A/N: I had this idea for a while. This story will be about Alice's life efore she got changed. I never read a story like this before. I have the whole thing outlined so updates would hopefully be frequent! I know this first chapter might be a little slow, but it is pretty much an introduction. I hope you all enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the computer I am typing on.

"Mary, darling, dinnertime!" The musical voice of my mother beckoned for me. I obeyed and lithely descended the staircase into the foyer. From there, I entered the picturesque dinning room. The dark mahogany table was set elegantly, as it was every other night. Crème linen napkins with gold plated rings were atop the fine china that my mother adored. My mother, father, and younger sister, Cynthia, were already seated around the spacious table. I took my place I usually sat at and looked intently at my plate, as I was supposed to.

My long, midnight black hair, a trait I inherited from my father, fell over my shoulders. My mother gave me a nod, signaling that I should tie is back for dinner. I swept my hair up with a crimson ribbon; a color that mother told me looked striking against my dark hair and pale features.

The maids brought out our tomato soup and my father decided it was time to strike up a conversation. His soft, southern accent described in full detail his day at the office. He worked for the bank, earning a more than modest salary. I was not fully interested in all of the business he talked about, so I sipped at my soup and nodded along with what he said and laughed at the appropriate moments. When our soup was replaced with the main course, chicken and sweet peas, I partook in the conversation.

"Mary, what has your day been like," my father asked me.

"Today, I started off with my scripture reading as usual," I began. My family was very religious. I attended church every Sunday and my mother had my sister and I read the Bible for our first lesson in the morning. "Then, I went off to school. The day passed as normal." I excelled in school, especially during Language Arts. I was fond of literature and writing. I fancied a career in journalism. My mother frowned upon it, saying a lady's proper place is in the home. "After school," I continued, "I had my ballet lessons." Ballet was another passion of mine. I have been dancing since I was old enough to walk. Mother insisted my natural ability for ballet was due to my already present grace. All I knew is that when I was on point, expressing myself in the melodies of violins, flutes, cellos, and trumpets, I felt like a princess.

"Mary and I are being featured in the ballet recital this year father, isn't that wonderful!" Cynthia exclaimed. She was twelve years old, and already as good of a dancer as I was. She looked at me as a role model, although I could have picked a much better role model for my younger sister. Her short, chestnut hair was like my mother's, the side neatly tied out of her face with a light blue ribbon. She was about three inches taller than I was. It was often said that I could pass as a ten year old girl, not a seventeen year old one. My tiny features were that from my mother, the only traits I inherited from her.

My father looked at us. He was pleased that we – I, rather – would be featured in something like a normal girl.

A normal girl – that is a thing I knew that I would never be.

Cynthia furthered her discussion with my father about the dance we were featured in. My mother smiled at my and I could not help to smile back. She was desperately attempting to resurrect the happiness and joy that once filled me.

I was always a cheerful girl. A smile was constantly on my face. I was told by my family that I could light up a room with my smile. I was full of laughter and optimism. Then, people began to discover my condition. It was hard to be cheerful when you were constantly mocked.

Still, when I was around my mother, I hid behind a delicate façade, letting an empty smile appear on my pale face and laughing quietly. I tried my hardest not to let the things that the other children, and even some of the adults, in my town make me upset. It was more difficult than I thought.

I picked at the food that was on my plate. I only ate about half of my chicken and very few sweet peas. I did not have a large appetite anymore.

"May I please be excused?" I asked. I kept my eyes adverted from looking my parents directly in the eyes, showing them some respect.

"Wouldn't you care for desert? The cook made apple pie tonight. Isn't that your favorite?" My mother fretted over me. It was true; apple pie was my favorite desert. But, I was not in the mood to eat. I had other things to think about.

My large, blue eyes locked with my mother's caramel ones.

"That's alright. I would much prefer to get some rest. It has been an awfully long day." I sat up, smoothing my grey plaid dress as I did so. I left the dining room, only hearing the sounds of my shoes meeting the wooden floors. I knew that once my sister left the table, the conversation will quickly become about my latest episode.

When I entered my room, I sat on the corner of my four poster bed. I hugged my slender legs to my chest and contemplated what was happening in my life. Everything was becoming increasingly difficult. I did not know how to stop my condition. It was only a matter of time before my mother and father decided it was time to visit a doctor.

I heard knuckles rapping on my open bedroom door, asking permission for the person to enter. It was Cynthia. She did not wait for an answer. She hopped on my bed and sprawled herself across it. She removed her navy shoes and crossed her stocking-covered ankles. She gazed up at me with her wide set blue eyes with the innocence of a young girl. Even though her appearance often lead adults to believe she was the oldest child in the Brandon family, she clearly acted like the age she was, allowing me to be the big sister.

I smiled at Cynthia and began to tickle her sides. It was something I would do ever since she was a toddler. She giggled wildly, kicking her feet, causing me to have a fit of giggles as well. That was when I hear another knock on my open door. It was my father.

"Cynthia, your mother would like for you to go and get cleaned up for bed. She reluctantly got off of my bed, grabbed her shoes, and skipped down the hallway into her own room. My father stayed with me, now occupying Cynthia's spot on my bed.

He had a stuffed bear in his hands. It was obviously a gift for me.

"Mary, I bought this for you. I thought that it would cheer you up a bit," my father said, handing me the bear. My father was never typically one for emotion. This was obviously my mother's doing.

I held the stuffed bear in my arms. I traced my fingers over the black marble eyes and the button nose. I traced patterns in its fur, my father staring at me the whole time. He then wrapped his arm around me, giving my shoulder a slight squeeze before getting up and exiting my room. He stuck his head back in the doorway.

"Your mother, sister, and I love you very much, no matter what. I hope you know that." I looked up from the bear but he was gone, probably off to discuss various matters with my mother.

I thought it was rather strange that my parents were going through such great measures to improve my mood. It was not until recently that they were severely concerned by the affects of my condition.

I began to get myself ready for bed. I unzipped my plaid dress and removed my black stockings. I pulled a white cotton night gown over my head. I sat at my vanity and began to brush my hair.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a normal girl, very pretty even. My eyes were big and a shocking shade of blue. My raven hair was long and silky. My pale skin was smooth as porcelain. On the inside, in my mind, I was anything but pretty.

I had to turn away from the mirror. I knew that Cynthia was bound to reenter and wish me a good night. As if on cue, her tiny feet shuffled across the floor and she was in my room instantaneously. She saw the stuffed bear on my bed and picked it up.

"What are you going to name it?" she asked. Leave it to my little sister to want me, a seventeen year old girl name a stuffed animal. She tossed the bear to me and I held in close to my chest. I closed me eyes and whispered the first name that came to my mind – Jasper.

"Jasper," I said loud enough for my sister to hear.

"Jasper? That's not quite a popular name. Why did you choose that for you bear? Why did you not choose fluffy or something like that?" Cynthia inquired. It was a rather good question. You almost never heard of someone being named Jasper anymore.

I shrugged, indicating that I did not know why I picked the name. Cynthia sighed and with a quiet "G'night" she left my room.

There was a reason why I chose the name Jasper, despite telling my sister I had none. It was a name that has been coming to me for years now. He was the character in my most recent episodes. I grew quite attached and wondered if we would ever meet or if I had been imagining him for the past few months.

"Jasper," I whispered to myself, clutching the bear to my chest as I turned off my lights and crawled under my covers for a deep, long slumber.