Her parents, good Catholics that they were, wouldn't have stood for it. They would've thrown her out of the house, or disowned her, or done something equally as drastic to distance themselves from their daughter and her disgraceful situation.

So, Mary endeavored for them to never find out. By the time it became apparent, she had already moved out, for "college", into a ragged little apartment a city away. She stayed there, barely leaving, until the day came and she was freed from her burden. The father was there that day, too, but only briefly before they'd both abandoned the screaming thing they'd produced.

They'd left it to die, but Mary knew it didn't.

She'd known in life that someone had found it, the building's super, perhaps, and that it had been taken to an orphanage, but now, in death, things weren't nearly that detached in her mind. Now, he stood over her, just as dead as his mother, covered in her blood and smiling at her screams. He was an exquisite torturer, forgoing complicated devices in favor of a simple knife which he manipulated perfectly.

Since she was already dead now, she couldn't die again, and he knew it, stabbing her in vital organs and gutting her again and again, pushing grimy fingers through her stomach and into her womb. He talked to her occasionally, usually taunting her—dear husband's escaped with the brat, he got away with murder, like you almost did, bitch—but mostly he was silent, smiling insanely at her.

Then, one day (she wasn't sure how long she had been there, or how time was measured wherever she was, but she still divided things into days, because that was the only thing that she could carry over from normal, sane existence) he stopped, with barely any explanation. What he did say she couldn't make sense of, but she didn't care, as long as he didn't hurt her anymore.

"You're not Mother," he said, leaving the knife sticking out of her chest. It had been twisted, slowly drilling a jagged hole through her heart. "I know you think you are, but you're just a pale imitation. You're not her. She's still in Ashfield. And it's time for her to wake up."

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Author's Note: Yeah, it ends abruptly, and really makes no sense because Mary isn't old enough to be Walter's mother, but hell, the idea's been nagging at me for about a year now.

Just . . . don't ask. But review? :)

Anna