Walk A Mile in her Stilletos

by LMAnne

It took a while with some, but once I knew someone, I also knew where they would be in twenty years, or if they wouldn't exist at all, just a memory, just smoke that no one would remember when it was gone. Nothing. Just like me. Alice's story. Please R&R!

1. At First Glance

That I was the freak of the family was obvious. I was not allowed to eat at the family table until I was fourteen, despite the fact that my sister, Cynthia Beatrice, who was four years younger than I, was allowed to dine with the adults when she was nine. Also, I was, according to the servants, the only member of the family from 1862 to have a nurse until age fifteen. My sister gave hers up when she was eight. It wasn't that I was strange, really. More that I was not normal.

I was not, as Mother said, "fit to live in the Brandon way". Though she treated me in nearly the same way as the other children, I could tell that she thought me a disgrace. And truthfully, I would agree, along with all of my relatives, most of whom pretended with increasing frequency that I didn't exist. I was not normal. I had no proper upbringing. The Brandons were not at the top of society in Biloxi in 1901, and thus could not afford to have the public knowing that they had a peculiar daughter. The mayor would most likely attempt to ship me off to the freak show in the traveling band. Good "personal representation", as Father called it.

I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I told you the way in which I am odd. It is not the normal way that most people would expect. I am not mentally or physically retarded or any sort of visible defect in my nature. However, after a while of talking to me, it becomes blatantly obvious that I am not normal. There are many peculiarities with which I am stricken. Or perhaps stricken is not the correct word. I have been like this since I was an infant. To put this bluntly, it is with these symptoms that I am plagued: I am extremely small, I have vivid memories of all that I have experienced since I was born, and I see flashes into the future.

As to the first, due to my short stature, I am extremely displeasing to my family. The good people of Biloxi see only those women who are able-bodied to carry children as full citizens. Although, in truth, women are more possessions than people, but that is a problem that cannot be rectified and which has no bearing on the proceedings here. Needless to say, I am disassociated from modern society due to this height oddity. This perhaps doesn't seem like such a big thing to you, but there is no respect for those who are considered 'midgets', even if they are perfectly proportioned and even called "beautiful" by certain men with wandering eyes. But this is certainly the least of my peculiarities, and so I shall move forward.

In regards to my, for want of a better term, photographic memory, I seem to not be truly bothered by this problem. No one seems to talk to me for long enough to notice this peculiarity, and thus it is not a worthwhile issue to be touched upon. We must venture to the far reaches of my strangeness, now, as we discuss my last oddity.

The flashes of premonition are not very precise. I get only flickers, unless I concentrate, which I try not to do unless I am alone as Mother scolds me for attempting to further my gift. Thankfully, when my nurse was removed from my services last year, I gained much alone time which I spend mostly attempting to see further into the things that simply come to me. With this talent, however, comes great responsibility. I must not let on that I am having any sort of premonition. No one but my old nurse, Cynthia, Mother and Father knows about my visions, and no one else is allowed to know. It is a locked secret with a melted key, as Gran sometimes called it when she was alive.

Oh, how I miss my Gran! She was truly the only person who treated me as an equal, not a freak by any standards. She alone fought for me. She saved me from a premature death when my parents considered it after finding out about my talents. She kept me at home. Even though my name is Mary Alice, she always called me Alice, just Alice. I now realize that it was old age and that she had forgotten my real name, but for me, at the time, it was a term of endearment. I cherished the time she spent with me at our small home in the bustling city of Biloxi. It was an escape. Gran meant freedom, and when she died, that was stripped away. I felt naked without her, my fearless and noble protector. That was when I learned that you must be your own valiant soldier, your own boldest protector. You can count on no one. This I have learned.