Alice Liddell
- Aspiration: Knowledge
- LTW: Become a Prestidigitator
- Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius
- Personality: 2 Sloppy, 4 Shy, 7 Active, 6 Playful, 6 Nice
- Turn-Ons: Black Hair, Creative
- Turn-Offs: Glasses
- Predestined Hobby: Nature
- Interests: Enjoys - Money, Environment, Fashion; Dislikes - Crime, Culture, Health
I had hoped my days in a place called "Rutledge Asylum" were over. At least this place isn't a full asylum. They tell me it's an outpatient home, for people who are just a little unwell. Good to know they acknowledge my current sickness isn't serious. Though I wish they'd just leave me be. So I still hallucinate a little. They're not terrifying hallucinations anymore; I rather enjoy them, in fact. It makes the scenery around here so much nicer. And I know they're not real, and I'm not hurting anyone -- why not just let me live my life in peace, now that I've avenged my family?
Well, my situation isn't hopeless, at least. Dr. Carson told me that if I proved myself capable of living with other people and being a "productive member of society," I'd be released in short order. I'm even allowed to get a job, if I like. Though there aren't many options out there for a young lady -- besides the obvious. But I'm never going down that route. I'd rather be dead first. I'll find something else.
Well, my situation isn't hopeless, at least. Dr. Carson told me that if I proved myself capable of living with other people and being a "productive member of society," I'd be released in short order. I'm even allowed to get a job, if I like. Though there aren't many options out there for a young lady -- besides the obvious. But I'm never going down that route. I'd rather be dead first. I'll find something else.
I suppose what I should be most grateful for is that this tiny little "outpatient home" has an easel and art supplies. At least I'll be able to continue my drawing. Maybe I can make some improvements to my artwork as time goes by. Alice Liddell, the famous painter? People have bought art from stranger persons, I'm sure.
The other girls with me seem harmless enough. None of us are said to be a danger to ourselves or others. Most of them seem to be obsessed with sport. Two of them spent almost the entire day throwing a ball to each other. Odd, but I don't mind. If it makes them happy and keeps them out of my hair. . . We're living here on our own, after all. I still think it's a little strange none of the doctors are staying on to supervise, but I can't really complain about it either. The more privacy I have, the better.
The various doctors have said I've got to work on my "socialization skills" -- I somehow resisted the urge to tell them I think it's the rest of the world who has the problem, not me. I have tried to start up the odd conversation with the other girls, but none of them pay me much mind. Again, I can't really complain. Dr. Wilson may have called me "an interior and lonesome child," but I've never really minded being alone. My imaginary friends (and yes, doctors, if you're reading this, I do know they're imaginary) keep me company better than most humans do.
I did have a bit of a chat with one of the locals who stopped by -- a Mr. Sanjay Ranaswami. I'm surprised anyone would want to visit an insane asylum, even one for people who are known not to be dangerous, but he said some people from the village always come and check up on the new patients. He seemed oddly happy to have us here, to tell the truth. Said we seemed a good bunch, and that we'd be welcomed into the community once we became well. That's good, at least. I don't need more people being horrible to me for being in an asylum. Any place that is friendlier than London (or willing to leave me alone) is fine by me.
And he was the one to tell me about the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Boys just down the street. After hearing that name, I just had to go visit. Apparently the similarity in name to the one in London is just a coincidence, though I still have my suspicions. I wouldn't be surprised if Bumby tried to spread his evil as far as he could reach.
Then again, the people living there at the moment are all adults, and none of them seem particularly interested in sex. I actually had a rather nice conversation with a fellow called Victor Van Dort. He's rather soft-spoken and shy, but he seemed as sane as anyone. I don't know why he's in Houndsditch -- he was reluctant to say. I told him a bit about my history (no point in keeping it secret, the London Illustrated News has probably printed a whole new issue about me), and we talked a bit about what we might do when we get our freedom. He seems like a sweet young man. I don't think I'd mind talking to him again.
Then again, the people living there at the moment are all adults, and none of them seem particularly interested in sex. I actually had a rather nice conversation with a fellow called Victor Van Dort. He's rather soft-spoken and shy, but he seemed as sane as anyone. I don't know why he's in Houndsditch -- he was reluctant to say. I told him a bit about my history (no point in keeping it secret, the London Illustrated News has probably printed a whole new issue about me), and we talked a bit about what we might do when we get our freedom. He seems like a sweet young man. I don't think I'd mind talking to him again.
He's better company than some of the strange people around here, anyway. How anyone can enjoy being spun and thrown around on that infernal gyroscopic device is beyond me. I understand it's better than the leeches, but not by much! Yet this one girl, Susie, seems almost addicted to the device. I heard her getting on and off it all day.
And encouraging others to try it! She's never getting me on that thing if I can help it. I was forcibly strapped into one at the other Rutledge -- never again. The doctors can prattle on about it restoring the balance between your phlegm and your biles and all that -- I know for a fact all it does is make you nauseous.
As at least one girl can attest. I have to admit, I feel for poor Joy a bit. We're completely on our own here, so there's no one to clean up after us. Throwing up, then having to clean up your own vomit? The standards at this place are appalling.
And that's not even getting into the seating and bed issue. There's only two dining chairs, and only five beds! Do they expect us to take turns sleeping? Really, though, I'm not that surprised. From what I've seen, psychiatrists care more about their fees than their patients. At least they've allowed us all to keep our hair. I expected to have mine shaved off for another wig. (I hope whoever got my last batch of hair appreciated it.)
And of course there's the issue of danger when --
I really did not want to think about this again today. But the fact of the matter is, Julie nearly set the place on fire our first day here. Apparently that old stove we use for cooking was so caked with grime that when Julie went to dispose of some old sandwiches. . .
I really did not want to think about this again today. But the fact of the matter is, Julie nearly set the place on fire our first day here. Apparently that old stove we use for cooking was so caked with grime that when Julie went to dispose of some old sandwiches. . .
I think I should be praised for keeping my head. I almost had a panic attack, but I managed to find an extinguishing device and put out the flames. I wasn't going to let anyone suffer the same fate as my parents and Lizzie. I don't care who you are -- unless you're on the same level of pure, unmitigated evil as one Angus Bumby, you don't deserve to die like that. God I hope it doesn't happen again. I hate fire. . .
Well, it shouldn't happen again anytime soon, anyway. I gave that stove a good thorough scrubbing after the incident. And Julie's given me her word she'll try and keep a handle on the dirt. I like Julie already. (Although I think being rather obsessed with cleanliness is what got her in here. . .but if it saves our lives from the neglect of our doctors, I'm all for it.)
I need not to dwell on it. It happened, it's over, no one got hurt. And as horrible a place as this facility is, at least it's in the sunshine, and I'm allowed to go outside. I'm allowed to do a lot of things I wasn't before. And I'm going to make the most of those opportunities. I'm going to show these blasted psychiatrists that I can function in normal society. That just because I see a rather more colorful world than everyone else doesn't mean I need to be locked up. I can do this. I will do this. As God as my witness, I will show them I'm not crazy (or not enough to be locked up), and I will earn my freedom once and for all!
Right now, though, I need to find myself a bed for the night. I haven't washed at all today (everyone else was hogging our one shower -- we don't even get a proper bath here, just artificial rain), but maybe that'll work in my favor. Someone might be willing to give up a bed for a while in order to flee my smell. At any rate, I need a good night's sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.
***
Someone BROKE the bloody shower today! And because it was so late at night, I couldn't find a repairman willing to come over! I had to go at the damned thing myself with just a wrench and my good intentions! Fortunately all it was was a loose pipe -- I managed to fit it back together with some struggle. But ugh, the mess all that water left -- whoever broke it can clean it up. My maid days are technically over.
Other than that, though, I suppose I have no real reason to complain about my life here. Yes, it's cramped and crowded and I want desperately to get out, but no major disasters have befallen us yet. I even completed my first painting today. It's -- no masterpiece, but I'm sure with practice my old skills will make a reappearance.
The other girls are tolerable companions. I actually played a rather nice round of chess with Julie. I told her of my intentions to get a job and earn my way out of this place. She seemed skeptical at first ("A woman earning money? Surely that's not right,") but she wished me the best of luck in the end. So that's heartening, at least.
On the other hand, this same girl wandered around after our game with her hand frozen in one position for no reason at all. I asked her if she'd hurt herself, and she just gave me a funny look. It was like she didn't realize anything was wrong with her arm at all. A bit of a sad reminder that these girls do need to be here.
Frankly, though, I didn't need a reminder. The other girls' baffling obsession with grilled cheese is reminder enough. They can't seem to get enough of it. They talk about it constantly -- its smell, taste, texture, look. . .
And of course, they're constantly gorging themselves on plates of the stuff. I talked to Victor, and he said it's the same at his house. He can't figure out the reason behind it either. I'm not one to object to a hot meal, but at this point -- God, do I want something with meat or vegetables in it. Even a bowl of mock turtle soup sounds delicious. (Excuse me for saying so, Mock Turtle.)
I must remind myself not to expect sane behavior from women who seem to enjoy using the gyroscope. Susie claims it did wonders for her figure, as does Joy. Perhaps it has reduced their waists -- by making it so their stomach is too twisted up to hold food.
I'll take my exercise via jumping rope, if no one minds. Frankly, I was surprised to find one in the asylum. Aren't they supposed to remove things like this, for fear the patients will use them to hang themselves? Then again, this is an outpatient home -- I guess they feel they can trust us a little better.
Victor agrees with me on this -- he brought up the fact that he and I were allowed to bring our own clothes, rather than asylum-standard outfits, as further proof. (Which is good -- I've actually become a bit fond of this dress.) I must say, I'm quite glad I met him. We talk regularly over the phone, and I think I can safely call him a friend now. He's just -- easy to talk to. And so friendly and kind. . . (Oh, look at me, I'm going soppy.)
What baffles me is why he's in Houndsditch Home at all. He's very closed-mouth about why he was committed. Says I may hate him if I find out the reason. I don't think I could, unless he was going around murdering children. I suppose the part that confuses me the most is the fact that he's apparently the son of the amazingly rich William Van Dort, of the Van Dort fish empire, and yet he's living in a place like Houndsditch! Couldn't his parents afford private, specialized care for whatever it is he's got?
Oh, does it really matter? If they had, I wouldn't be able to speak with him. And -- and I don't like the idea of not knowing him. He's -- well, he's a partner in all of this madness. He wants to get out as much as I do.
Maybe we can
Oh, does it really matter? If they had, I wouldn't be able to speak with him. And -- and I don't like the idea of not knowing him. He's -- well, he's a partner in all of this madness. He wants to get out as much as I do.
Maybe we can
***
I am ruing the day I was brought to this horrible place.
The girls managed to set the kitchen on fire again.
The girls managed to set the kitchen on fire again.
It was the screams that brought me running -- the same sort I heard in my house the night that changed my life forever. I felt like throttling someone when I saw the blaze -- aren't we all supposed to be helping in keeping that blasted oven clean? I know I always do my part -- why can't they do theirs?!
At least I was able to get the flames quenched safely, and no one was hurt. I swear, it's like someone up there wants one of us to be killed. I'm going to be checking that oven every five minutes for grime for the next few days, I know it. Isn't Julia's problem an obsession with cleanliness? Where was she when --
No, I shouldn't. They're crazy, or at least an little unwell. We all slip up. I just wish that didn't sometimes mean nearly burning the asylum down.
No, I shouldn't. They're crazy, or at least an little unwell. We all slip up. I just wish that didn't sometimes mean nearly burning the asylum down.
Things are slowly beginning to deteriorate in general here at Second Rutledge (as I've come to think of it). The girls' mania for grilled cheese continues, with the result that we're rapidly running out of food. Victor says that things are much the same over in Second Houndsditch. It's baffling, honestly -- not in the least because it suggests that what we mainly had for food was bread and cheese. Bread I understand, I suppose, but cheese? What happens when that goes bad? Or did whoever set up the place know my roommates would be cooking it day and night?
And the situation with the loo is just getting worse and worse. I thought a fistfight was going to start up the other day over who got to use the shower first. I've tried to petition for the installation of a second bathroom, or at least a second toilet, but the people in charge keep ignoring me. Bastards. That's why you can't trust authority.
But something's got to be done. I don't know how much more incidents I can take of someone coming into the loo while I'm showering and just staring at me. As if that'll make me disappear so they can use the facilities.
Donna, at least, has a slightly better head on her shoulders. When she finally cottoned on I wasn't going to move for anyone, she decided to go ahead and have a sponge bath at the sink. It took three extra minutes and a particularly hard glare to scare -- was it Susie? The steam made it hard to tell -- away.
And no, I don't particularly care if any of them see me naked -- we're all women, we all know basically what we look like. I just object to being treated like I don't deserve to have a shower.
And no, I don't particularly care if any of them see me naked -- we're all women, we all know basically what we look like. I just object to being treated like I don't deserve to have a shower.
Maybe I'm being too harsh on the others again. I know their time in here is starting to wear on their nerves, just like it's wearing on mine. Joy in particular spends a lot of her time staring off into space, worrying to herself. It's rather sad, honestly. I'd give her some help, but -- I'm no psychiatrist. I can barely help myself in cases like these.
And some of the others are becoming increasingly obsessed with privacy. I've had to tell them a couple of times that just because I'm standing nearby doesn't mean I can see into their diaries. Nor would I want to read anything if I could. They respect the privacy of my journal, so I'll respect the privacy of theirs. (Besides, I doubt they're writing something I want to read in the first place.)
It's not all bad. Julie remains an interesting conversational partner, even if she does suffer from that strange condition where her arm gets stuck in positions sometimes. It's nice to have someone to talk to around here. And, of course, Victor's always just a phone call away. I should see if I can get another day pass to visit him at Houndsditch. I'm sure he'd like some company that isn't grilled-cheese-obsessed men.
I know I could use some that isn't grilled-cheese-obsessed women. I'm keeping my sanity by painting on the easel whenever I can. Being able to paint pictures does quite a lot to ease my stress. (Dr. Wilson always wondered why I was so protective of that pencil I got. Being able to draw what was in my mind seemed to lessen its horrors somewhat.) My mind might be more well-ordered these days, but art still remains a passion. One day, maybe I could make a living painting pictures of my Wonderland. (Or Londerland, or whatever it is these days.)
Chess helps too, though that always comes with some painful memories about playing chess with Papa. I don't know whether I'm happy or sad about the fact the chess set we have here is green and blue, not white and red.
Well, no matter what happens here, I refuse to break again. I've defeated the demons of my past twice, both inside and outside my mind. I can free myself from the confines of Second Rutledge. I'm stronger now, and braver. I will survive.
Oh -- there's some absolutely beautiful fireflies outside my window. Maybe I'll try and catch some. Seems like the perfect way to end my day. Just what I need to recover from the trauma of that second fire.
Oh -- there's some absolutely beautiful fireflies outside my window. Maybe I'll try and catch some. Seems like the perfect way to end my day. Just what I need to recover from the trauma of that second fire.
***
And Victor thinks things are getting bad in Second Houndsditch -- over here, someone finally lost their mind for a little while! Not someone I expected, either. I always thought Julie would be the first to snap, what with her odd little arm thing that pops up from time to time, but no. Instead it was Carole. Poor girl, it was rather distressing to see her sprawled on the floor like that. (Yes, hypothetical reader, I am capable of empathy. I may be a little hard, but I do care.)
At least she went mad in service to a good cause. There was another stove fire, but instead of acting like a chicken with her head cut off, Carole grabbed the extinguisher and put it out. Without me even knowing about it! I learned about this when I came in looking for a meal -- American told me Carole doused the flames, then collapsed on the floor. I think the stress of having to deal with such a dangerous stove got to her, and I don't blame her. This is the third fire we've had! Can't we get any better equipment in this house? At least a sprinkler?
She's feeling better now, though it was a near thing. She spent much of the afternoon either knocked out on her arse or acting like a monkey. It was -- worrying. But by the end of the day she was acting like a person again. Still, I'm probably going to have to keep a close eye on her for a while.
Actually, I probably have to keep a pretty close eye on all of them. Suzie's not acting all that sane either at the moment. I keep finding her stuffing her face at the fridge. Which would be fine, except that it constantly shortens the amount of time between grocery deliveries, and I still don't have a job yet. The money I dragged out of Radcliffe to keep me solvent in here won't last forever. (And nobody replies to my letters saying the people in charge should be paying to keep us fed. People wonder why I don't like authority.)
I also found Joy and Laura punching each other the other day in the common room. They claimed they were playing a game, but the way they kept rubbing their upper arms makes me wonder how friendly a game it was. Girls, really -- the only violent person in this asylum should be me. And even then, only in my head. (Not even then these days, should the doctors happen to read this. None of my enemies seem to want to come around and bother me in Wonderland. Fine by me.)
And of course, every last one of them is still obsessed with grilled cheese sandwiches. It's the only thing any of them will cook. My pleasure over having a constant source of food has dwindled dramatically. At this point, I think I'd vomit if made to eat more cheese.
I've taken -- a bit desperately -- to studying a cookbook I found in the bookshelf to try and figure out how to make some other dishes. I'd even settle for another kind of sandwich at this point. Though, if I had my druthers, what I really want is chocolate cake. Or vanilla cake. Or any kind of cake, really. If these women were making cake every day, I wouldn't say a word of complaint.
Then again, I'm not entirely sure they will eat anything else. None of them seem willing to put anything into their mouths that isn't two pieces of toasted bread with cheese in the middle. I'm half-worried that they'll starve to death if I attempt to ban the stuff from the house. If only I could figure out the whys of their obsession.
Of course, we have to remember that I'm not the best person to judge anyone's sanity, or lack thereof. Not only do I still suffer from visual hallucinations, I actually let one of the girls talk me into taking a ride on that blasted gyroscope. (Well, to be honest, what really happened is that Donna told me she'd report me if I didn't take at least one session in it. I thought about punching her, but then I realized that was probably just as quick a trip back to Proper Rutledge, so I went ahead and got on the stupid thing.)
It ended about as well as you could expect. At least the one in Proper Rutledge had safety restraints! Here you're just expected to hold on! Donna can kiss my arse -- I'll stick to jumping rope, thank you very much.
I shouldn't write only about all the awful things happening -- it just makes me angry and depressed, and probably lengthens the amount of time I'll have to stay in here. All right, writing about something good before I go to bed. . .
Ah, yes, there was this adorable Siamese cat outside our gates today. Friendly little creature too -- he purred and purred when I stroked him. I so wish I could adopt him and let him live with me. But pets aren't allowed in this asylum, and I don't know if I want him to be tormented by the cheese-obsessed lunatics here anyway.
Ah, yes, there was this adorable Siamese cat outside our gates today. Friendly little creature too -- he purred and purred when I stroked him. I so wish I could adopt him and let him live with me. But pets aren't allowed in this asylum, and I don't know if I want him to be tormented by the cheese-obsessed lunatics here anyway.
I'll just have to keep relying on my easel and the chessboard to keep me sane. And regular phone calls to Victor. It's really nice, having someone to talk to about all of this. Maybe between the two of us we can finally figure out the reason behind the odd behavior of our roommates.
***
I have a job!
It's one where I'm entertaining bratty little children for a living, but it's a JOB!
I'm so proud of myself. Looking in the paper every day has finally paid off. This company that hires entertainers had an ad in the Times, and after I made sure it wasn't for "adult" entertainment, I went ahead and applied. And today they brought me in, had me tell a few jokes, and told me I'd be working as an entertainer for women who wanted to give their children something extra for their birthday. I've never heard of anything so frivolous in my life, but as long as it pays me.
It's one where I'm entertaining bratty little children for a living, but it's a JOB!
I'm so proud of myself. Looking in the paper every day has finally paid off. This company that hires entertainers had an ad in the Times, and after I made sure it wasn't for "adult" entertainment, I went ahead and applied. And today they brought me in, had me tell a few jokes, and told me I'd be working as an entertainer for women who wanted to give their children something extra for their birthday. I've never heard of anything so frivolous in my life, but as long as it pays me.
Truth be told, though, I'm a little worried about leaving the other girls alone. After all, they set the kitchen on fire again yesterday. I swear, someone up there is trying to give me a heart attack. Are you that desperate I join my parents and sister? (And if that's the case, then why didn't you let one of my suicide attempts succeed? That's when I actually wanted to die. No, doctors who may or may not be reading this, I am no longer suicidal. I don't want to abandon my life just because it gets hard sometimes.)
I expressed this worry to Donna (over yet more grilled cheese), and she said that they would be fine. "We all want out of this place, Alice. If this job if your ticket to a better life, you should definitely take it." I'll say this for my fellow girls -- they're very supportive of each other.
Of course, I should also mention that supportiveness extends to cheering each other on when they try to kill themselves on the gyroscope. So it's not really all that comforting. I was half-expecting them to all be like Carole was not so long ago by the time I got back from my interview.
But no, everyone was safe and alive when I got back. American and Joy were even laughing and joking like they'd known each other for years. It was -- it was nice, honestly. The sort of thing you like to come back to after work. Maybe things will work out for the best after all.
Though, admittedly, I couldn't get the girls to say what they'd been doing most of the night. They gave me very vague answers, like "played a game" or "just stood around talking."
And a lot of them had absolutely atrocious hygiene. They smelled as if they hadn't bathed in weeks! And I know that's not the case, since we're always having minor arguments about who's entitled to use the bathroom when.
Are they keeping something from me. . . ?
Oh, what do I really care? They're grown women -- they don't need a babysitter! They've proven they can take care of themselves, more or less. I've got more important things to do. Like practice telling jokes. (There's something I never thought I'd write.)
***
Oh thank God or whoever you want to thank, I've been promoted. They say I can be a mime now. I'm just glad I can give up that ridiculous costume they made me wear. Whenever I walked out to the carriage in that thing, I felt like I should turn around and just lock myself right back in the asylum. Besides, I was never any good at making those "balloon animals." I kept popping them and making children cry.
Truthfully, though, lately I've been wondering if I even should have a job. The doctors haven't been coming over at all lately, which I suppose leaves me more or less in charge of the place. And some of the women -- particularly Carole -- haven't been doing well.
Carole keeps having crying fits, regardless of what she's doing. She told me that she misses her family, that she should be married to a good man by now and raising his children, and some other things I didn't catch because of the sobbing. I really do feel for her. While getting married and raising kids were never high priorities for me (though -- I have to say, it would be nice), I know that's what a lot of women feel they have to do. And Carole's always been one of the kindest among us. She really would have been a good mother.
Unfortunately, she's decided that if she can't have a real baby, a flour sack with a face drawn on it will do. I caught her cooing to it in the bathroom. I tried to snap her out of it (me trying to snap someone out of a hallucination. That's rich), but she just shushed me and said I was disturbing little Gerald's nap.
And then she proceeded to toss him roughly into the air. Which makes me rethink my comments about her being a good mother. Then again, she isn't at her best at the moment. . . .
In fact, she had another full-on breakdown today while I was at work. Because SOMEONE left the stove uncleaned, and -- I swear to God, that thing catches on fire so often it's like they'd prefer to see me comatose rather than mildly hallucinating nice things! Either that or they're trying to kill us all. . .
Either way, putting out yet another blaze was too much for Carole, and she retreated to inside her own head. Fortunately she blocked the stove by doing so. Once we were able to get her coherent again, I was able to clean the damn thing. God knows what good it'll do -- I'm just glad I wasn't there to see it this time.
And it's not just Carole who's suffering. While she's the one who's had the most dramatic breakdown, I've seen a lot of the other girls muttering and worrying to themselves. Victor does not know how lucky he has it with those men. Where are the doctors who are supposed to be running this place?! Aren't they being paid to take care of us?!
I'm just glad I have people I can talk about this with. I've made friends of a kind with Mr. Ranswami. He asks me a bit about my job, and if we've eaten anything except grilled cheese yet. He's very nice about it, but I get the feeling he's pretty amused by our antics. Still, I'm not one to deny anyone their schadenfreude, and having someone to talk to who isn't in an asylum helps a lot.
I'm going to survive this. No matter how many fires there are, no many how many times the girls around me break down, I will survive this. I will not break again. I will climb to the top ranks of my job, and I will leave this place with my head held high.
But first, I'm going to paint, because that helps me calm down enough to sleep.
But first, I'm going to paint, because that helps me calm down enough to sleep.
***
I am surrounded by mad people, and not the kind I like. I had the day off today, so I invited Mr. Ranswami over. He asked if he could bring his wife -- I agreed. People are always telling me I should be more social. I expected a nice talk with my new friend, something to help get my mind off the fact I was in an asylum.
Bastard wanted to talk about grilled cheese.
Bastard wanted to talk about grilled cheese.
His wife was a slightly better conversationalist -- or, at least, a more interesting one. She told me all about how aliens had once come to the town and made it peaceful and prosperous. And people say my hallucinations are odd. Still, she was polite about it. I'm not willing to write the Ranswamis off just yet as potential helpers in my quest to get out of here. The more friends I have on the outside, the better.
Case in point -- I forced myself to introduce myself to a complete stranger passing by, since that's what the supposedly normal people do. The woman's named Christy Yang (she doesn't look Oriental in the slightest, though), and she was pleasant enough to talk to. She didn't even seem worried about the fact I was from Rutledge -- either Rutledge. I'll give this for this town -- they're very welcoming toward you regardless of your mental state.
Which is good, because I think we've lost Carole entirely. She spends half the day now taking care of her flour sack baby. She's constantly cooing to it, cuddling it, tossing it up in the air, and tickling it. It's -- it's quite sad, honestly. I've thought about hiding it, but I think that wouldn't do any good. She'd probably tear the place apart trying to find it.
Besides, I'm much more concerned with the way she's taking care of herself. Or, more accurately, not taking care of herself. She's not bathing, not sleeping properly, not eating -- yesterday, during lunch, she took a plate of food, then suddenly set it down on the floor and started wailing at the ceiling that she was starving.
Then again, maybe she was just confused by seeing lettuce on her plate instead of grilled cheese. I'm going to force these women to eat something besides that stuff if it's the last thing I do. Besides, I thought it was a rather good salad.
The main problem is, Carole isn't the only one who's been backsliding. The other girls have been having more crying fits about how their lives have gone to hell. Sometimes I'm sympathetic, sometimes I feel like telling them nothing was ever solved with tears. But that won't help them at all, will it? Argh, just because I've spent most of my life in "supervised hospitalization" does not make me a psychiatrist!
The worst of the others is definitely Susie. She's taken to wailing regularly about how she wants a life of pleasure. A life where she can do whatever she wants, free of consequences. I have to say, I think I'd like that sort of life myself. Too bad none of us will ever --
I just got up to investigate a noise, and I found Susie dancing in the common room. Wearing a lampshade with a funny face painted on it. While the other girls just played chess and read the paper.
I want to go back to work! I want to earn enough money to buy my own home! I swear, if I have to stay in this place much longer. . .
I want to go back to work! I want to earn enough money to buy my own home! I swear, if I have to stay in this place much longer. . .
No. No, I'll be strong. It doesn't matter that we now have two unabashed lunatics running around the place. I will not join them. I will not be the third.
I'm going to bed. Wonderland is less insane than this place right now. Maybe the Cat can give me some advice. . .
I'm going to bed. Wonderland is less insane than this place right now. Maybe the Cat can give me some advice. . .