Land of Wonder.

They call her crazy, but I think there's more to her than meets the eye.  At times she can speak clearly, she can understand what I'm talking about, she can converse with me until I feel a tiny speck of hope that maybe, possibly, this is finally getting somewhere.  But then she snaps--her eyes change, her face twists, her voice cracks, and she is back to her other self.  

It's been years since she was first brought in.  Before, she was under critical care (numerous cuts and scrapes, several bruises and scars, countless head injuries); but as she gained health, she began to wreak havoc.  That's when she got locked up.  That's when they called me in to "help" this supposed "lost cause."  That's when I found myself plunging headfirst into a pool of uncharted waters, my only lifesaver being my own sanity.

"How are you today?" I ask, sitting down in the usual metal chair.  My legs cross involuntarily, my hands clasp lightly on my lap, my lips form a soft grin.  I strain my eyes in the darkness before she scoots forward, her hair a mess, strands covering those inhumanly large, blue eyes.  She tilts her head as if she didn't hear me.  I repeat my question, not breaking away from her consistent gaze.

I begin to wonder which side I will be talking to today...

She giggles--high-pitched, crazed, psychotic.  "Better than great, greater than better.  I'm doing swell!"  Her eyes widen, her smile spreading in a psychedelic charm.  "And you? How are you?  Tell me, tell me, how are you, Doctor?"

"I'm doing well.  Thank you for asking."  I pause.  "Why is your hair like that?"

She swishes around, sending frayed curls of burnt gold to dance on top her head. "Oh, you mean this?"  Her haunting smile spreads.  "I was running very, very, very late today and fell down a well."  She looks away, eyes gazing downward, her lips frowning.  "I died when I fell.  It was very sad."  She shakes her head, sniffling, tssking her tongue.  "Yes, very sad indeed...sad indeed."

"You did not die," I intervene, "you are right here, talking with me.  It was just a dream."

At this, she snaps her hazy eyes on me, piercing through like daggers.  "It. Was. Not. A. Dream," she says, her voice like ice: cold and sharp.  

I sigh.  "Tell me more about your friends.  How are they doing?"

This seems to redirect her attention and her eyes soften back to the usual dreamy look. There's a moment of silence between the both of us: her staring into my eyes, face still and blank, eyelids blinking rhythmically; and me, staring right back at her, trying to read her expression, trying to understand what goes through that mind of hers. And then, she breaks the silence.  "Would you like to meet them?" she asks, her head tilting, her smile stretching to her eyes.

"Meet who?" I ask, cautiously checking the door to make sure the guard is still there.  He is but pays no attention to us.  I turn back and see she's become giddy, nearly jumping in her chains.

"My friends.  Would you like to meet them?" she replies, twitching and flinching.  

"Your friends are not here," I respond, switching my legs over.

Her deranged laugh returns. "Of course they are not here," she admits, giggling nervously. "At least not yet."

This makes my stomach twist.  In all the years of talking with her, she has never once spoken like this--so crazed, so insane, so utterly mad.  I want to force myself to realize that it's not her fault, that she can't help saying these demented things; but, at the same time, there's this horrible pang in my gut, and it's telling me that she likes being this way, that she enjoys it, that this is how she actually is, that if she didn't want to be like this she could just stop.  And that alone is what scares me to my core.

"Well," she urges, scooting forward, no more than three feet away from me now, and I catch a whiff of her scent: strawberry tarts and Earl Grey.  That smell--her smell--has always been profound ever since the day she walked through the doors of this asylum. It makes me sick, both of disgust and curiosity.  

"You know you are not permitted to leave the room," I inform, giving her an inquisitive look.  "How do you expect us to meet your friends if you cannot leave?"

Her lips curl behind her pearly teeth.  "You could let me out.  Just for a quick second. No, quicker than a second--no, quicker than that--it'll be just ten-sixths of a second."

"Ten-sixths of a second?"  I lift a brow.  "That is impossible."

Her boggled eyes bore into me.  "Impossibilities are just possibilities waiting to be possible.  And I know a place where the impossible are possible. I know a place where everyone is fine if my hair is like this.  I know a place where everyone is just like us."

I clear my throat.  "Not us.  Just you."

She gives me a look that sends a shiver down my spine. "You are one of us now, Doctor."

"I am not," I state firmly.

Then, there's a flash in her eyes and before I have the chance to intervene, to change the subject, to get her talking about something else, she begins to speak.  "Oh, but you are, Doctor.  Everyone, really, is like us--some just don't know it yet or refuse to believe it. It's best to just admit it, avoid the denial.  It's fine, it doesn't hurt or anything--being like us is fun.  You get to see the world in colors unimaginable; you get to see things that are both unrealistic and illogical; you begin to see that being just a little mad isn't the end of the world, just your sanity."  Her smile stretches impossibly wide, her chained hands extend toward me as if inviting me to grasp them.  "You can be like us, you can go to that place of wonder...all I need is your heart."

My throat goes dry, my heart pounds against my ribcage, my palms begin to perspire. And through it all, I can't break away from her enticing and haunting gaze.  

"What?" I whisper in disbelief.  

She points to the left of my chest.  "Your heart.  I need it."

My eyes narrow, my mouth hangs open in shock.  "Why do you need my heart?"

"As payment.  For the Red Queen, the Queen of Hearts.  I was thrown out and forbidden to return, but if I give her a heart I may be able to return."  Her mouth opens in an awful smile.  "And I do so miss that place..." 

"No."

"What?"

"No.  You cannot have my heart."

"But you are kind!  Don't kind people help others?!"

I stand up, outraged, disturbed.  My brain tries to concoct words, but I am left speechless, completely out of sentences.  I stare at her, hard, and shake my head.  "What is wrong with you?"

She switches her gaze to one of anger, a deep livid rage that contorts her face into a sinister look of insanity.  "GIVE ME YOUR HEART!  I WILL CUT IT FROM YOU, I SWEAR I WILL CUT IT OUT OF YOU WHILE YOU STILL BREATHE!  GIVE ME YOUR HEART!"  She claws at me, shaking her chains, struggling against her restraints, screaming, cursing, biting the air.    

That's when the guard comes in, followed by two others and a nurse, who stabs the chaotic mess of a girl in the neck with a needle.  She slowly slumps to the floor, curling into a ball, an awful mixture of giggling and crying emanating from her.

The guards ask if I'm alright, and the nurse advises me to leave her.  I nod absentmindedly and wait for them to walk out.  I look at her, sprawled in a mess on the cell's floor.  She mutters something, repeats it over and over, and it takes me awhile before I realize what she's saying.

"Who's coming?" I whisper, hesitantly kneeling.  She doesn't respond, so I reach out, my hand grazing the tip of her shaking shoulder.  Slowly, very slowly, she looks up, hair plastered over her white face, her large eyes peering up at me dazedly.

"They're coming...they're coming...they're coming...they're coming...they're coming...."

"Who?" I repeat, searching her face for the answer.  Nothing.  Nothing but the constant repeats of her voice.  And I become fed up.  I become annoyed.  I try, every damn day to get something out of this girl, try to fix her, try to help her, but I get nowhere.  "Alice! Who. Is. Coming?"

As if someone turned on a light in her shadowed head, her face freezes and she looks at me intently.  Her trembling lips pull apart and she speaks, "The ones likes us...they're coming...they're almost here...they're mad...oh, they are very, very mad...madder than me, Doctor...far madder than me...."

Although it's nonsense, it still manages to make me shiver at the thought of that terrifying image: of more mad people, insane psychos.

I brush the hair out of her eyes.  "Get some rest, Alice."  And I stand to leave.

"They're coming, Doctor...my friends...they're coming..."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Alice."

"You'll understand soon enough, Doctor...you'll see I wasn't lying...you'll understand everything I've said was true...truer than true...."

As I shut the door I find myself clutching over my heart, feeling foolish.  I snap out of it, fix my skirt, pull a strand of hair behind my ear, and walk down the fluorescent marbled hallway, ready to leave; but that's when an ear-piercing scream echoes down the hall.  It pulls me down the whitewashed walls and I find myself watching three nurses rush into a room where the screaming vibrates out of and then, suddenly, the screams stop and is replaced with whimpering. As the nurses exit, I catch one by the elbow, asking what happened.

"New patient.  Extremely unstable.  Was found drowning mice in boiling water and then feeding them to starving rabbits at a children's park--said he was just having a tea party." The nurse peers behind her back and makes a disgusted face.  "Psychotic freak."  And she walks away.

However, I don't follow pursuit.  I stare absently at the white door, where the whimpers continue to protrude from behind.  And then, as slowly as I can possibly make my muscles move, I step to the one-way window and look at the victim inside: a mess of a man, curled in a ball on the floor, wearing a frilly green and yellow tuxedo, and sports a rugged green top hat.  He keeps whimpering and shaking and I'm about to go in and make sure he's not having a seizure, but that's when he stops, sits up, props himself to stand, and looks right at the one-way.  It makes my heart jump, but I calm it as I realize he can't see me.

He takes a step closer.  And closer.  And closer.  Until he reaches the window, practically touching his nose to the glass.  His eyes move around and finally, as if he has X-Ray vision, lands on mine.  He smiles, almost charmingly, and tips his hat.  

"Care for a spot of tea?" he asks, giving me a wink.

As I back away from the window I can distinctly hear the unmistakable laugh of Alice, reverberating the walls of the asylum and my slowly crumbling sanity.