Mary Alice Brandon has been through so much in her life... What happened to Mary that her human life had to end in such a horrible way? What happened to her in that asylum? Some things are better off being forgotten.
I worked VERY hard to keep this story as close to canon as I could. This was NOT easy because Stephanie Meyer had some incorrect dates to work with. So while I want it to match up with the actual series, I also wanted it to be true to real life. I did a lot of research on Asylums, and shock treatments, and the dates of when they were brought into use. The asylum I have Alice in, is in fact a real Insane Hospital in Mississippi. Since shock treatments didn't become used to treat "lunatics" until the late 20's at the very earliest, I had to find a way to make the connection with Alice. Thankfully Stephanie never gave Alice an official birthdate, so I was free to do what I want with dates, keeping them as close to the suggested dates as possible. Alice is known as Mary when she is human in my story. Alice is merely her middle name. If you have ANY questions regarding the time line, factual parts, etc. Don't hesitate to ask. The research I did was fascinating and I'd love to go into more detail.
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I had grey eyes. They shimmered; liquid silver. My black hair flowed to my shoulders, glossy in the sunlight. My skin was a creamy bronze, the result of hours under the Mississippi sun.
I was a strange girl; I had a powerful sense of intuition. It only got stronger as I aged. At first no one really seemed to notice. Everything was merely coincidence, until it became too specific…too defined. There were no coincidences.
My parent’s kept my visions a secret. They didn’t appear to be hurting me, and I was a sweet, happy child. They didn’t worry about it.
As a child, my visions were vague and happy. I never saw anything unpleasant. But the older I became, the more I could see. The pleasant ones were still there, but the darker side of human life was presenting itself to me. It scared me, and it worried my parents. I became depressed. I was only 13 years old. Already the great depression was weighing heavily on me, and it hadn’t even happened yet. All the darkness there was in the world overshadowed everything pleasant. It was too much for a girl to handle. But I did. Until, my father brought a friend home from work.
That was the night that changed everything.
It was my 14th birthday. We were having cake and my mom baked my favourite casserole. It was supposed to be a good day. The minute I met Jonathan Meyers, I lost it.
I could see everything he wanted to do to me. What he was going to do to me. All the vagueness of the visions I’d been having the last hour became clear. I screamed when he touched my shoulder. I ran away from him, knocking things over. My birthday cake splattered to the floor. Thick, pink frosting covered the floor, my dress, and my shoes. My parents tried to calm me down. The things I was seeing, it was too much. I didn’t know how to stop. I fell to the floor sobbing, rocking myself back and forth. The visions wouldn’t stop playing in my head. I couldn’t come back to reality.
I woke up in my bed. He was there. I could smell the smoke on his clothes, the whisky on his breath. Before he even realized I was awake, I was screaming, running into the hall knocking everything down. I let the hysteria take over. By the time anyone woke up he was long gone. I couldn’t find the words to speak. All I could do was cry, or scream, as the horror continued to play in my head.
He tried again, but quickly gave up on me. He moved his intentions to my sister Cynthia. She was only 8. Night after night my parents would find me in her room, screaming hysterically. They thought I was attacking my own sister. They thought I had lost it.
The truth was I had lost it. But I was protecting Cynthia. She had no idea what was going on in her room. I always scared him away before she awoke. My family was terrified of me. They didn’t know what to do. I wouldn’t speak. The only time they saw me react to anything was in the dead of night.
My parent’s tried so hard to keep me safe and happy. They did what they thought was best. They had to take care of Cynthia, and they truly believed I would be ok. I don’t blame them for their choice.
It doesn’t matter anyways… I won’t remember any of this.