Past: Mushroom Garden, Wonderland
T he Hatter still held the hose in his hands.
With the Pillar strolling in front of him, flaring his hands sideways in a pompous way, the Hatter had to make a decision.
To save the White Queen, he had to become the Black King.
The Black King was the man who will kill the Pillar.
Not that it wasn’t handy or possible. It was just the fact that the Hatter had never killed anyone, not even an ant. In fact, he let ants run around his teacups on the table whenever he heads a party.
What would he tell the children if he killed someone? Who would he become? Was it the right move to fight evil with evil?
The Hatter’s hand stiffened midair. The Pillar was strolling away.
“Leave the hose by the mushroom,” the Pillar laughed. “I will come collect it later.”
The Pillar’s confidence pained the Hatter. Evil’s greatest privilege was knowing you, the good guy, prided yourself by being good. It meant a lot to you. It made you sleep better. It made you tolerate the turmoils of life. It made you feel better about yourself. Being good was an idea. A big one. Not just action. It granted survival by insinuating gave hope. Evil knew it was the good man’s weakness.
The Pillar had the Hatter figured out, and it was heart wrenching.
The hose glittered in the Hatter’s hand, urging him to make a move. To slice evil in two. To kill it and bury it in a grave.
A plant cautiously leaned down to whisper in the Hatter’s ears, probably worried the Pillar would notice her and torture her, “Kill him, Hatter.”
The Hatter shrugged. Neither could he say I can’t, or I will.
“How many children will be hurt if you don’t kill him?” the plant said. “Do it.”
The Hatter turned to face the plant, slowly. He worried that the plant was one of the Pillar’s tricks. But then another plant whispered.
“We hate him but no one stands in his face,” it said. “No one dares.”
“Then why should I?” the Hatter whispered back.
“Because you care,” it said. “People always say they care but very few do.”
“How do you know I care? I’m like everyone else, if not lesser.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” it said. “You care for the children. You make people laugh when you feel the pain. You came here to help Fabiola. You do care.”
“I thought I could reason with him.”
“You don’t reason with evil, Hatter,” it said. “The hose in your hand will help. It won’t give in. Let it guide you. All you have to do is to choke him with it.”
The Hatter burned from inside. Never had he been in a fight or choked someone. “So all I have to do is trust the whip?”
“Trust it,” the plant said. “Choke the Pillar and bury him in the grave. We promise we’ll unleash maggots and insects upon him and make them eat him before he dares wake up again.”
“Grave?” the Hatter wondered.
“He had dug a grave this morning, knowing you will come to see him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he plans to kill you if you don’t,” the plant hissed. “It means this grave will be closed with either your body or his inside.”
Another plant leaned forward, “The Pillar even wrote your obituary on the back of a mushroom this morning. He has it all planned. If you leave, he will kill you.”
That was the moment when the Hatter felt it for the first time. Raw survival instinct. Not only was killing the Pillar a savior to the world, but also his soul. He didn’t want to die.
His legs moved on their own toward the Pillar’s back. As he did, the whip glittered more and more.
Step after step in the muddy grounds of the garden.
Mushrooms on both sides leaned back to give way. Everyone was on the Hatter’s side. It felt reassuring.
Only a few feet behind the Pillar, he gripped the hose with both hands. Just choke him and the hose will help you.
Three feet behind him, the Pillar stopped.
So did the Hatter, swallowing hard.
Comfortably slow, the Pillar turned around.
Make no mistake. He was shocked by the Hatter’s audacity of even trying. He stared at the Hatter from top to bottom then smirked, “Are you really trying to kill me?”
“You asked for it,” the Hatter said.
“I didn’t ask for it. I gave you no choice.”
“I have a choice. To rid the world of your evil doings.”
“Poetic and naive,” the Pillar said. “I guess the plants played you.”
The Hatter shrugged. “It’s my decision to… let’s say make you promise me not to hurt anyone else, or I will kill you.”
“Is that so?” the Pillar said. “So show me your move. How are you going to kill me now?”
The Hatter took a last assuring look at the hose in his hand.
“You’re a coward,” the Pillar said. “You won’t dare lift it.”
The Hatter did. Its power ran through his veins. A burden more than a power. One that needed release. Now holding it with one hand instead of two, he slashed at the Pillar.
Who surprisingly didn’t move, though it slashed at his shoulder.
This provoked the Hatter. He stepped forward to choke him.
This time the Pillar ran.
The Hatter followed.
In a fast maneuver, the Pillar took a right and disappeared behind the mushrooms.
Too fast for the Hatter to reorient himself. Hardly stopping, he realized why the Pillar detoured.
The Hatter’s legs slipped deeper into the mud. Deeper into a void. Into a grave, the one the Pillar had dug for him this morning.
He fell to his demise.
Lying defeated on his back in the bottom of the grave, the Hatter not only realized the Pillar had killed him, but he listened to the plants and mushrooms laughing at his naivety. Oh, how they played him and convinced him to march to his own death.