THE PAST: RADCLIFFE ASYLUM, OXFORD
I wake up in the room that scares me the most. A room I suspect is a figment of my imagination. A room where I am a cripple. Where a psychiatrist tells me I am mad. That there is no hope for my recovery but falling deeper into the rabbit hole of my madness.
My knees are numb. I can’t feel them. I can’t move. This feels so real, even in the past. I am not imagining this. Being crippled in this darkened room has always been my reality. I just never knew the circumstances that led to it.
Now it’s clear to me. Waltraud broke my knees while I tried to escape the first day I arrived in the asylum. And that’s when I met the faceless doctor behind the curtain of darkness separating us now.
“Welcome, Alice,” he says. I can’t see him. I can only smell the tobacco he’s smoking from a pipe. “It’s been a long time since we last met.”
As he speaks, I realize I’m not under the Lullaby pill’s influence now. My mind reels with memories. A lot of them now. I think I know who I am. I think I know what happened. But it can’t be true. It just can’t be.
Better listen to what the doctor has to say.
“I think the Lullaby pill was an early call,” he says. “I should have waited a little longer.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“I understand if you don’t remember correctly. I also understand if your memories seem a little shuffled. Fact and fiction will meld into each other. But it will only take a few moments before you remember.”
“Remember what?” The headache is killing me once. The memories twice.
“Remember who you really are.” He slightly rocks in his chair. He seems satisfied with this conversation.
“Who in the world am I?” I tilt my head and stare into the darkness he is hiding behind. Imagine you stare into a mirror, and all you see is black. “Answer me!”
“Who do you think you are?”
Playing games again. The tobacco smells like the Pillar’s smoke. I know that much now. Is that possible? “Who am I?” My voice is weakening. I don’t want to start sobbing. Everyone deserves to know who they are.
“Who do you think you are?” he repeats.
“What’s this supposed to mean? Are you saying I’m not the Real Alice?”
“On the contrary,” the voice says. “You’re the Real Alice. Always was. Always will be. And that may be the problem.”
I dismiss his last sentence. I feel healthier in my body all of a sudden because he said I’m the Real Alice. It’s all that mattered to me from the beginning.
“Say it again, please.”
He laughs. “You’re the Real Alice. Don’t doubt that.”
“And you are?” I squint at the darkness. “It’s you, the Pillar, right? For some nonsensical reason, you played this game with me. Maybe you wanted to make sure I was up to the mission of saving lives. Right? Please tell me I’m right. Tell me you’re the Pillar. I won’t hold grudges. Just get it over with.”
The silence that follows is so profound I am aware of my beating heart. The rocking chair bends forward, just a little. Smoke drifts near my face and the voice speaks to me: “No, Alice. I’m not the Pillar. You can call me Mr. Jay.”