. It's as if something is triggered inside my brain that demands I draw blood, maim, kill if I’m able. Perhaps, that's how Wonderland changed me while I was there. I've become blood-thirsty without the ability to act on it. It's the worst feeling in the world. When the anger takes over, it's as if I'm a completely different person, as if I can't control my body at all.
The moment they roll me from the building and into the garden, I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the sun. The warmth hits my skin and sinks in, making me smile for the first time in months. I don't get to come outside often, but when I do, I absorb as much of it as I can.
"Dr. Jones said to leave you outside until you're ready to come in, or until the end," the orderly comments. I don't know why he's speaking to me or telling me exactly what's happening. They don't usually spare me the courtesy. "When you're ready, just tilt your head down as if you're sleeping. I'll know to come get you."
I nod my head at him, and he leaves me there in the middle of the garden. There are a few other patients out here, most strapped to some sort of chair, but there are a few who sit or lay in the grass as if it's the best thing in the world. I would kill for the feel of the grass between my toes. I haven't felt that since I was a little girl. Something tells me I probably won't ever get to again.
My jaw begins to twitch, an unfortunate effect of the treatments. Sometimes, my muscles will start to move on their own, leaping or twitching as if I've been given another electroshock treatment. I hate when they do it. It's just another reminder that I’m not in control of my body, of my life, or of my future. My existence depends on someone else's whim, and that's the saddest thing I've ever heard. I've been completely forgotten, completely lost to the world. I don't exist anywhere else except for in my mind. My mind is a terrifying place sometimes.
I've been sitting in the garden for an hour, absorbing the sun, alternating between closing my eyes and staring at the fiery ball in the sky, when I see him.
He's sitting on a bench across from me, silent, watching. Our eyes meet, and a tiny bit of hope spreads through my chest. He came back for me. I knew it was just words. I knew they wouldn't forget me.
I open my mouth to say his name, frustrated when it doesn't automatically come. It's usually one of my easier words; all of their names are. White stares at me, taking in my appearance. Shame fills my body. I'm not the little girl anymore, not that they remember. I've grown up under the brutality of this place. My hair has barely started to grow back, still short enough that my scars are very obvious. It's growing in an odd tuft pattern and resembles a duckling's feathers more than hair. I have no doubt my body looks hollow and frail. I'm unable to eat as much as I used to.
White doesn't speak. He doesn't say my name or promise me he's going to get me out of here. There's an unbearable sadness on his face as he stares at me, as if he can't quite stomach the sight. That's my first sign that something is wrong. Why would he be sad if he's here to save me? Shouldn't he be happy?
None of the other patients react to the man in a waistcoat with rabbit ears on his head. No one ever does. White doesn't like everyone able to see him. He prefers to be a silent watcher, until he no longer needs to be.
My fingers clench into the metal of the wheel chair arms, the leather straps digging harder into the divets in my skin. Permanent now, I hardly have to worry about them bleeding. My skin is thicker there, used to the trauma that the straps have dug for the last thirteen years. My body is a mishmash of scars and punishments, branding me as mad more than my words ever did. I was never crazy. The White Rabbit sitting in front of me proves that.
I stare at White with hope in my eyes, begging him silently to take me away, to rescue me from this hell, to take me back to Wonderland. I'd give anything to go with him.
"P–", I try to speak, the muscles in my jaw twitching with the effort. "P-please . . ."
White doesn't react to my plea. He doesn't nod his head and tell me everything is okay like the Hatter would have done. My anger starts to grow inside of me, my heartbeat in my throat as he sits there, completely uncaring that I'm being tortured, that I’m dying. I try to hold it in, knowing that my outdoor time will end if I let it out, but I never have much control over the rage. My teeth snap together as a scream tears its way up my throat, so loud and piercing that it makes all the other patients cringe in agony. I jerk against the restraints hard enough to rock the metal wheelchair. Orderlies come from the building and rush towards me, ready with whatever sedative they have. I jerk again, another tortured scream slipping from my throat.
When White stands up and begins to walk away, I can't stop my adrenaline from spreading through my body.
I scream, and scream, and scream until they sedate me again, and I sink into inky blackness.
Where are you? Where are you? Who am I?
Chapter 10
Aged Thirty-Three
“Hatter . . . White . . . Cheshire . . . Alex . . .”
The words tumble from my lips without restriction, as if I’m somehow hoping for them to come save me, as if they haven’t betrayed me completely. Those four words, their names, are the only words that come easy to me after the years of medications and treatments. Anything else is such a struggle that I hardly try any more. It isn’t worth it.
My last treatment had been years ago. They stopped doing them so frequently due to my deterioration. At least, that’s what I heard the doctors say. I may not be able to speak well anymore, or move how I want to, but I can listen, and I hear everything. I heard when there was the fear of discovery from the authorities, the doctors discussing how they could hide the evidence of their treatment of the patients, including taking all of us to the fire room. I heard their declaration that I was no better than a piece of trash now, worthless, best forgotten. I heard each time the doctors changed, including the hushed whispers of a new one that now has the women fawning.
I hear everything.
The orderlies have stopped taking care of me, hardly remembering to feed me most days. I haven�
��t been allowed a shower in weeks, and I smell like it. My white pants and top are smeared with dirt and grime, my skin clammy to the touch. If I were able, I would be disgusted by it, but I no longer care. I no longer have the motivation or the energy to rebel against it.
Since my treatments have been stopped, they haven’t cut my hair. Now, it hangs in strings around my face, still the pale yellow I remember, but caked with grease and things I have no name for. It serves to cover the worst of my scars, where the hair no longer grows. My newest room has no windows, barely has any light at all. If I were to describe what hell is, this would be it. There wouldn’t be hellfire and damnation, or a devil flaying your skin from your body.
Hell is being tossed into a room and forgotten.
Control of my facial features is difficult, and sometimes I feel as if there’s someone else controlling my body while I sit in the back seat. Even as I think the thought, a smile curves my lips, a small giggle creeping out. I’ve truly become mad within this place, created with electricity and inhumanity. I was never a monster before. They’ve turned me into one now.
For years, I was angry at the world, at my parents for leaving me here, at the doctors for their “treatments,” at the people who said they would come back for me and take me away. I’m still angry, a rage unlike anything I’ve ever felt swallowing me whole at times, but other times, I’m just numb. I can stare at the grimy padded walls of my prison for days, hardly blinking, barely breathing, barely living.
When the door opens, it startles me, but my body doesn’t react in fright. It’s been a while since anyone has come to check on me, days since I’ve been fed. I’m uncertain if this is a check to see if I’m alive or a declaration of a new treatment.
Slowly, I force my eyes from the wall towards the doorway. A man I’ve never seen before stands there, dressed in his white coat, contemplation on his face. He’s attractive and that worries me. In my experience, the attractive ones are usually the worst when they come here. They think they can get away with more, and they usually do. He has the qualities of many movie-stars, a charisma that leaks off him even though he has yet to say a word. He rolls his wide shoulders as he takes me in, his bright eyes bouncing around the room, cataloging all the details.
Slowly, he walks inside, unafraid. “Ms. Liddell, I’m Doctor Blatherskite.” His voice is deep and smooth, sending a bolt of longing through me. I’ve never had anyone cause such a reaction in me. Pity that it’s when I’m gaunt and damaged.
The door closes behind him before he comes over to me. I tense, unsure where this is going. I want to glare but the only thing I can manage is an uneasy grin. Then he does something that I’ve never before witnessed, that no other doctor has done.
This man sits down on the grimy floor in front of me, cross-legged, right at my level. Doesn’t he know my reputation? Is he not afraid? He’s so relaxed, it makes me relax the smallest amount, too. They’re always the same, wanting something, but I humor him for now. This one is acting different enough to catch my intrigue.
A tiny giggle slips out again, and I want to grimace. My face doesn’t cooperate. “Hatter . . . White . . . Cheshire . . . Alex . . .” I speak the words as if he can understand me, as if they hold all the answers.
“I’m very interested in your condition, the hallucinations your file mentions.”
My eye twitches at his words, the feeling unpleasant against my neglected muscles. I want to tell him that what I experience isn’t hallucinations, that I could care less if he’s interested in them, but he’s sitting at my level, and I’m nothing more than a shell of the girl I used to be.
“Hatter. White. Cheshire. Alex.” My voice is stronger when I say the words this time, more certain.
“Exactly.” He nods his head. “I believe you’ve seen these people, these creatures. I don’t think they’re hallucinations at all.” I freeze and focus everything I can on him. This is a new trick. None of the doctors have ever told me that they believed me. Perhaps, new research has been found, but it doesn’t make sense. “What would you say if I asked you to take me there?”
I shake my head violently, the action far easier than it should have been, and far bigger than I planned for. I only meant to shake my head once. Instead, I come across as if I’m having a seizure. The words don’t come as easily as the action.
“Im-imposs . . .” I give up. My vocal cords don’t work correctly for words other than the four names. The doctor seems to understand me, though. A small, gentle smile pulls on his lips.
“Is it, Alice?”
The care in his words gives me pause. This new tactic is making me worry. I’ve never before felt as if someone cared about my well-being, not since I was a girl. No one cares about a woman who grew up in a madhouse, who speaks of nothing but Mad Hatters and White Rabbits.
I don’t tell the doctor that there’s no way to get to Wonderland without White. There’s only one Key, and the White Rabbit wears it. It’s clear to me that I’m not welcome there, not anymore. White has popped in over the years, and he never helps, never interferes, no matter how much I beg. I hate him, and I hate the Hatter for allowing him to leave me. Someone should have come for me by now, but even Wonderland has forgotten me.
Oh, how I long to remind them of who I am.
“You don’t have to talk,” the doctor continues. “I’m aware that it’s difficult for you after what these people have done to your body. I want to help you be free of this hell, to take your rightful place.”
What do you mean? I don’t speak the words, but they must show in my eyes.
“You could be a Queen, Alice. You could make them all pay, make them all kneel before you and beg for your forgiveness. You could destroy them.”
Is that what I want? I no longer know. I’m angry, so angry, but do I want to destroy them? Perhaps, Hatter doesn’t know. Cheshire, well, he doesn’t care for much, anyway. Alex is the prince. Would he even be privy to such information? Maybe only some of them are at fault. I want to destroy White certainly. And the other creatures of the world, I can do without. None were very welcoming towards me. Could I destroy them?
I stare into the doctor’s eyes, searching for trickery or cruelty. There’s none of the first there but plenty of the second. He can, no doubt, be brutal, but he doesn’t seem to be directing that at me. I’ll trust him for now.
Slowly, achingly, I nod my head. If I’m a Queen, I can do what I want, and no one can lock me up, or give me orders, or forget I exist.
If I’m a Queen, I will be free.
My meals begin to arrive every day, three times a day. I’m given food I’ve never tasted, more flavorful than anything I’ve ever been provided. The first day, I make myself so sick, I vomit, coating my white walls. I expect the mess to stay there, dreading the smell that will fill my room, but surprisingly, the mess is cleaned right away, Dr. Blatherskite coming in himself to apologize for the delay. It confuses me, but I don’t question it. For the first time, I have a sense of hope, even if it’s from someone I shouldn’t count on. I don’t know the doctor. I don’t know his true plans, but I find myself easily allowing him into my mind, fixating on him as if he’s some sort of God.
He’s not, even if he has the looks of one, but still, my brain tells me otherwise.
The second day, I’m escorted to the showers. I’ve never been in them when they’re empty, and I’ve certainly not had a hot shower in a long time. When the orderly shoves me towards the showers and steps out, I move towards the spouts jerkily. My body doesn’t move like I want it to, not anymore. I resemble a creature that has risen from the graveyard rather than a woman.
Inside the showers, Doctor Blatherskite stands against the wall, his white coat stripped from his shoulders. He wears pressed slacks and a button-down shirt, rolled up to his elbows. I pause, staring at him, as he does the same to me.
“Go ahead,” he says, gesturing towards the shower closest to him. “There is soap and shampoo for you, and I have someone bringing you new cloth
ing.” When I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to leave, he shakes his head. “Sorry. I can’t leave you alone. I don’t know if you would take the opportunity to slice your wrists, so I’m not taking any chances. You’ll just have to ignore my eyes on you.”
I lost my sense of modesty long ago–communal showers are not some place to be shy–but I find myself feeling that way now. I’m far too thin, far too weak. If he sees how I look underneath, will he run away and pick a new Queen?
“There’s no reason to be afraid, Alice.” The doctor keeps his voice low for my benefit. I’m not a scared animal, though; I won’t run even if I could. “I won’t hurt you. I’m only here to help.”
I turn my back to him, his eyes making me nervous even if his words are pretty. Such pretty words I’ve never heard before.
I grab the hem of my ratty top and yank it over my head. The movement is rough, strained, but I still manage to get the material off and throw it onto the floor. The cold air hits me and makes me even more aware of my body. My ribs are prominent, my skin shallow enough to count each one, my hip bones stick out in sharp relief. I’m a walking skeleton, and I’ve never felt more dead.
I try to push my white pants off, but I only succeed in pushing them down around my legs. My balance is so far gone that I teeter violently as I try to get them from my feet. It’s the gentle hands on my shoulders that stop me, that make me tense so hard, I can’t breathe.
“Here, let me.”
Smooth hands deftly remove the material from around my legs, careful not to knock me over. And then he steps away again, leaving me naked in front of the shower head.
Cruel as a Queen Page 6