"Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"
Nurse Mary Duckett's Personal Journal, November 13, 1870
My good doctor Hieronymous has deserted the asylum, and myself alongside, and I know not what to do with myself at present, a state of being that he has always encouraged as a sign of my (admittedly fragile) sanity. It is perhaps better for him that he reside as far from this house of lost souls as possible, but I shan't deny that it will not be such a nice arrangement for myself.
Selflessness was a virtue that my good doctor used in treating my ailment. It was his contention that were it not for my rather shameless self-aggrandizement through the notion of being utterly important, or important enough, that there'd naturally be ever-present conspiracies angled towards my demise, I would be completely sane. It was within that singular, focused thought that I managed to find my composition and became who I am today. All thanks to my good doctor.
But presently, it is as I had always feared. I had always harbored a worry that no sane man would be able to withstand the constant assault brought on by the fortunates that come and go at irregular intervals and the unfortunates that walk in through the doors and always stay. Having had the chance to be subjected to Hieronymous' well-meaning and highly effective ministrations, I harbor no doubt that were the situation anything but the absolute worst, he would be here, slaving away in an environment that shows nothing but hostility and misunderstanding towards him.
This feeling, however, is nothing compared to my steadily mounting dread that something is on the horizon, and is fast approaching. It is a needless worry, I suppose, but I have known Hieronymous for quite some time now and never before or since have I seen a man of such strong will of composition. His strength lay not in anything physical, it wasn't related to all the sleepless nights he has so willingly sunken into this place, or the many times he came to within an inch of his life because of a lunatic with a fork; his strength was always in his will. That it took nothing but a small child, a rather tragic little girl to slowly dissolve it until there was no strength remaining, save for that of the will to run away, still astounds me.
Had I known that Alice Pleasance Liddell was capable of such a feat, I would never have shown any lenience. I would never have tried to help her.
That is such a wrong thing to say, I know.
I cannot help but feel unnerved by her. The circumstances surrounding her arrival were most peculiar and her condition, unaffected by my good doctor's best efforts, be they chemical or no, is far more perplexing than any other case we have here. In the wake of my good doctor's departure, I took the liberty of examining his notes, and came across various drawings Alice had submitted. I am seldom disturbed by such innocuous things, despite the fact that imagination is at times a vile and disturbing thing, but her methods of expression are most disturbing. Her penchant for the macabre, the distorted and unnatural, and her application of animals to human form, and even that human-like forms to further mutilations…
Of course, my attention to the case did not escape the rather watchful eye of our superintendent. Mister Ruthledge called upon me mere hours after I had gone through my good doctor's case files, just to refresh my memory. I went to his office just as soon as I had safely returned every material I had examined to their proper places. My good doctor would want it so. (Who knows? He might return...)
I can, of course, never quite get past how imposing a man Lucas Ruthledge is, God forgive me. He is taller than most men, and thin as a rail, with spider-like, long fingers and white hair that flows in thin, dull strands. His sharp, pointed nose and bright blue, gleaming eyes give him the impression of a veritable giant, a force to be reckoned with. I have yet to see him angered or frustrated, "though his movements, minute, calm and flowing into one another, suggest a high degree of control on his part, which would include a firm grip on his emotions." Or so my good doctor always said. I know not of such things, but I do know that his choice of office, the southmost room, is somewhat depressing in the way that it is perpetually dim, if not outright dark.
As always, he was waiting for me behind his rosewood desk, fingers of one hand rapping, in quick succession as a tremolo, on the surface.
"Come in, Nurse Duckett." He said, and with a movement of his hand and an extension of those spider-like fingers, he beckoned me. I complied and seated myself in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk. He remained silent, gazing at me, and then, softly, began to speak, "I'm sure that you are aware of Doctor Wilson's resignation."
"Yes sir."
"And the circumstance?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"Good. That saves me some time. Doctor Wilson, before leaving, left me the name of a colleague, whom he held to very high esteem. I have made the necessary arrangements for him to handle the case of Alice Liddell, as well as that of several others he was busy with. What I require from you, aside from your usual utmost diligence in the matter, is to treat Doctor Bennett as though he were Doctor Wilson himself."
I have to admit, I was a little offended by this. Despite my various shortcomings, I pride myself in performing my duties to the best of my abilities and as such, I did not appreciate such off-hand implication. However, Lucas Ruthledge is my employer, and it wouldn'tve done to protest at such a minor thing.
"I will perform my duties to the best of my abilities, sir."
"Of that, I have no doubt. My concern is mostly due to your… er, special relationship, if you will, with Doctor Wilson."
I was, admittedly, offended.
"He helped me. That is the extent of my special relationship with him. He did not continue helping me, he simply helped me stand on my own feet. I owe it to him to be the best I can possibly be."
"Which is why I feel confident in handing you this case, Nurse Duckett. You are to be Doctor Bennett's aide in this matter, and I do expect you to continue with your work. Nothing further."
"Thank you, sir."
I bowed my head and got up to leave. He waited for me to get to the door to speak once more.
"And I trust Doctor Wilson's case files are secure in their vault?"
I didn't quite like the implication, again, but this time, I didn't mind it so much as think it superfluous to state.
"Yes, sir."
"I admire your commitment, Nurse Duckett. Make sure you give Doctor Bennett your full cooperation and let him know the extent of what he will be dealing with. We can never be too cautious."
Of that, I was absolutely certain.
As I returned to my quarters, Northeast wing, I passed through the unfortunates' ward. It's a habit I have developed over the years, working for Hieronymous. I pass through their territory in order to remind myself where I would have been – it is akin to visiting a possible past, or a fond regret. A sense of what was, juxtaposed against a very clear vision of what would have been, had it not been for some intervening thing that to me carries the name of Hieronymous Q. Wilson.
The ward usually is ululating with their noise; their protestations and lamentations fill the air; and the dim corridors and stone walls take on the eeriness that the residents of the hall bring. They have an uncanny ability to sense who is walking through their hallways, as they are, or have become in the span of decades, the hallways themselves. The sensation of being removed from the asylum itself, if not from everything else as well, floods me instantly as I enter that corridor. Every time. And while the damned inside their cells scream, wail, taunt and curse at all the others, they somehow don't make a sound when I pass through. The cells behind me start their rambling and the cells in front gradually lessen until I am at level with them. I become a wave, silencing them.
I always get an inescapable notion that, their silence isn't respectful, watchful, or of any other comforting sort; it is welcoming, it is acceptant, it is expectant and it is courteous. I believe they seldom unleash their ramblings and their noise upon me because they recognize me as one of them, not one of the others.
There are times, believe you me, that I wish I wasn't here. However, the asylum has a strange way of welcoming some of its guests, and those guests usually fall in between the lines dividing the fortunates from the unfortunates. Like Grace Halloway or the caretaker, Mister Norbert, we are the fortunate ones that have grown to love Ruthledge's like a home, a home that once was the scene of our greatest fears and most dire precipices which now becomes shelter from the cold, a place to call our own. Although our self-contained quarters are all we have, I do not mind it one bit, and I know the others do not either; it's all we have, and we intend to make the best of it.
I suppose Hieronymous learned the hard way that once you allow yourself to be immersed in the asylum, there is no place left for you in the real world anymore.
