A/N: I'm sorry about the weird breakup of sentences, but that's how Alice talks to me. This is a first person of Alice starting when she's human at the mental institution. Also, my only experience with psych wards is from the out of time series by Caroline B Cooney and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Vision headaches are out of Angel. I'm in the market for a beta-reader. I'm trying really hard to stick to canon, so please call me on any mistakes I might make in that arena. Chapters will generally be pretty short, as they are essentially diary entries. To make up for that, I'll try to have a lot of them.

Disclaimer: Twilight and connected characters belong to Stephenie Meyer and her publishers, etc. much as I'd love to own them.


Date uncertain, 1920

I'm not insane. Really. Even if I do occasionally have weird images popping into my head that end up coming true hours or days later and are accompanied by sudden shattering headaches. Which is usually a symptom of insanity. But most of the time I am in full possession of my mental faculties.

That's a nice phrase.

But because of aforementioned images, my parents realized I could hurt their precious reputation if I had one of these... "episodes," as they called them, in a public place. So I died and went to a looney bin.

I mean, I didn't really die, of course. Having a daughter locked up is seven times worse than anything I might do in one of these episodes, and I was small and thin and pale enough to start with that my death would not be highly questioned.

I was sent to Biloxi Regional Hospital, where they looked at me, looked at my father's name, and said "Hmm, interesting. Yes, she certainly not fit to remain in society," and diagnosed my with something incredibly long that I can't spell and won't even attempt.

From there I went to the Gulf Psychiatric Hospital with nothing but a certificate of my own death (which is kind of macabre when you think about it), which is near the Gulf coast, but not actually on it, making the name a little misleading. That sentence was also misleading. Gulf PH is not quite on the coast, no my certificate of death (though technically it is too because I'm at GPH). This is making my head spin.

They shaved my head. They shaved my head! Need me to repeat? They shaved my head!! I //am// was so proud of my hair. It was black and thick and so long I had to be careful not to sit on it if it was down.

I wonder what happened to my hair.



Where was I? Oh, hair, right.

I don't really feel like talking about GPH (too long to write out). But there's not really much point in writing this otherwise.

I should have had the presence of mind to find something to count the days with, because no one tells you and I quickly lost track (memory--never my strong point. One of the reasons I'm writing this). All I know is it's long enough for me to grow about two inches of hair, which sticks straight up and is doubtlessly highly unattractive.

I finally decided I should write this down. I'm still not sure why. I'm destined to die in here so it won't do me any good. But it does feel good to write. Once I decided this, I was stopped short by one simple problem: no paper.

I have not quite fallen to the levels of the prison inmate writing on scraps of toilet paper. You know how some books have those blank pages at the end? There's some books in the common room that I pulled the pages from. I'm writing very small (which is a lot harder than it looks).

Got to go now. To be continued.