What if Alice had never been in an asylum …

My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!

Alice's Story

Chapter 12: Villain

The planning began.

I still had my essay winnings and I had received some money when I graduated from high school. I knew I would need it.

What would I take with me? How would I remember the exact sound of Cynthia's inspired piano playing? What could I take with me to remember my father?

I decided to take a sheet of Cynthia's music. Maybe someday I would meet someone who could play the piano; I would ask if they could play it for me. I also decided to take one of Father's books from his expansive library. This would be the scariest part of my departure. I would need to be very quiet as I tiptoed into the luxurious study. It wouldn't even matter what book it was, just knowing it was his would be enough.

I had a large bag that I used when we went to the Back Bay. I would pack my few belongings into that bag. I didn't have very many clothes so it shouldn't be too heavy. As I plotted my exit, I realized I didn't have many possessions. Why was that I wondered? Shouldn't a life have accumulated proof of existence by the age of 19? I looked at my Spartan room fully comprehending how barren it was. It was a startling comparison to my life. A shockwave of emotions dropped me to my knees.

I knew I had to gain control of myself. I had learned in the past few years that I was less able to receive or make sense of the visions when I was upset or angry. I would lose Mother's position in our house if I remained this emotional. I sat down, cross-legged and made myself relax.

I thought of my eyes, my shoulders, my hands and then my legs. I took in slow, deep cleansing breaths. It worked. I allowed myself to stay in the trance. I saw that I would be successful. I would be able to get out of the house unnoticed. I was also struck with a solution. I would go to Mobile. I would try to find Miss Madeline. Even if I could not stay with her, I was quite certain she would help me.

Seeing her in my mind's eye brought me peace. As I considered my silent retreat, shards of light created a hollow pathway for me to follow. My alabaster dance partner waited at the end of the tunnel. I could see myself coming out of the darkness and finding him. He would know me, I just knew it.

That night I sat at the dinner table careful not to give myself away. We sat at a rectangular shaped table. Cynthia and Father were to my sides and I was across from Mother. I asked if Cynthia could play after dinner. Father loved the idea. As unobtrusively as possible, I moved my chair slightly closer to my Father, just one last time. I loved him so much. I would never forget how he had defended me this morning. I would love him always. I simply ignored Mother. It was what she wanted anyway.

Mother had prepared chicken pot pie, cooked carrots, cornbread and apple pie for dessert. Mother was a good cook … I would miss that I supposed. I considered the cornbread. It would travel well. We also had apples and jerky. I would wrap some up, as I had no idea when I could eat again. I tried to remain impassive as I sized-up my surroundings, committing them to memory.

I may have been slaughtered emotionally in these walls, but there were also many good times. I fought tears as I vowed to forget the bad and fill my memory only with the goodness. I momentarily closed my eyes to drink in the love that formerly existed at this very table. For too long I allowed my eyes to remain shut. A cooling breeze came in through the windows scattering the angst, the cruelness and the dark silence. I even smiled as the breeze ruffled my hair.

My pleasant parole was lifted by the sound of breaking glass.

I opened my eyes, frightened. Cynthia was eating her dinner, completely unaware of the sudden mutiny, Mother acting as Captain. Father had his hand on mother's wrist, her skin white with his pressure. She was glaring at me, her blouse was spattered with milk and her hand was bleeding. Each drop of blood stained the tablecloth, the stark red an incredible interruption of the serenity of white. The silence of each drop of blood was accompanied by a soft pitter-patter drifting from the other side of the table.

We each turned with the tiniest of motions to look at Cynthia. Her fingers were drumming the table playing a tune only she could hear. Her eyes were closed as she perfected her ghostly lyrical measure, providing the silent score to the drama unfolding in front of her. For the briefest of moments, Mother saw herself as I do, as Cynthia may … the villain.

Any fear I may have had about leaving was eclipsed. I was no longer welcome.

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