Insanity (2 page)

"Slide your arms into the jacket," Waltraud demands in her German accent, a cigarette puckered between her lips. "Slow and easy, Alice," she nods at Warden Ogier, in case I misbehave.

I comply obediently and stretch out my arms for her to do whatever she wants. Waltraud twists my right arm slightly and checks the tattoo on my arm. It’s the only tattoo I have. It’s a handwritten sentence that looks like a thick arm band from afar. Waltraud feels the need to read it aloud, “’I can't go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’” I was told I had written it while still believing in Wonderland. “That Alice in Wonderland has really messed with your head.” She puffs smoke into my face and mocks me.

The tattoo and Waltraud’s mocking is the least of my concerns right now. I let her tie me up, and while she does, I close my eyes. I imagine I am a 16th-century princess, some kind of lucky Cinderella, being squeezed into a corset by my chain-smoking servant in a fairy tale castle above ground, just about to go meet my Prince Charming. Such imagery always helps me breathe. I once thought that it was hope that saved the day, not sanity. I need to cool down before I begin my grand escape.

Chapter 2

I twist my arms slightly under the jacket to give myself broader space to move. As Waltraud buckles me up, I use one of my hands to inconspicuously pinch the front, and give myself about three inches for slack. I also take a deep breath so my upper body takes more space inside the jacket. I make sure my stronger arm is above the weaker while she pulls the sleeves behind me. When she is finished, I breathe out and feel the gap inside the jacket. People think escaping a straitjacket is impossible. A well-spread myth.

"I feel like throwing up," I lie to Ogier and Waltraud. It’s not unusual to want to vomit because of the heavy medications patients gulp all day.

"You're not puking on my uniform like last time. I just had it dry-cleaned," Waltraud sighs in her German accent, the cigarette still between her lips. "Puke in the bucket."

I turn around, happy my trick is working. With my back facing them, I push my stronger arm toward my opposite shoulder. I kneel to the floor and pretend to throw up, as I bring my arm over my head and begin unbuckling my sleeve buckle with my teeth. I stretch my back a little and unbuckle the top and bottom buckles behind me. I do it fast, hoping they won’t get it. But when I turn around, Warden Ogier has figured out my trick. A big smirk fills his face. He is happy he's found something to punish me for. If I don't act fast, they'll fry my brains in therapy.

In no time, I grab a sedative syringe from Waltraud's pocket and gleefully stab her in the neck, whizzing the sedative into her brain. It works like a charm, but it doesn't stop me from shoving her face into the bucket. I have been wanting to do that all week for the torture she’s bestowed on me.

“You little brat,” Warden Ogier growls. He holds me from behind by the arms, and lifts me up in the air. I can't free myself. I pull my legs up and flip them backwards until I touch his shoulders. My hands slip from his grip and I start clawing his broad back like a monkey on an elephant’s back. I don't waste time. I pull his prod from his pockets, then buzz him in the neck. He falls to his knees and I follow, standing on my feet.

Dashing out of the room, I hear him moan behind me. He's going to pick himself up in a few minutes. I need to run through the hallways to get to the ward's main door, then escape this nightmare. I need to tell the world that I am not mad—or at least, make sure I am not.

Halfway into the hallway, my feet urge me to a halt. I can’t help it. It’s my heart that’s stopping me, remembering that I have left something precious behind. My Tiger Lily.

Don’t do it, Alice. It will stall you. It’s just a flower. You only have a minute to run away before the guards know what you’ve done. Be smart and run away.

I defy all logic and I turn back to my cell. I courtesy-kick the warden in the face, curse him when my leg hurts, push the nurse's face deeper into the bucket, then get my pot with the Tiger Lily. I don't leave my friends behind.

Chapter 3

"Tell me I'm going to be alright," I say to my flower. She doesn't reply. She doesn't nod or flap her petals, or think I am another huge moving flower myself. Good signs. I’m not hallucinating. This is real. I am actually escaping the asylum.

When I am back in the hallway, the patients are screaming my name on both sides. They are pounding on the bars of their cells, trying to stick out their heads.

"Alice. Alice. Alice!" they shout and clap their hands. They are enthusiastic. I could be the first ever to escape the asylum. But they're ruining my plan at the same time, by making all this noise. The emergency siren blares all of a sudden. The guards definitely heard the shouts.

"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.

"I don't even know how he does it, Doctor Truckle," Waltraud Wagner spoke slowly. She'd always been among Doctor Truckle's favorites. "The cell is still locked from the outside. There is no sign of breaking out. And he is the one and only patient in the ward."

"Professor Carter Pillar is one of the world's most dangerous psychopaths," Doctor Truckle faced his staff. "He used to teach philosophy at Oxford University, until something happened to him and compromised his sanity," Truckle's eyes widened under his glasses when pronouncing the word “sanity.” His thinning blond hair almost prickled, sending goosebumps to his staff’s arms. "Pillar the Killer killed twelve innocent people afterwards. The fact that he tricked the court by pleading insanity does not deter from the other
fact:
that he is a cold-blooded serial killer disguising as an insane man." Truckle enjoyed the fear he insinuated in his staff’s eyes. He’d always liked to be feared or he felt he’d fail in controlling the asylum. "The Pillar might fool you with his charms, hypnotizing drugged eyes, and his nonsensical sarcasm. But if you think his stay here is for treatment, then you're on the verge of insanity yourself. The asylum is more of a prison for him. He's doing time here because neither the Interpol nor FBI could convict him. We're supposed to keep him locked here, to protect the world outside from him." He knuckled his fingers, as if preparing to punch somebody. "So can anyone explain to me how he managed to escape for the
third
time this month?" he screamed from the top of his lungs, his veins protruding on his neck like hot hookah hoses. Most of the staff swallowed hard. There was a saying in the asylum: that the only one madder than a hatter was the Truckle.

"With all due respect, Doctor Truckle," Waltraud said. "I think we should finally inform the authorities."

"You know I can't do that, nurse Waltraud." Truckle gritted his teeth. "We’re all going to lose our jobs instantly if we tell them that the man they asked us to simply lock away is gone. Besides, everyone is head-over-heels looking for this Cheshire Cat killer right now. Knowing the Pillar escaped will worsen things for everyone."

"What really puzzles me, Doctor Truckle, is why Professor Carter Pillar always returns from his escape," Waltraud pondered. "I mean, we never report his escape and yet he still returns to his cell, as if it's a walk in the park."

Truckle's face reddened as he stared back at the empty cell. "He's mocking us, Waltraud," he tucked his hands in his pockets and was about to pull out one of the pills his psychiatrist prescribed him. He didn’t want to expose himself in front of his staff. If they knew their boss needed help just like any other madman in the asylum, it'd be the end of his career. "He is bloody mocking us, and I am dying to know what he has on his mind," he said, crushing the pill into powder with his fingers. He didn’t mind it laying in the bottom of his pockets. He had a lot of pills, and used to take four to six a day to calm down.

"Maybe he really
is
mad," Ogier mooed from behind. No one even paid attention to him. “Or why would he always come back?”

"I think it's that Alice in Under Ground book he always keeps with him," Waltraud suggested, pointing at the book laid on the couch. "I heard he started killing after reading it."

Silence invaded the room, as everyone wondered where Professor Carter Pillar was at the moment.

Chapter 5

Entrance, the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum

A black limousine halted abruptly before the Radcliffe Asylum’s entrance. The recklessness of its driver alerted security at the main gate. They held their guns, squinting their eyes against the framed windows of the unusually long limo. A series of uninterrupted laughter crackled from inside, as the music of the Beatles was playing somewhere in the back. The passengers sang Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, except that in their version, it was “Alice.”

A chauffeur got out and hurried to open the door for his partying passengers in the back. He was so devoted to his job, he hadn't even noticed the security guards with their guns aimed at the limousine. The chauffeur was short. He wore a tuxedo that was too long, as if he’d borrowed it. His face was funny in the strangest ways. It was full of freckles, spattered around a small and pointy nose. A chortle almost escaped one of the security guards upon noticing the chauffeur’s thin mustache. It looked more like a rat’s whiskers.