Wonderland was dark, yes, but it did have a certain macabre charm in
places. This place, this dank and choking asylum was an entirely different
story. I awoke in a cramped, clammy room whose walls were made of rough
mortar and cement, and whose floor was bare, gritty and cold. There was no
light source in the room- a dingy, ambient glow filtered in from the
corridor outside though a thin, rectangular window that had no pane and
rested low on the metal door. I sat up, momentarily thankful that I was not
fastened to the cot on which I lay. The whole room was pallid, the gruel-
colored light casting only enough illumination to see that, other then the
barred cot, there was only a cracked, porcelain chamber pot in one corner
of the room. The headboard of the bed, rising only three inches from the
mattress that hosted no bed sheets, was outfitted with eyehooks to
accommodate restraints if they were ever employed. This was not a hospital.
This was a prison.
As I rose to my feet, an unsettling unease clenched at my insides. The room, the whole of Rutledge's, smelled of camphor, lye and something sickly sweet I did not recognize and, somehow, did not want to recognize. I stepped to the door and crouched enough to peer through the small window. The corridor outside was empty. I slipped my hand through the window, taking a hold of the door, and tugged.
It opened.
Easing out into the hall, I was assaulted with low sounds. I say 'assaulted' because even though it was not a loud cacophony, it was an attack on my psyche just the same. A plague of soft sobbing, wails, mutterings, moans slunk from every one of the corridor's doors, through those sickening little windows. The carpeting beneath my feet extended the length of the long hall, threadbare, and the whorls and paisleys of its design seemed to have retreated, cravenly, into the threads of the weave and become shadows only. The only thing that seemed new here were the electric light fixtures- single bulbs that hung from chains attached to the ceiling. There were sconces as well on the sullied, water stained walls and these hosted gas lamps. Even with two means of lighting, the corridor was dim, shrouded.
I had not realized exactly how I was outfitted until this moment. There were two surprises here. One was that I had somehow been changed into a pair of cambric pants and shirt, washed but obviously not new. In fact, there were two darkened, faded but unmistakable stains on the inside of each sleeve. The second surprise was that my scalpel was still with me, tucked into the waist of the loose cambric pants. This I took hold of and, so armed, began to move down the corridor.
The voices I heard were varying, but I could tell there were many children. They whimpered for their parents, or called out asking for food or water. I tried to shut their suffering out of my mind until I heard one of them say something unexpected.
"Here, kitty."
I froze and turned, slightly, staring at the door from which the call had come. There was silence from there a moment, then- "Here, kitty. Come here."
I took a few steps closer and then crouched, peering at the slit-window. Behind it, I saw a pair of pale green eyes. Small eyes, obviously belonging to a child. "I'm here," I said to the small thing.
"The seventh door. On the left." A young girl? It was difficult to tell.
"What's there?" I asked, voice as hushed as her own. "Alice? Is she there?"
"She will be. She will be," touted the child, and a weak, squealy giggle followed. "Seventh door, seventh door.I want my momma." And the giggles twisted into a sudden sob, pitiful and frightened. "Momma.momma, come get me. I'm scared. I'm scared of here. Momma.!"
I stumbled back from the plaintive cry, eyes widening and revulsion knotting in my stomach. Turning, I hurried down the hall counting doors until I had come to the seventh. It was another cell, but the door was cracked open, the lock unfastened. There was no light, no sound. I regarded the door for a long moment, realized I had no better plan than this, and walked in.
There was a sweep of inky darkness that rushed over me, I heard the door close, and then the room cleared.to reveal one of the small meeting rooms housed in the brownstone building at Jabberwock Ltd. The four side chairs at the table were empty, as was the one at the head closest to me. The other end chair was, however, occupied. A golden-haired man, perhaps thirty five, with tanned features and a tawny suit sat, hands folded on the table, looking at me.
"Sit, Charles," he invited. The voice was familiar to me, but couldn't place it. I nodded and drew out the chair, easing myself down into it. "Thank you for being prompt."
"Where am I?" I asked him, the feeling of dread being soothed away by his voice. Something about him - his strength, his poise, his tone - made me feel safe.
"There many answers I could give you to that question," the man replied. "I could tell you that you're back at the Asylum, hallucinating this due to acute schizophrenia. Or, I could tell you that you stepped through a portal and have returned to your offices on King Street. Perhaps you'd prefer to hear that you never left London, and that you've dreamed all the events up to and including this moment. Or, of course, I could just say that you're back in Wonderland again." He sighed, a little care worn. "I could call you Charles, or I could call you Cat. I could do many, many things, but the choice is up to you."
"The asylum.Alice is there. She's being hurt. This isn't about me," I said emphatically. The man lifted his hand to quiet me.
"It -is- about you," he refuted. "When Alice was in the asylum three years ago, did you care about her being hurt then?"
I started to answer sharply.then realized I couldn't. He was right. "No. All I cared about was her helping to save us. But I didn't know what they were actually -doing- to her in that place. I didn't know."
"Well, now you do know. There's a choice. This has all been about a choice. Alice was never given one, in Wonderland, but you have been, in this reality." He leaned back, and kept careful eye on me.
"I have to decide if I am going to stay here, or return to Wonderland and become the Cat again," I said, quietly.
He nodded.
"And I have to decide before I know if Alice will love me and consent to marry me. I have to choose without any certainties. Alice is never coming back to Wonderland. Is she? If I choose to return to Wonderland, I won't see her again." My brow furrowed unhappily.
The man shook his head, slowly. "No. There are other things planned for Wonderland. Alice is not part of those plans. She's done her duty. Our world's been hers for years and now it has to be someone else's."
"Whose?" I wondered, but the young, golden man would not answer. "How long do I have to make the decision."
"Until you find Alice again." He rose, smoothly. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't the fairest of games. Reality never is."
He walked to the door and opened it for me. As I started past him, I realized who he was and smiled, wanly. "Take care, Griffin," I intoned.
"Best of luck to you, Cat. Choose well," he answered, and I stepped back out into the corridor.
As I rose to my feet, an unsettling unease clenched at my insides. The room, the whole of Rutledge's, smelled of camphor, lye and something sickly sweet I did not recognize and, somehow, did not want to recognize. I stepped to the door and crouched enough to peer through the small window. The corridor outside was empty. I slipped my hand through the window, taking a hold of the door, and tugged.
It opened.
Easing out into the hall, I was assaulted with low sounds. I say 'assaulted' because even though it was not a loud cacophony, it was an attack on my psyche just the same. A plague of soft sobbing, wails, mutterings, moans slunk from every one of the corridor's doors, through those sickening little windows. The carpeting beneath my feet extended the length of the long hall, threadbare, and the whorls and paisleys of its design seemed to have retreated, cravenly, into the threads of the weave and become shadows only. The only thing that seemed new here were the electric light fixtures- single bulbs that hung from chains attached to the ceiling. There were sconces as well on the sullied, water stained walls and these hosted gas lamps. Even with two means of lighting, the corridor was dim, shrouded.
I had not realized exactly how I was outfitted until this moment. There were two surprises here. One was that I had somehow been changed into a pair of cambric pants and shirt, washed but obviously not new. In fact, there were two darkened, faded but unmistakable stains on the inside of each sleeve. The second surprise was that my scalpel was still with me, tucked into the waist of the loose cambric pants. This I took hold of and, so armed, began to move down the corridor.
The voices I heard were varying, but I could tell there were many children. They whimpered for their parents, or called out asking for food or water. I tried to shut their suffering out of my mind until I heard one of them say something unexpected.
"Here, kitty."
I froze and turned, slightly, staring at the door from which the call had come. There was silence from there a moment, then- "Here, kitty. Come here."
I took a few steps closer and then crouched, peering at the slit-window. Behind it, I saw a pair of pale green eyes. Small eyes, obviously belonging to a child. "I'm here," I said to the small thing.
"The seventh door. On the left." A young girl? It was difficult to tell.
"What's there?" I asked, voice as hushed as her own. "Alice? Is she there?"
"She will be. She will be," touted the child, and a weak, squealy giggle followed. "Seventh door, seventh door.I want my momma." And the giggles twisted into a sudden sob, pitiful and frightened. "Momma.momma, come get me. I'm scared. I'm scared of here. Momma.!"
I stumbled back from the plaintive cry, eyes widening and revulsion knotting in my stomach. Turning, I hurried down the hall counting doors until I had come to the seventh. It was another cell, but the door was cracked open, the lock unfastened. There was no light, no sound. I regarded the door for a long moment, realized I had no better plan than this, and walked in.
There was a sweep of inky darkness that rushed over me, I heard the door close, and then the room cleared.to reveal one of the small meeting rooms housed in the brownstone building at Jabberwock Ltd. The four side chairs at the table were empty, as was the one at the head closest to me. The other end chair was, however, occupied. A golden-haired man, perhaps thirty five, with tanned features and a tawny suit sat, hands folded on the table, looking at me.
"Sit, Charles," he invited. The voice was familiar to me, but couldn't place it. I nodded and drew out the chair, easing myself down into it. "Thank you for being prompt."
"Where am I?" I asked him, the feeling of dread being soothed away by his voice. Something about him - his strength, his poise, his tone - made me feel safe.
"There many answers I could give you to that question," the man replied. "I could tell you that you're back at the Asylum, hallucinating this due to acute schizophrenia. Or, I could tell you that you stepped through a portal and have returned to your offices on King Street. Perhaps you'd prefer to hear that you never left London, and that you've dreamed all the events up to and including this moment. Or, of course, I could just say that you're back in Wonderland again." He sighed, a little care worn. "I could call you Charles, or I could call you Cat. I could do many, many things, but the choice is up to you."
"The asylum.Alice is there. She's being hurt. This isn't about me," I said emphatically. The man lifted his hand to quiet me.
"It -is- about you," he refuted. "When Alice was in the asylum three years ago, did you care about her being hurt then?"
I started to answer sharply.then realized I couldn't. He was right. "No. All I cared about was her helping to save us. But I didn't know what they were actually -doing- to her in that place. I didn't know."
"Well, now you do know. There's a choice. This has all been about a choice. Alice was never given one, in Wonderland, but you have been, in this reality." He leaned back, and kept careful eye on me.
"I have to decide if I am going to stay here, or return to Wonderland and become the Cat again," I said, quietly.
He nodded.
"And I have to decide before I know if Alice will love me and consent to marry me. I have to choose without any certainties. Alice is never coming back to Wonderland. Is she? If I choose to return to Wonderland, I won't see her again." My brow furrowed unhappily.
The man shook his head, slowly. "No. There are other things planned for Wonderland. Alice is not part of those plans. She's done her duty. Our world's been hers for years and now it has to be someone else's."
"Whose?" I wondered, but the young, golden man would not answer. "How long do I have to make the decision."
"Until you find Alice again." He rose, smoothly. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't the fairest of games. Reality never is."
He walked to the door and opened it for me. As I started past him, I realized who he was and smiled, wanly. "Take care, Griffin," I intoned.
"Best of luck to you, Cat. Choose well," he answered, and I stepped back out into the corridor.
