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.
4. Chapter Three : Family
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The experiments with Dr. Weiss happened once a week. The first three times he injected me nothing happened, and I would be sent back to my room after an hour. He never seemed bothered by this, “all part of the process” he would say. I knew something was going to go wrong, but I couldn’t figure out when. He seemed pleased on my fourth visit when the insulin injection caused me to go into convulsions.
The seizures left me weak, and exhausted. My muscles ached, and I would have bouts of confusion afterward. I would wake up in the darkness of the concrete cell that was my room, with no memory of leaving the buzzing lights of the exam room.
I knew this was only the beginning of the end.
After my last revelation I knew I had to understand better where these memories were coming from. Something from my past was clawing its way to the surface and I couldn’t place it. I left the asylum for the first time since I had arrived thirty-four years ago.
I broke into the Mississippi state Records building, to search for information. It wasn’t easy; my last name was much too common. Eventually I found what I was looking for;
My name was John Francis Harrison. I was born in 1838 in New Orleans, Louisiana, but grew up in Galveston, Texas. I married Catherine Anne Prichard on August 28th1855. We had a daughter, Alice Martha Harrison, born May 17th1856.
“Alice.” I whispered. So there was a connection with that name.
I died December 5th 1863. My wife had moved to Biloxi, Mississippi, she never remarried. My daughter married Isaac James Matthews in 1887. They had two sons and daughter. She died in 1918
This answered so many questions, but I still had some more. I found the last known address of my daughter’s husband. He still lived in Biloxi; that wasn’t very far from here.
It was well after midnight when I arrived in Biloxi. The house was a small two story. The garden out front was filled with roses. The smell echoed back another memory; Alice loved roses. I slipped in through an open window. The short, rhythmic snores of my… son in law…filled the house, I found him in a bedroom off the main floor. I eyed him carefully, he was well into his late sixties. His body was withered, old. I searched for traces of the young man he might have been. The man my daughter loved; married. I couldn’t find any.
I worked my way to a small room on the top floor. It was filled with boxes. I looked over them quickly, reading the labels. One particularly old box caught my eye. It was marked “mom.” I opened it carefully. The first thing I found was a stack of yellowed letters.
They were from me.
I carefully, and quickly read through them. Understanding better why my family moved to Biloxi. The civil war was too much for us, Galveston was full of soldiers. I didn’t feel comfortable raising my family there. I bought train tickets for my wife and daughter and sent them to Biloxi, where my wife had family. The plan was for me to join them when I could afford a ticket. I died before I ever got that ticket.
I rummaged through the box some more, and found some paintings. The air caught in my throat when my eyes fell upon her. The faded paint couldn’t dim the sweet beauty of the girl. She was 9, maybe ten. Her long chestnut hair fell in curls around her delicate face. Her lively icy blue nearly silver eyes were captured perfectly. I stared down at the portrait of my daughter, as her sweet lipped smile gazed back at me.
“Alice.” I breathed.
My Alice was an almost perfect likeness of Mary.
My questions now answered I hurried downstairs, but something was still gnawing at me. I was still missing something. As I headed back toward the window, my gaze fell upon the portrait hanging next to it.
This was the missing piece of the puzzle.
I studied the portrait carefully, still not sure if I was imagining this. The laughing silver eyes, the long black hair fell in thick waves to her shoulders. Her face was completely different from how I knew her… she was happy, full of life. My chest tingled, filled with an emotion I didn’t understand. To see her like this; happy, it was the most amazing feeling in the world.
“Mary…” my mouth fell open in shock. I couldn’t finish my thought.
My eyes burned, aching for the release of my non existent tears, as I gazed at the portrait of my great-granddaughter.