If they're not asking for money, they are begging for food, a loaf of bread, a single egg, or a potato, with open mouths. Some even beg for whiff of salt or a sip of clean water.
An old man with a stick shoos a few kids away. "Go back to London, you filthy rotten beggars!" he grunts before he trips to the floor himself. He is as weak as everyone else, upset that they're begging for his share of meals.
People don't seem to notice me.
Most people are conspicuously shorter than usual. Maybe they're not really shorter—their backs are bent over from poverty, a lack of nutrition and shelter.
I keep stepping over the muddy earth, realizing that what was Wonderland a few breaths ago has turned into a nightmare of older times.
Victorian times.
It looks like I am in a factually real point in history. Did I travel back in time?
I realize I can just open my eyes and escape this vision. But I don't. I want to I understand why am I having it.
Is this why January the 14th is so important? My hands crawl to the key at the end of the necklace Lewis gave me last time. One of the six keys to open Wonderland doors, he said.
I stop in my place and gaze ahead, only to see Lewis Carroll walking in a haze. He is wearing a priest's outfit, and a pile of papers is tucked under his armpit. A tattered umbrella is held loosely in his other hand before some kids steal it and run away, hitting the old man with it.
Lewis doesn't care. He tucks his hands into his pockets and pulls out a fistful of breadcrumbs. He offers them to the homeless children. The children circle him like ants around a huge insect they'd just trapped. The kids snatch the bread and then knock Lewis to the floor, the papers of his manuscript scattering in the air. They begin hitting him, asking him for money, but he is not fighting back, astonished by their aggressive acts. They steal his watch and his wallet, and rid him of his hat.
I run toward him. They have left him half naked. He seems to be the only one who sees me.
"Lewis," I yelp. "What's going on?"
"I couldn't save them, Alice," he cries in the rain. "I was too late. Couldn't save them."
"Save who? I don't understand," I say as a few kids suddenly are aware of my existence.
"I—I tried," he hiccups. "Th-those p-poor children." Lewis stutters.
I also realize my time in this vision is short. I'm exposed entirely to the children, and they are approaching. They'll rip me of my asylum's nightgown for sure and see if I have any bread or money.
"Run, Alice," Lewis demands, but holds to my hand for one last time. "Never tell anyone that I couldn't save them!"
I don't understand, but I have slid my hand away and am already running from the sinister Victorian kids.
Suddenly, my head hits something and my lips swell as if I have been punched in the face by a train.
My eyes flip open as my vision phases out, back into the uninteresting real world. As I regain my balance and momentum, I realize I've hit the garden's wall.
"This can't be," I whisper to myself. "I had to run from the kids, but I had to save Lewis. What was that about? Who are they, the people he could not help?"
I close my eyes deliberately again, wishing to re-enter the vision. It's not there anymore. I don't know how this works.
I stand, helpless and imprisoned in the choking arms of these walls of the asylum. Either I am mad beyond all madness, or I can travel through time. Either I was right about forgetting about that happened to me last week, or it's a terrible mistake.
What did Lewis mean? I couldn't save them, Alice.
Dr. Truckle leaned forward, excited by the morbidity lurking in the air.
"Arriving back home, Mr. Yeskelitch tucked the slightly oversized watermelon in the fridge for a couple of hours," the host continued. "Then, when it was dinnertime, he decided to serve the watermelon to his children, who were eager for their weekly dose, only to be shocked with what they saw stuffed inside when they cut it open." The woman shrugged for a moment, unable to comprehend the words she was supposed to read to the nation. "Bloody, blimey, bollocks!" Her tongue slipped as she adjusted her spectacles. She raised her head back to the camera with kaleidoscope eyes of surprise. "Mr. Yeskelitch and his children found a human
Dr. Truckle wondered if she hadn't been informed of the heaviness of the subject before going live on air. Or was she occupied manicuring her fingernails, cleaning her glasses, and showing off her expensive dress?
But Dr. Truckle wasn't really interested in the pretentious world of TV—although he secretly wished they'd interview him on
The doctor's eyes darted back to screens monitoring the Pillar's cell. The damn professor hadn't returned. Where was he?
Dr. Truckle snapped like a rubber band to the sudden ringing of his office's landline. Who used landlines these days? He had begun considering the landline operator as an antique long ago.
"Dr. Truckle speaking," he answered, adjusting his tie in the mirror.
"I'm Professor Pillar's chauffeur," a mousy voice replied. "I have a message from him."
Dr. Truckle looked around, making sure no one was with him in the room. "What kind of message?" He grabbed the receiver with both hands, trying to stick his ear closer and closer.
"Professor Pillar wants you to do something right now. He says time is not on our side. We need to move fast."
"I'm not doing anything before you tell me where he is right this moment." Dr. Truckle almost cracked the handset open with his intensity.
"You really want to know?"
"I do." He was almost panting like a dog longing for a bone.
"He's playing football with an oversized watermelon in Hyde Park," the chauffeur said. "Oh, wait."
"Wait for what?" Dr. Truckle panicked. "What's happening?"
"Oh, nothing," said the chauffeur. "The watermelon split open. There is someone's head inside."
Whether Lewis is my mind's doing or for real, I can't discard his apparent caring about the world. He loves people unconditionally. He wants to make things right. He wants to make the world better. Lewis, the stuttering artist, doesn't shy away from what he is, from his fears. I think this is why he impacted so many children in the world. Older folks usually wear their own masks when they deal with children, but Lewis opened up and let go. He accepted who he was and what the world around him was like, and decided he would only see the good in all the mess.
Unlike what I did the past six weeks. I know now it was a mistake pretending what was not.
If I am mad, make my day. I should have not avoided the Mush Room in order to pretend last week's events didn't happen. The Pillar's words ring in my ear again:
I am not sure he said those exact words. I am remembering the meaning behind what he said—again, if he ever existed and wasn't a figment of my imagination.
As I sit, I hear the girl's muffled screams from the Mush Room inside the main building again. Her screams send shivers of anger down my spine this time.
Waltraud and Ogier must enjoy torturing her, laughing at her and buzzing her over and over again.
I fist my hands and clench my teeth when the girl screams again. This could have easily been me. Each time she screams, I remember the unexplained visions of poor children asking for a loaf of bread. Did Lewis mean he couldn't save
"Stop it!" I scream at Waltraud and Ogier from behind the wall. "Stop torturing her!" My voice seems louder than I can handle. A surge of electricity runs through my veins, and I can feel the pain of the Mush Room's instruments already. "Stop torturing her!" I repeat, pounding on the ground.
I still can stop. Maybe Waltraud hasn't heard me. But I am stubborn and I can't tolerate the screams. I throw boulders at the walls.
The screaming stops.
A few minutes later, the main door to the garden springs open. Waltraud stands in front of me, slapping her prod on her thick palms. A smirk, ten miles wide, illuminates her face.
"You were saying something, Alice?" she asks as Ogier approaches me. "I knew you couldn't play your game long enough."
The grin on Ogier's face deserves an Oscar for the Most Stupid Portrayal of Evil. He keeps grinning at me with such joy while Waltraud handcuffs me to send me down to the Mush Room—and it's not the Cheshire's evil grin.
I don't care anymore. I will stay my ground, and say what I feel is right, even if I am mad.
"So, you're mad after all," Waltraud grunts. "You still believe in Wonderland. You believe in it so much you're willing to exchange places with a girl you don't know in the torture room."
"Why don't you shut up and just finish this," I grunt back.
"Do you know I tricked you into this?" Waltraud lights up a cigarette. "I had to make the girl scream her best so you'd hear it. We weren't really treating her that bad. I knew you think you're born to save lives. Foolish you." She laughs and high-fives Ogier.
They pull me down and usher me along the corridor leading to the torture room. My lips begin to slightly shiver at the taste of the coming pain I know so well. The Mushroomers on both sides bang the bars of their cells again. "Alice. Alice. Alice!"
At the room's entrance, Waltraud's phone buzzes.
She checks the number and grimaces. "It's Dr. Truckle," she mumbles, and picks up.
Waltraud listens for a while, her lips twitching and her face dimming. She hangs up finally and stares disappointedly at me.
"You're very lucky, Alice," she says. "Dr. Truckle is sending you for further examination outside the asylum."
A faint smile lines my lips. This must be the Pillar. Something has come up. A new mission, maybe? I am baffled at how happy I am. Who was I fooling for the past six days? I am addicted to this. I am addicted to leaving the asylum, addicted to the madness in the outside world. I am addicted to saving lives.