White Rabbit

                                                                               White Rabbit

Chris Tumbleston

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Christopher Tumbleston

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As a psychiatrist for the local mental institution, I've heard some interesting stories. Tales of fantasy and delusion are the norm here. The patient I'm currently working with however, has stories that are a little crazier than most.

This guy claims he's from another world. He tells me that he can travel back to this other world any time he wants. Not an alien world, but more like another plane of reality.

He's an older and very frail looking man, but we've had to restrain him to a straitjacket and place him in a padded room. Though most of the time he is the calmest patient here, sometimes after we dose him he flails around and we're afraid he's going to injure himself.

We know almost nothing about the man. He just showed up one day. He didn't give us his name or any other information; he just started rambling about his fantasy world, and that's all he's talked about since.

Some of the other residents here have dubbed him 'White Rabbit' for his stories of that other world. I've only recently started counseling him, but he is by far the most interesting case I've ever had. When we talk he is just as rational and coherent as anyone I've ever met. His stories on the other hand are extraordinary. The way he describes it worries me. That place has become his reality. Our world is just a slight nuisance between escapes back into his fantasy.

"You do know this place doesn't really exist, don't you?" I ask, sitting with him in his padded cell.

"You'll have to hurry," he responds, looking at me through small, dark, beady eyes.

"What am I hurrying for?" I ask.

"If you want to follow me there you can, but you'll have to hurry," he responds.

I make a note of his response. I can see sanity somewhere in his eyes and I want so badly to bring it out. He is on the fence between sanity and completely losing himself to his imaginary world.

"How would I follow you there?" I ask.

This is a question I shouldn't ask. In school they taught us that the first rule is never entertain the notion that the patient's delusions are believable. But, I'm desperate. I want to save him and this may be the only way.

"How does a man follow his shadow?" he asks as his eyes light up.

"I don't know, tell me."