The Pillar’s Cell, Radcliffe Asylum, Oxford
T he Pillar is aching, though his wound was taken care of by the March. Instead of smoking hookah or cracking jokes, he is chewing on the March’s healing plants; he looks bitter, like a lamb ready for the slaughter.
“This stuff sucks,” he mumbles with a mouthful.
“You have to chew it, so you can take the pain,” Alice says.
“Thank you very much, princess.” The Pillar limps on his cane, addressing me while checking the small hole in the ground.
“Don’t call me that,” I retort. “And remember, you’re lucky I only shot your leg.”
“I’m lucky you’re a terrible shooter,” he says.
“Don’t piss me off, Pillar, or I’ll really kill you.” Veins pop in my neck. I’m not really sure I should be talking to him.
“You’ll kill me eventually. That’s what the future predicted, so let’s not act as if it’s a big deal.” He sounds bitter, and when he kneels down, his leg bursts with pain and he utters a suppressed scream. It comes out like a little girl’s scream.
Normally, I’d laugh at him, but I don’t. I’m starting to toy with the idea of not killing him anymore. What if I can make him suffer in pain for a whole year? What if I take my time with the whole ‘killing him’ thing? Welcome to the dark side of Alice, speaking up now.
“I don’t understand how the hole shrunk like that,” the Pillar says, briefly glancing at the counter displayed on-screen on TV. Five and half hours to go. Apparently the police admitted the bluff of breaking in earlier. We’re now back to the deadline.
“Could it be you read the spell wrong?” Tom suggests.
“I tried it again while you talked to Alice. It didn’t work,” the Pillar thinks out loud. “Someone has really planned this situation meticulously. We should investigate whom our host is, or we’ll never find the answers.”
“No time for that,” the March says. “We need to get out of this place.”
“How about calling Fabiola?” the Pillar suggests. “She could send help.”
“I suppose you don’t know we don’t have signals for phones or WiFi in the asylum,” Tom says.
“Since when?” I am curious.
“Just learned about it thirty minutes ago,” Tom says. “It must be Interpol’s doing. It crossed their minds that we’d seek help from outside.”
“The real question is: why wasn’t Fabiola invited?” the suspicious Alice in me asks.
“Good point,” the Pillar says.
“Maybe because she is ill in the hospital and can’t move?” The March’s tone is a bit accusatory. None of us even cared to visit Fabiola.
“Could we spare the chitchat?” Tom pops down another pill.
“We could,” the Pillar says bitterly, still chewing like a goat, and pretending the wound doesn’t hurt. “How about you gimme one of those pills?”
“You want my pills?” Tom’s eyes widen.
“I know I’d end up dumb like you.” The Pillar is still chewing. “But the pain is unbearable.”
“Be my guest.” Tom hands one over.
“Is it bitter?” The Pillar stares at it with distaste.
“Not like the stuff you’re chewing on,” Tom says.
“Do you have honey maybe? Some cinnamon to sprinkle on it? I hate pills,” the Pillar muses.
“You’re not really interested in the pill,” Tom says. “You just want to talk. You think we’re going to die in here, right?”
“Caught me.” The Pillar smirks and stuffs the pill into Tom’s mouth. He turns and flashes that grin of his at me. “Alice, why don’t you just shoot me? I mean, really shoot me?”
“What?” I tense, feeling both offended and betrayed by his apathy. “Why ask now?”
“Because whoever invited us here, really thought it through. It’s unlikely any of us will make it out alive. The only choice we have is to push the button and trap ourselves inside forever. Imagine spending the rest of your life in a bunker with all these insane pill-popping individuals. I’d prefer being shot.”