Fan Fiction ❯ M.Alice ❯ Rutledge Institute ( Chapter 2 )

So quiet she appeared. Was the deep madness already coursing through her mind?

- 23/10/73

A physician of Rutledge Institute, Dr Heironymous Q. Wilson offered to help Alice. He made elixirs and potions for her. Physically he had cured her, but the dementia slowly taking over her mind was too much for his ability. There was nothing more he could do.

Dr Wilson came into her room one day to pay her a visit. "How are you doing today, Alice?" She did not answer, just stared blankly at the ceiling.

Something moving catches his eye. A cat. Scars covered its anorexic body. It reminds of the cat that pounced on Alice when she arrived here. More emaciated though. Alice didn't seem to be making progress, so he took away her stuffed rabbit while she was asleep as punishment. "How would she react?"

"I think this is a bad idea, doctor," frowned the nurse. The next day she woke up realizing her stuffed rabbit was missing. She screamed like a banshee and banged on the walls. Anyone who came in was immediate attacked.

An orderly came to feed her. Instead of being attacked, Alice laid as if she still had her stuff rabbit. She didn't seem to be a threat this time. The orderly turned around just for a second. Alice grabbed the spoon and stabbed the orderly as he turned around, scooping his flesh. He yelled in pain and threw her off. He quickly ran out the door, screaming.

An outburst such as this shouldn't have surprised me.

- 13/4/74

The next day, Dr Wilson returned the stuffed rabbit to console her. After the act, Alice thanked him with drawings of her dreams. `Boojum! But how does she construct such fantasies?' He took her pencil away. When he returned Alice said casually:

"Mange-ridden to the core, he leads me through the fray

With the toss of a Jackbomb, I clear abomination from our way."

He asked her to describe a `Jackbomb.' Cunning and clever girl, she asked him to return her pencil.

At times there's talent in her madness.

- 26/4/74

13 August 1874

Everything I can think of, I have done. Treatments, remedies, discipline and pleasures - nothing makes a difference. Alice speaks when and about what she wants, recites poetry on a seeming whim, draws pictures at her own pleasure. She does nothing at my command, instruction, entreaty or request. She's become very willful, and nothing I do or say makes a difference. Sometimes she appears to be so close, but at other times I'm certain she'll spend the rest of her life housed behind Rutledge's gaunt brown walls… with me.