Alice's POV:
Guilt began to inevitably flow through my veins.
I had just seen someone die before my eyes, and I hadn't tried to prevent it – I hadn't even moved. I felt like an idiot. How could I have let this happen? There was a stillness in the prolonged seconds that passed; no one stirred, and for a moment, I thought no one was breathing either. We were all still recovering from the mental and physical shock that had just taken over our bodies …. But it wasn't long until people started pointing fingers.
"How could you do this to him?" a girl's voice quivered behind me.
I turned and looked at the group longingly. "Me?"
"Yeah, you." Michael Henderson criticized, holding his girlfriend closer to him, as if he were shielding her from something. It took me a second to realize he was shielding her from me.
"I-I'm … I'm not really sure what I did." I stuttered.
"If you hadn't asked him to 'escort you', like a self-centered little brat, he wouldn't have crossed the bridge again, and then he wouldn't have fallen." A different boy explained.
"But then it would've have been one of us." I defended myself.
The group pondered that for a moment, but then went right back to accusing me. "What about your 'visions'?" A girl spat the word 'visions' with disgust. "Did you see him fall before it happened?"
I considering lying to them and saying that I hadn't seen it happen, but I'd never been a very convincing liar. "Yes." I mumbled.
"What was that?" A boy said harshly. "I couldn't hear you."
"Yes." I said louder, but my voice was still weak.
"God, you're such a freak." A girl stared at me in horror. "Why didn't you do anything about it?"
"I-I tried." My voice began to crack.
"No you didn't." someone disparaged me. I didn't even look up to see who had said it; it's not like who said it made a difference.
I wanted to shout, 'I didn't see you doing anything!' but I didn't have the courage. "I'm sorry."
"Mary Alice Brandon!" My mother approached us then. "I told you to stay in the house!"
Before I could respond, Michael turned to my mother. "Mary Alice killed a boy."
"What!?" My mother put her hand up to her mouth to cover her gasp. "Is this true, Mary?"
"Not really." I replied. "I-I … I knew he was going to die, and I tried to stop it …"
Someone suddenly interrupted, "But she didn't."
"What do you mean you knew he was going to die?" My mother stepped closer, but then cringed when I reached for her. I'd never known how degrading it was to see my own mother recoil from my touch – until now.
"I … I," I was positive this was the last thing my mother wanted to hear. "I saw it."
"Let me guess." Her voice was practically inaudible. "You saw it in a vision."
"Yes." I avoided her piercing gaze.
My mother sighed exasperatedly, wiping her forehead with her palm. "Alright, Mary Alice. I'm sorry, but I am sick and tired of you constantly acting this way …." She stopped.
"We all are." Michael added.
"I don't need your commentary, Mr. Henderson." My mother snapped. Then she continued, "I figured that these visions of yours wouldn't be a big deal, but it appears I was wrong. I think you need … help."
Help? Like psychiatric help? My stomach seemed to fall, so deep that it just vanished and I couldn't feel it anymore. I had never felt more humiliated and demeaned in my entire life – never had I felt so depressed – and don't think the feeling was going to fade any time soon. In blunt terms, my mother had just called me mentally retarded.
I swallowed. "Help?"
"I'm sorry." She repeated.
"But …" My eyes searched hers, longing to find some compassion. Then I looked over at the rest of the group; they stared at me in revulsion, as if I were something to be afraid of – and in their eyes, too, I couldn't even find a tint of sympathy.
"Go back to the house and pack your things." My mother whimpered, tears beginning to form in her eyes. She was the one crying? Could she hear the things coming out of her own mouth? How did she think I felt about all this? If anyone should be crying, it should be me – sorry if I'm sounding selfish. But against my efforts, I was too enraged to cry.
"Mom! …" I objected.
"Mary Alice." She emphasized with force. "Go back to your room and pack your things."
**************
When I got to my room, I didn't feel like packing. In the end, I'd only come up with two dresses, a shirt and some underwear. I wasn't sure where I'd be going, or if I'd be able to buy new things when I got there, so I carelessly threw all my items in a bag and marched downstairs. My mother was waiting for me, a frown plastered on her face. I wonder if she ever got tired of frowning.
Sitting by herself on the chair in the corner was my sister, Cynthia, bawling her eyes out. When I entered the room, she dashed up to me and wrapped me a hug. She held me so tight, it hurt, but I didn't care. I hugged her back, smelling her vanilla scented perfume and her lavender shampoo; I would miss that smell, not knowing if I would be able to get a whiff of it ever again.
"I'll miss you, Mary Alice." She wept.
I glanced over at my mother. She seemed unemotional, even when she was a witness to the pain she was inflicting. "And I'll miss you, Cynthia."
"Where are you going?" She asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks, leaving her eyes red and puffy.
"I don't know." I replied honestly.
"How did you know what to pack when you don't know where you're headed?" She wondered innocently. Always like Cynthia to dwell on the trivial things.
"I just threw what I needed in my bag." I responded.
"Did you pack a toothbrush?" She asked cutely.
"No." I paused and then added, "But I'm sure toothbrushes will be supplied where I'm going."
"Are you sure?" She asked.
I sighed. "I'm pretty sure."
"Alright, Mary Alice." My mother stood, throwing a paper she had in her hand down on the counter, still unresponsive. "Are you ready to go? I've called a gentleman and he agreed to give you an appointment set to begin in fifteen minutes." I tried to resist gagging when she said 'gentleman'. She knew the proper term as well as I did: psychiatrist.
"Yes." I sighed. How could she be so pokerfaced right now? Was she bluffing?
"Can I come?" Cynthia asked.
"No" my mother answered simply.
"Bye, Mary." Cynthia smiled as wide as she could.
"Bye." I frowned.
"Don't get into anything while I'm gone, Cynthia Marie." My mother clarified, supposing her middle name enforced the rule even more. "I'll be back soon."
Cynthia didn't respond as we walked out the front door and down the walk towards the Model T. I wanted to try to let some tears fall down my cheeks, hoping that it would change my mothers mind, but it felt like my tear ducts were dry. I couldn't cry at all; I felt like a robot. As I climbed into the front seat, my mother was already starting the engine. I knew instantly that this was going to be one of those awkward silences.
The car jumped to a start, bubbling to life, as my mother cautiously backed out and headed toward the main road. As she picked up speed, I noticed her breathing was getting unnaturally heavy. Every now and then, she would glance over at me, as if she were making sure I was still there. Finally, she couldn't take the silence any longer, even though it hadn't been more than five minutes.
"How do you feel about taking a life, Mary Alice?" She asked me. "That's what concerns me the most."
"I'm not sure that I'm the one that took it." I replied.
"I wasn't there, so I'm not the judge." My mother tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
"Well, then who is the judge? I was there, and obviously no one cares what my say in the matter is." I crossed my arms across my chest.
"No need to raise your voice." She frowned. "But what about your friends? They were there, weren't they? Could they be the judge?"
"They aren't my friends." My voice sounded drier and more confident than usual. "And besides, I don't think that would be a very fair trial, since all they think I am is guilty."
"Why would they think that?" She wondered. I remembered she was so in the dark on everything that was going on, all that had happened.
"Because, in their eyes, I killed their best friend." I explained. Then I corrected myself, "Their 'leader'."
"Oh, I see." She sighed. "This is all a matter of who's higher up on the totem pole."
"Not exactly." I stared at my hands.
"What is it then?" She questioned, her tone becoming sharper. "Are you trying to fit in? Are you trying to stand out? What is it with you that makes you so addicted to attention?"
"I'm not trying to be any of those things, mom." I stared out the windshield at the road in front of us. "I'm not addicted to attention."
"Then why has this vision bit been so vital to you lately? Do you think it'll make you more popular?" She looked over at me, the wind blowing her hair in her face.
"No." I stared. "And what do you mean 'lately'?"
She exhaled. "Mary Alice, these visions aren't new to you. When you were young, you had blackouts, where – momentarily – you would be disconnected from the rest of the world. It wasn't until you learned how to talk that you told your father and I that you were seeing pictures flash before your eyes. We didn't know what to make of what you were telling us, so we ignored it; we just assumed you had a very creative imagination.
"But soon after your father's death," She continued. "I remember one day most clearly – you were sitting in the corner, and I hadn't noticed but you had blacked out. Cynthia had been only two and the time and she was playing by the armoire. A couple moments later, you hastily jumped up and pushed your sister away from the armoire. Five minutes later, a train roared by – this is when we lived by the Biloxi train tracks – and the armoire toppled over, right where your sister had been.
"It was then that I realized, the images were becoming videos. And with every video, the blackouts got longer and longer. I recall once you were out of it for a whole day." She finished up. "But now that a life's been taken, I'm afraid things have become more complicated."
************
About ten minutes later, I sat alone in a wooden chair, swinging my feet back and forth, letting my mind roam where it wanted. The room I was in was long and skinny, kind of like a lane at a bowling alley. At the far end of the room was a desk and behind it sat a gray old woman; she looked incredibly bored and looked at each patient as nothing new. This room was in a four-story building – tall compared to some of the others in town – on the third floor to be precise. The front door of the room I was in had a big sign on it labeled 'Dr. Colman's Psychiatric Therapy'. Great, now I felt even more stupid than I already was.
Nevertheless, despite my surroundings, all I could see was Tommy. Not like one of my visions, but like a playback of my memories. Every time it got to the point where his head was engulfed by the current and the wolf began to howl, I blinked my eyes, trying to push the image away. That was one picture I didn't feel like seeing twice.
Breaking my concentration, my mother walked out of a door by the front desk. Her face was sullen and distracted as she walked up to me. She idly slumped in the chair beside me, not looking at me at all.
She took a big breath before speaking. "Dr. Colman will see you now, Mary Alice." Her voice sounded uniform and programmed.
Looking at her briefly, I stood and walked – impossibly slow – to the door by the front desk. When I got there, the old woman looked up at me and noticing my hesitance, nodded. I turned the handle and stepped into a square room, much smaller than the first. There was a long table consuming the room, with three men sitting at one end.
The man sitting at the head of the table, appraising me, said, "Please sit down, Mary Alice." I obliged and sat at the opposite end of them. I felt uncomfortable as they just looked at me in unfilled silence.
The same man spoke again, "I'm Dr. Colman. This is Dr. Gregorio." He indicated the young man on his left. "And Dr. Cohen." He nodded toward an elderly black man on his right.
I did not know if I was supposed to say hello – given the situation and place – so I just nodded.
"We just spoke with your mother." Dr. Colman paused, and then continued. "These visions of yours, are they regular?" When I didn't respond, he rephrased, "Like are they daily? Weekly? Monthly?"
"No." My voice was fragile. "There is no pattern. They happen when they happen."
The one named Dr. Gregorio furiously wrote down my response on a pad of paper.
"Your mother noted that you … blackout during the visions." Dr. Cohen spoke this time. "Do you have any physical pain when the blackouts occur?"
"No." I repeated. Once again, Dr. Gregorio scribbled my answer down on the pad.
"How long have these visions been taking place?" Dr. Colman asked. "Your mother quoted 'since birth'. What is your response?"
"I don't know." I said. "Since birth, I guess."
"How does it happen? Your mother said you described it as a video. Could you be more specific?" Dr. Colman continued the interrogation.
"It starts out as just words," I explained. "But then it progresses into film-like pictures in front of my eyes. Sometimes it lasts only several seconds, but, according to my mother, the video has lasted as long as twenty-four hours."
"The time it lasted twenty-four hours, do you remember what that certain vision was about?" Dr. Cohen asked.
"No." I replied simply.
"Interesting." Dr. Cohen mumbled, looking at me with wide eyes.
To my surprise, Dr. Colman laughed. "Now, Mary Alice," He chuckled. "I've seen a lot of cases in my day, but yours is pretty unique …." His voice trailed away.
There was a moment where Dr. Colman suddenly became serious, and the other two doctors stared it him.
Then he spoke, "What you say is also a tad far-fetched … hard to believe."
"I'm telling the truth!" I didn't mean for my tone to harden and my volume to raise.
"That's enough, ma'am." Dr. Colman sighed, glancing at Dr. Cohen and then nodding.
In a gentle voice, Dr. Cohen smiled politely, "You may go outside now, Mary Alice. We'll come out in a moment with the verdict."
I stood reluctantly and slowly shuffled toward the door. Their eyes glared into my back; I could feel their stares. When I stepped out of the room – glad to be away from them – I was shocked to find my mother standing right there.
"What did they say?" She asked.
"Were you listening?" I fumed.
She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away from the door. Then she whispered, "I tried to, but the old lady kept shooing me away from the door."
"Mom! …" I looked into her eyes.
"I'm just a concerned mother, that's all." She sat down in one of the wooden chairs, and pulled me down to beside her. I was actually pleased to see that she was showing some emotion at this point. "So? What did they say?" She repeated.
"They just asked me a bunch of questions." I responded wryly.
"And the verdict? What do you suppose it'll be?" She wondered.
"I don't know." I answered honestly.
It was at this moment that I became instantly worried. What if the verdict was: 'I'm sorry to say this, but you're utterly insane'? What would become of me then? Would it be like an ancient disposal, like burning me at the stake? Or would they just send me back home to live with the guilt of being mental? What if they pushed me out of society and left me to die alone in the woods? Or what if they let me die quick and easy, like giving me poison or something like that?
Abruptly, Dr. Colman burst out of the door by the front desk, holding a large envelope in his hands. Behind him, Dr. Cohen and Gregorio followed. Their expressions were bleak, except for Dr. Cohen, who had nothing but empathy painted on his eyes. Dr. Colman approached us, handing my mother the envelope.
He cleared his throat. "Mary Alice, considering your condition, we've decided to place you in a special society where your gift will be appreciated."
Like the circus? I thought.
Without opening the envelope my mother asked, "How long will she be gone?"
"Three years." He answered. Then he added, "At the minimum."
THREE YEARS! My brain scrambled. I hadn't noticed, but my hands were shaking violently.
Dr. Cohen must've noticed my panic, and he smiled considerately, "Don't worry. You will be safe and taken well care of."
"Have a nice day, Mary Alice." Dr. Colman nodded. "You too, Ms. Brandon. Best wishes to you both."
Dr. Colman walked back to the other room then, with Dr. Gregorio trailing behind him like a mindless drone. However, Dr. Cohen tagged behind. I thought he would speak, but then he sighed and then followed the others instead. My mother was frozen, unable to move. I simply grabbed the envelope from her grasp and pulled out a single piece of paper.
It was a registration … a registration to the Harriett Lankan Asylum.