A/N:

You guys and your support :) I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have readers like you!

This chapter here is where another twist in Alice's life occurs!

Title: Origins: Living in my Future

Author: MarieCarro

Beta: Alice's White Rabbit

Pre-reader: BitterHarpy

Genre: Supernatural/Mystery

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Mary Alice Brandon had always been different. She seemed to know things that had yet to happen, and the people in town avoided her at all costs. But the cries of "Witch" or whispers of "Changeling" wasn't her biggest concern. Someone much closer to her than the townsfolk couldn't accept her differences, and it put her in life-threatening danger.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


CHAPTER 4

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 21st – LATE SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14th 1920

Three days after Father introduced us to Anna-Marie, they were married, and everything felt surreal. Not only because it all happened so fast and my head was spinning from it, but because the wedding was grandiose and over-the-top yet meticulously planned.

Everything was as perfect as if it had been planned for over a year, but that couldn't possibly be true because Mother died—no, was murdered—a mere six months earlier.

Anna-Marie also happened to be the daughter of the New York client Father had just recently acquired.

All of these coincidences lining up all too well caused my mind to race, and I moved around the ballroom like a ghost; always staying close to the walls, not talking to anyone or even acknowledging them, listening.

But listening for what, I wasn't sure.

Information, maybe? Clues? Anything that could explain it all to me. Explain why my mother was killed, and why my father didn't even appear to mourn her. I even tried to force myself to have visions, but nothing came to me.

I looked out over the crowd of people. Some of them I recognized as clients and friends of my father, but a lot of them were new faces. The people who had attended and cried at Mother's funeral were now laughing and becoming intoxicated on champagne and filling their stomachs with the expensive hors d'œuvres I couldn't figure out how Father could have afforded.

His pearl trading business was successful, but we'd never been a part of the upper-class society. The over-zealousness of the wedding celebration made me wonder if perhaps this wedding meant more to Father than to just finding a new wife and a stepmother for Cynthia.

I approached the happy couple and reached them just as Cynthia reached out to admire the gorgeous pearl necklace hanging around Anna-Marie's neck.

"That's a lovely necklace," she said and smiled happily. She was too young to see anything suspicious about our father's sudden nuptials. "Was it a weddin' gift from you, Daddy?"

"Oh, gosh no, sunshine," Anna-Marie replied and sipped her champagne. She had adopted the nickname we had for Cynthia too quickly for my liking. "Your father gave it to me after he proposed ages ago." She giggled and planted a kiss on Father's lips, staining them with her dark red lipstick.

Her words were like a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped over my head, and my shocked gasp caught Father's attention. Our eyes met, and he understood what I'd heard in Anna-Marie's words.

He let out a weak laugh. "Not ages ago, darlin'," he said in an attempt to save himself from his bride's faux pas.

"What?" she asked, looked at him, and something passed between them. "Oh, right. Well, not ages ago, but the moment our eyes met for the first time, I knew I was looking at my future husband, and it almost feels like ages ago."

"That is so romantic." Cynthia sighed dreamily.

Anna-Marie scrunched her nose and smiled down at her. "Isn't it?"

I had heard enough, and I turned on my heel and walked with quick steps out of the ballroom. In the lobby of the hotel, Father caught up to me.

"Mary Alice Brandon, don't run away," he reprimanded.

I immediately stopped and turned to face him with defiant eyes. I never looked at him in such a manner, but things didn't add up. "Did you meet her when Mother was still alive?"

Father's jaw tightened. "Yes," he said honestly. "We met in New York durin' a business meetin' with her father."

"Were you unfaithful to Mama?" I asked, not at all caring about acting the demure and refined daughter he wanted me to be.

He grabbed my upper arm in a hard grip. "Be quiet! I am your father. Don't you ever dare question my morals."

For the first time in my life, I didn't cower from his anger, and I tore my arm from his grip. The action would leave a bruise, but I didn't care. "Then tell me the truth!" I cried. "Because it sounds as if she planned this weddin' long before Mama was killed."

Father's expression smoothed out, and he appraised me coldly. "You and your imagination. If you don't learn to behave, you'll force my hand to take drastic measures," he threatened. "Is that what you want? Hm?"

I ground my teeth together but didn't say anything else. His threat gave me cause to believe my new stepmother had a hand in Mother's death, but I didn't have any proof, so there was nothing I could do about it now.

I would find it though. I'd find my proof, and I'd let the town know Mother's death wasn't an accident, if it was the last thing I ever did.

{=LMF=}

"She had a hand in it somehow. I know it," I confided in Wilson a month later when I was no closer to proving Anna-Marie was the mind behind Mother's death.

I had sneaked into Wilson's family's neighborhood and made certain no one saw me because the last thing I needed—and Wilson needed—was someone questioning why a young, white, middle-class girl such as myself was visiting the black neighborhood. But it was the only place I felt completely safe nowadays.

Wilson's mother hadn't liked my sudden appearance on their doorstep, and I understood her cautiousness, but I assured her no one was following me before she let me in. Now, Wilson and I were seated at their small kitchen table while I told him about my suspicions and worries.

"I didn't remember it at first, but I had a vision of her and Father almost two years ago."

"But couldn't that vision have been somethin' that happened just recently?" Wilson asked carefully. "You are seein' the future, after all."

"But don't you see what that means?" He shook his head. "Their future together couldn't have existed before Mama's death, so why did I see it more than a year before she was killed?"

Wilson's eyes lit up as he understood what I was saying, but he remained quiet.

"I just don't know how to prove it." I moaned. "And without proof, who in this town will believe me?"

{=LMF=}

I wanted to vomit when I saw Father wrap his arms around Anna-Marie and kissed her painted lips.

"Don't you want to wear the pearls I gave you?" he said and fingered the chain she currently had around her neck.

She giggled and smiled before she called out over her shoulder. "Cynthia, my pet, would you be an angel and fetch my pearls for me?"

My sweet little sister, who never passed up the chance of going through the jewelry box, hurried up the stairs, but I remained standing in the archway between the parlor and the hall, just watching Father kiss Mama's killer. Anna-Marie noticed, and she narrowed her eyes at me.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked with disdain.

"Nothin'," I replied quietly.

She grimaced and turned back to Father. "Ugh, Edgar, honey, why does she have to live with us? She makes me uncomfortable with her stares."

"Mary Alice," Father said through a tight jaw and locked his eyes on me. "Stop starin' at your mother."

I straightened my back further and walked past them. "She's not my mother," I said under my breath, and Anna-Marie's gasp in response made me smile. I hoped that I would rattle her enough to make her slip up, but she was slick, and she often hid behind Father.

That night, when Father and Anna-Marie were out at another one of their social events—Father had never before attended as many parties as he did since the wedding—I sat in front of the fireplace in the parlor and stared into the flames. My diary was opened and resting on my knee as I wrote.

A sound at the door caused me to turn my head to see if they were already back, but I didn't hear anything else. It was late, and Cynthia was already in bed, and Lottie had long since gone home, so curious as to what had made the sound, I got out of my seat and walked into the hall.

It was empty, and nothing appeared out of place, but when I turned to go back into the parlor, I saw the plain white envelope on the floor by the front door. I bent down and picked it up to see who it was for, but it wasn't addressed. That meant the one who wrote it had delivered it themselves, and I opened the front door to see if I could catch a glimpse of who it could have been, but the neighborhood was quiet.

I opened it and read the single note.

Pay what you owe, or your wife won't be the only "accident".

The letter fell from my hand as a vision slammed into me.

It was the strange man again. The one who had killed Mother. But it was also Father. He was handing the man money, and the two shook hands before the vision changed, and I saw myself walking down the street in the rain. The man came up behind me and ran a huge butcher knife into my back.

My knees buckled, and I fell to the floor. I could feel the knife in my back even when the vision dissipated, and I gasped in pain.

Tears sprang to my eyes as the truth was finally revealed to me. Anna-Marie wasn't the one behind Mother's death. Father was, and now he was going to kill me, too.

"Oh, God," I whimpered and started to crawl on all fours.

Headlights shone through the windows, and I heard Anna-Marie's voice outside. They were back, and I had to get away, or I was as good as dead. But where could I go?

With all my strength, I heaved myself up from the floor and ran toward the kitchen entrance. I couldn't go through the front door. Father would see in my eyes that I knew.

I rounded our house and hid behind a couple bushes until the front door closed, and then I ran. I just ran as fast as I could in my bare feet. The cool February air was icy against my wet cheeks, and my exposed arms became prickly with goosebumps. I was nowhere near decently dressed to be outside, but I hadn't had the time to get dressed.

If Wilson hadn't lived so far away, I would have gone to his family's house because I knew I was safe there. However, since that wasn't an option, I had to hope Aunt Margaret would at least let me inside for just a moment.

My breath was short and shallow when I reached their house, and I started banging on the door.

"Aunt Margaret, please open the door! You have to help me! Please!"

It felt like I was banging for an eternity before finally the light in the hall was turned on, and Aunt Margaret and her husband came to the door.

"What is the meanin' of this?" she hissed. "Do you have any idea what time it is? Or are you incapable of understandin' that us normal people need to sleep?"

I ignored her unkind words. "Please, you have to help me," I cried. "He's tryin' to have me killed! Please, let me just come inside."

She immediately placed herself so there was no space between her body and the door. "After what you did to my Michael, why would I do that?"

"I-I-I—" I couldn't get any words out and just gaped at her in astonishment. How could she possibly believe I caused Cousin Michael's death? I was only seven when it happened, and yes, I'd had a vision about it, but she couldn't possibly believe I was behind it, could she? "Just, please ..." I whimpered, but she scoffed at me.

"Get off my porch and out of my sight unless you want me to call the police," she spat venomously and shut the door in my face.

The police! I was out of options, and I knew my last chance lay with the marshal. If I went there and told him what I knew, he had to at least hear me out. He couldn't turn away an attempt at murder.

I started running again, and while I could feel the gravel scrape up my feet, I didn't feel any pain. I was too focused on reaching the marshal's house and get to safety to even feel the cold air anymore. I couldn't even imagine what he would think when he found me outside his door, only wearing a spring dress, no coat, shoes, shawl, or hat, with dried tears on my cheeks and messy hair.

Finally, I saw the house down the street, and I pushed myself to run even faster. Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead, and the hair at the nape of my neck was soaked.

The porch steps creaked under my weight as I almost flew up, and I used my open palm instead of knocking.

"Help me! I need help! Please! He's tryin' to kill me!"

It didn't take long before the marshal came to the door, but he narrowed his eyes at the sight of me. Still, he opened up and let me inside, and I folded over, panting and trying to catch my breath.

"Sir, you have to help me," I finally got out. "My father, Edgar Brandon, had my mother murdered and now he's gonna kill me."

Steps from dress shoes on the wooden floor came up behind me, and the marshal looked at whoever was behind me before sighing.

"This was what I was tellin' you, sir," the familiar voice of my father said behind me, and my body turned cold. Slowly, I turned around and found him and Anna-Marie standing there. He was grimacing, but Anna-Marie looked almost pleased. "She always had a wild imagination, even as a child, but I'm afraid it's turned into insanity."

I shook my head and turned back to the marshal. "No, don't listen to him," I begged. "He's lyin'! There's nothin' wrong with me!" On instinct, I grabbed the lapels of the marshal's jacket. "He killed my mother! I know he did!"

The marshal pried my hands from his clothes and, instead, restrained me. Then I could feel Father come closer, and when he entered my sight, I finally understood that the man before me wasn't my father. He was a monster, and he had everybody convinced I was crazy.

"And how is it you think you know this?" he asked, but I knew he challenged me. He knew I couldn't say I had visions. That would only strengthen his lies about my sanity. He furrowed his brow, looking almost sad, but I saw through the act. For the first time in my life, I could see his true face. He sighed and leaned even closer to whisper in my ear. "I told you I would take drastic measures if you forced my hand."

I started fighting against the marshal's hold on me. I wanted to scratch the monster's eyes out, and I wanted to make him suffer as he'd made me suffer my entire life. "You're a monster!" I yelled out but was violently dragged out of the house and toward the marshal's vehicle—the one he used for criminals. "I'm not insane! There's nothin' wrong with me! Please, let me go!"

My cries did nothing, and I was forced into the back and cuffed to the bench. The metal was cold and rough against my small wrists, and they pinched my skin, but no matter what I said, I was being taken away.

The engine started, then we started moving down the road, and I watched through blurry eyes how my mother's murderers became smaller and smaller until they disappeared in the dark night.


A/N:

My prereader, the beyond awesome BitterHarpy, has made it very clear she wants a terrible accident to happen to Edgar. I can't help but agree.

However, because of the events that will happen at the asylum which will lead to Alice losing her memory, Edgar J. Brandon won't mean squat to her and therefore I can't really include anything about him from here on.

BUT, I want you to tell me exactly what you wish to happen to Edgar in the future, even if only to vent and get your rage out. Okay?

Until next week,

Stay Awesome!