bedlam; bellatrix lestrange

WELCOME TO : WONDERLAND

disclaimer: chappie is long af

dying wasn't like henry thought it would be like.
     he assumed that it would be like falling asleep and waking up in a different place. that it would be simple, quick, painless.

that one fateful—painful—afternoon, he had been arguing with dr. greenacre, who had assembled a bunch of other ragtag psychiatrists to come argue with him, tell him that his methods of treating insanity were wrong.
he could feel his lips curling back in a vicious sneer, marring his otherwise picture-perfect features, as he thought about it. about her.
dr. phyllis greenacre.
what a joke. he couldn't believe she of all people had even qualified to go to psychiatric school. and then she had the audacity to question his treatments? she was a woman. sure, she may have made it this far, but that still didn't mean anything.
it was probably luck.

henry had been vehemently denying the ridiculous death rates of his lobotomies, which greenacre seemed to have pulled out of thin air. she was probably just jealous that his treatments worked. he had been feeling fine, albeit slightly winded due to the intense verbal sparring he was engaging in. then, in the blink of an eye, everything went wrong.
it started with the air in his lungs becoming stale and heavy, refusing to enter or leave his body. it sat like a dead weight in the center of his chest that seemed to grow heavier with each second that passed.
then came the choking. some invisible force snaked its way stealthily around the back of his neck, only making its presence known when it suddenly jerked tight around his throat, throttling him. at that exact moment, the weight on his chest increased painfully and he slumped slowly onto the floor, clutching his throat and curled up against the feeling of his chest caving in on itself.

the world was ending. the world was ending. the world was fucking ending.

henry's body twitched as his chest felt like it was being trampled on. he heaved desperately, lungs gasping and stuttering as he attempted to draw air into them. it didn't work. henry clawed desperately at his neck, knowing his face was probably turning purple from the lack of oxygen.
he was so focused on the pain and panic he was experiencing that he didn't even realize that the other psychiatrists had gathered around him until he looked up. ironically, his eyes immediately locked onto the gaze of dr. greenacre, whose stare had felt like it was boring a hole into his head. when his eyes met hers, he saw fear and panic swimming in them.

chest suddenly hurting less—though he was still convulsing slightly—henry then felt oddly calm.
he was going to die. he knew it, somehow.
as henry's eyelids fell closed, he could have sworn that dr. greenacre's eyes flashed red. she was the last thing he saw, the picture of a garish cheshire cat smile spreading wide flickering across her face, before he fell down the suffocating darkness.

henry woke up from the fall with a jarring jolt. he was dressed in a familiar looking white gown, and laying on a white bed with stiffly pressed sheets and sharp creases. it was only until he tried to get off the bed when he realized that there were thick purple vines coiled around his arms and legs, effectively holding him down in place.
what is this place?
henry felt odd, laying there bound to his bed.
why does this feel so familiar? 
looking up, henry was met with wilderness. mushrooms towered above him like luridly colored trees and further from him were people. they knelt by a towering bush of roses that were almost as tall as the mushrooms. they were too far away from him for henry to see what they were doing, but as they shifted on their knees—weeding, he presumed—sunlight glanced off the golden hair of one of the women kneeling on the ground.
henry was struck with another pang of deja vu he couldn't place.