The Radcliffe Asylum
“Y ou don’t have to do this, Alice.” Constance runs after me, as I’m on my way to the control room.
I have the weight of the dead March on my shoulders, determined to go. I’ve even picked him up with the cap and the screws still bolted into his head.
“Let her do it,” Tom argues with Constance. “She’s a hero. She should sacrifice herself for us.”
“And what should you do?” Constance fires back.
“I’m like the crowd watching all those superhero movies. I’m supposed to clap while eating popcorn and feel good about myself when I go home — until the next superhero movie, of course.”
“You’re such a low life.” Constance pushes him away and grabs at my jeans. “Alice, listen to me. We have time to escape. Leave the March on the chair and let his weight fool the sensors.”
“I can’t believe you’re telling me this,” I say.
“I’m sorry. It’s brutal, but this is war. It has casualties.”
“Stop talking like an adult,” I snap. “Seriously, it’s confusing me.”
“Go, Alice,” Tom encourages me. “It’s the right thing to do. Even the Pillar would have told you so.”
“The Pillar is a coward. He killed Jack.”
“And here is your reason to escape,” Constance plays games with my mind. “How would you avenge Jack if you stay here?”
The thought does tamper with my thinking. Just a little.
It’s also too late. I’ve already kicked the door to the control room open with the March on my back. The room is surprisingly filled with smoke.
“Oh, no,” Tom panics. “What’s burning in here?”
“Nothing’s burning.” Constance stands with hands on her waist.
She is staring at the chair Tom has been talking about.
Me, too.
She is right. The room isn’t burning.
The smoke’s source is a hookah. The Pillar is sitting on the chair, glancing back with his beady eyes. “This is some sick chair you’ve got here, Tom!”