Disclaimer: Alice was created by Stephenie Meyer, and Cynthia's name is mentioned in New Moon. All other characters are my creation (yay!).

In 1931, Scotsdale Sanitarium was destroyed by a fire. This diary, belonging to a patient who died some years before, was found intact in the basement.

Diary of Mary Alice Brandon

June 23, 1922:

Happy birthday to me! My sister Cynthia gave me this diary today for my birthday. She said I should use it to record my thoughts. It's probably the best gift I've gotten in a long time, because I have a lot to say and almost no one who will listen. And then there are the things I don't want anyone to hear.

I wonder sometimes where the line is drawn between sane and insane. Does a crazy person know she's crazy? Can you be crazy if you know you're crazy? Heavy thoughts for a young lady, I know, especially when the other girls are worried about nothing more than sneaking into the speakeasies. But I've never been normal.

It's so hard to put my thoughts down on paper, to pull fantasies from the air and form them into reality. Thoughts are so transient and words so concrete.

Father's calling. Will write more later.

June 25, 1922:

Today was tranquil. I with Cynthia for nearly an hour and brushed her hair. My sister's hair is past her shoulders now, nearly as long as mine, though hers has lustrous waves that mine never will. She will be fifteen in the fall, and has the wide-eyed innocence of a young child still. She's my best friend in the world.

Ever since she began talking, without any explanation, my sister has called me "Alice." She is the only one who does, although my parents will occasionally call me "Mary Alice." To everyone else I'm always "Mary." As I worked on untangling her knots, Cynthia said to me, as she often does, "Tell me about your dreams, Alice."

My dreams, like so much of my life, are not normal. In fact, they are the reason my life is not normal. The dreams are incredibly vivid, and they often show things that happen days or weeks later. Lately, I've been slipping into daydreams so real I sometimes have trouble knowing when I sleep and when I wake. They are strange, often sad, sometimes terrifying.

And sometimes beautiful. I found one of those to share with my sister. "I saw the man who loves me," I began. She gasped and turned around to look at me, giddily surprised. My dreams cover many areas, but love is rarely one of them.

"What did he look like?" she asked. I described him to her in great detail. If men can indeed be beautiful, he was. There was something otherworldly about him, strange and incredibly alluring. Handsome chiseled features, a lean and muscular body, thick blond hair. Dark eyes like deep pools, skin pale as reflected moonlight. "What's his name?" Cynthia questioned.

"I don't know," I replied sadly. "But maybe I'll find out soon."

July 1, 1922:

My parents have tried for so long to hide my abnormality from everyone. It is not proper for young ladies in polite society to see things before they happen. But today everything was exposed.

We were walking down Main Street on our way to the theatre to see the new Charlie Chaplin picture when I saw something from the corner of my eye. I turned to look down the street. Flames were shooting up from Miller's Bakery. A great column of smoke rose into the air, and the fire licked hungrily at the wooden doorframe. Something inside exploded with a great crash.

"The bakery!" I screamed. "The bakery is on fire!" I could feel Mother staring at me coldly for making a scene. I didn't care; what if someone was inside the bakery? "Call the fire brigade!" By now, people on the street were staring at me. I could not believe that no one was listening to me.

"Alice," Cynthia's quiet voice caught my attention instantly. I turned to look at my sister, her wide eyes filled with fear. "There is no fire," she whispered. I turned and stared at the bakery. There were no flames, no smoke, no scorch marks. I felt a cold fear in the pit of my stomach.

Mother has told me for years that I am insane, and for the first time I fear that she may be right.

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