Alice Whitlock Cullen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
betagainstme) wrote2008-12-01 04:12 am
betagainstme) wrote2008-12-01 04:12 am
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Mary Alice sees things she shouldn't.
She's seven years old when she warns Papa that he shouldn't leave the pasture gates tied together with the twine he'd been using for years. "Nonsense," He scoffed at her and kept on going through the day.
The cows escape in the middle of the night and she sits in her window, watching her father chase them down. She doesn't smile.
Mary Alice is twelve when she lets Robert from down the street hold her hand and kiss her cheek on the way to Sunday School. She just clicks her tongue and told him she knew it would happen. He snorts and kicks dirt on her shoes before running off.
She begs Cynthia, at eighteen to not let them take her. She knows it's coming soon, she knows. Mama stopped talking to her, Daddy coughed politely when she was in the room, she knows. She knows.
Her fingers are tight in Cynthia's nightgown, her hair long and curling at the ends, falling into her face as she whispers between clenched teeth: "You can't let them take me, Cynthia. You can't." She sobs, she begs, she's so terrified. She's only heard horror stories of the asylum, and she doesn't know what she's done to deserve to go there.
Her visions are a gift, she thought. Now she realizes they're a curse.
Three days after her nineteenth birthday she stops begging. She stops speaking. She pins her hair up and dresses in a very nice dress and she calmly tells her mother that she will never forgive her for this, and when the men come to take her, she walks to their car and gets in.
They cut her hair. She's ready for it. She makes small talk with the woman cutting it, asking her if she looks anything like the famous movie stars do, the ones who are making this style fashionable. They take her dress. She's ready for it. She makes a joke about the stockings they give her.
She stares out the tiny window she has and does not cry on the first night. Or the second.
The third night, she loses herself completely and can't stop crying, her pillow wet and her throat raw as she screams.
She goes silent again after that. Shock therapy rids her of her voice for days, her throat dry and scratchy. Idly her fingers touch the marks on her temples.
Mary Alice sits on her bed and watches the older man that comes to talk to her. He's kind and she likes his sharp-toothed smile. She vaguely tries to tell him this. He asks her about her visions.
She can't remember what she sees anymore.
The older man comes into her room one night, frantic, whispering that he's found them and he'll kill her, his poor child. Poor Mary Alice. He takes her away, tries to keep her safe, finally knowing what he has to do. She's so far gone when he bites her, she doesn't even feel it. She plummets into darkness.
She burns. She screams.
She feels like she's on fire.
She never predicted this.
She wakes up alone, her throat dry and burning.
Alice remembers nothing of being human, as she runs her tongue over her sharp teeth and catches glimpse of her bright red eyes.
Alice remembers nothing.
She's seven years old when she warns Papa that he shouldn't leave the pasture gates tied together with the twine he'd been using for years. "Nonsense," He scoffed at her and kept on going through the day.
The cows escape in the middle of the night and she sits in her window, watching her father chase them down. She doesn't smile.
Mary Alice is twelve when she lets Robert from down the street hold her hand and kiss her cheek on the way to Sunday School. She just clicks her tongue and told him she knew it would happen. He snorts and kicks dirt on her shoes before running off.
She begs Cynthia, at eighteen to not let them take her. She knows it's coming soon, she knows. Mama stopped talking to her, Daddy coughed politely when she was in the room, she knows. She knows.
Her fingers are tight in Cynthia's nightgown, her hair long and curling at the ends, falling into her face as she whispers between clenched teeth: "You can't let them take me, Cynthia. You can't." She sobs, she begs, she's so terrified. She's only heard horror stories of the asylum, and she doesn't know what she's done to deserve to go there.
Her visions are a gift, she thought. Now she realizes they're a curse.
Three days after her nineteenth birthday she stops begging. She stops speaking. She pins her hair up and dresses in a very nice dress and she calmly tells her mother that she will never forgive her for this, and when the men come to take her, she walks to their car and gets in.
They cut her hair. She's ready for it. She makes small talk with the woman cutting it, asking her if she looks anything like the famous movie stars do, the ones who are making this style fashionable. They take her dress. She's ready for it. She makes a joke about the stockings they give her.
She stares out the tiny window she has and does not cry on the first night. Or the second.
The third night, she loses herself completely and can't stop crying, her pillow wet and her throat raw as she screams.
She goes silent again after that. Shock therapy rids her of her voice for days, her throat dry and scratchy. Idly her fingers touch the marks on her temples.
Mary Alice sits on her bed and watches the older man that comes to talk to her. He's kind and she likes his sharp-toothed smile. She vaguely tries to tell him this. He asks her about her visions.
She can't remember what she sees anymore.
The older man comes into her room one night, frantic, whispering that he's found them and he'll kill her, his poor child. Poor Mary Alice. He takes her away, tries to keep her safe, finally knowing what he has to do. She's so far gone when he bites her, she doesn't even feel it. She plummets into darkness.
She burns. She screams.
She feels like she's on fire.
She never predicted this.
She wakes up alone, her throat dry and burning.
Alice remembers nothing of being human, as she runs her tongue over her sharp teeth and catches glimpse of her bright red eyes.
Alice remembers nothing.