redtail

XD i just bought it on itunes

yeah. it fits twilight perfectly cause its 17 and yeah..

You were young, and so am I and
This is wrong, but who am I to judge?
You feel like heaven when we touch
I guess, for me this is enough

We're one mistake for being together
But let's not ask why it's not right
You won't be seventeen forever
And we can get away with this tonight

You are young, and I am scared
You're wise beyond your years, but I don't care
And I can feel your heartbeat
You know exactly where to take me

We're one mistake from being together
But let's not ask why it's not right
You won't be seventeen forever
And we can get away with this tonight

Will you remember me?
You ask me as I leave
Remember what I said?
Oh how could I, oh how could I forget

We're one mistake from being together
But let's not ask why it's not right
You won't be seventeen forever
And we can get away with this tonight

We're one mistake from being together
But let's not ask why it's not right
You won't be seventeen forever
And we can get away with this tonight

We're one mistake from being together
But let's not ask why it's not right
You won't be seventeen forever
And we can get away with this tonight

ill bet!

dundundun duh!!!!

sure

did u read it? fireworks r starting already in my neighborhood

the big long paragraph?

watcha think?

XD XD XD XD XD XD XD XD XD

read this sooo funny:

http://www.fanart-central.net/chapter-70271.html

alices past. i didnt write it but its really good

no...

i read that already

read this:

Light streamed in onto my face through the thin, translucent curtains. I had had my eyes scrunched shut for quite a while, trying to block it out, trying to sleep longer, but I gave up now.
I opened my eyes, looking around my room -- the off-white walls and the mahogany furnishings, the large oval mirror and the light green curtains.
Lying right in front of me, her small hand balled up in mine, was my little sister, Cynthia. I smiled a little -- she often got scared at night and came into my bed. She was five years younger than me, still afraid of the dark. The sun was gleaming off of her deep black hair. Mama often cooed to Cynthia how beautiful her hair was, like the midnight sky when the moon is new. She never said that about my hair.
Slowly, careful not to move the disturb my sister, I stood and walked over to the mirror. My long, nearly waist-length hair was just as black as Cynthia's, but it has always been silkier, shinier than hers.
I sighed. Perhaps, I forced myself to think, the reason why mother never talked that way about my hair was because I was prettier than she was, and she was jealous. I smiled at my reflection -- I had large, dark eyes, delicate features, and a well-proportioned, though small, body.
But then my smile faded. No, I was kidding myself. My mother didn't really care that I was prettier than she was. The reason why she, and my father, doted on Cynthia, and not me, was because I was...abnormal. There were things about me that my parents could never face, especially my father. Well, just one thing, really.
Normal people only saw what was in front of them. But I was not normal. I could see other things. Things that would make what I was meant to see, what normal people saw, disappear. Visions, one could call them. But the part that most unnerved my parents was that, sometimes, the visions came true. Like I could see the future.
Now I frowned at myself. I couldn't deny it. I was a freak.
Then I heard my sister yawn. I went back to the bed as she turned over, blinking in the light.
"Good morning, sleepy head," I said, and I kissed her cheek.
She smiled, but then gasped, excitement lighting up her face. She sat up and threw her arms around my neck.
"Happy birthday, Mary!" she squealed.
I smiled, hugging her back. Cynthia was the one person who didn't care that I was abnormal. She was still so young and immature. But I loved her...more than anyone else in the whole world.
The next second, my moment of happiness was crushed with dread. I had been fearing this day, but not because it was my birthday.
Today, my father was having a business dinner with the family of a man who ran a major sector of a prominent oil company, a figurative "gold mine" of the early ninteen-hundreds. If he impressed this man, he would secure a steady, extremely high-paying job, which was my parents' dream. Apparently, I was considered old enough to attend the dinner.
Cynthia didn't notice that I was not smiling, or listening to her babble.
I hated going in out in public. I knew it was unavoidable, but it frightened me. I couldn't control my visions. I couldn't reign them in when I was around people. My parents were always intolerable of me -- they could barely stand to look at me most of the time -- but when I exposed myself in public with my blank stare, my seizure-like trembling, unaware of anything that was going on around me...I shuddered at the thought.
It had only happened twice; my parents were very careful with me. But both times, my father had been beside himself with anger. He was much less forgiving of my...oddities...than Mama....
"Mary?" Cynthia asked, shaking my shoulder. I shook my head slightly, and then looked down at her. "Did you see something?"
"Oh....no, I was just thinking...."
Just then, I heard my mother's voice from downstairs, calling us to breakfast. Well, calling Cynthia, anyway. I suppressed a sigh, and followed my sister down the stairs.
The scene that awaited us downstairs was...shockingly normal after spending the morning dwelling on my visions. My mother stood at the gas stove, scrambling eggs, while my father sat at the table, with his customary mug of coffee and morning newspaper. Cynthia ran forwards to smell the cooking food, while I lingered somewhat awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen.
My parents were wealthy, proud sorts, as their parents had been before them. They had always longed to fit in with society, but at the very top of the ladder. Apparently, though, the good people of Biloxi were not good enough for them. They rarely ever mingled with other people, respectable or otherwise; our home was more than three miles away from any neighbors. New York City, where the new job was located, would be a dream come true for my parents.
I guessed that this was one of the reasons why my parents were particularily embarrased of me -- they wanted to be trendy, perfect people that everyone would envy and look up to, and they considered my abnormalities to be a disgrace. They would be forever shamed if anyone found out that there was something so very wrong with me.
"Happy birthday, Mary," Mama said politely, breaking me out of my reverie. I glanced at her, and she was smiling slightly, though she didn't look up from her cooking.
"Thank you," I said quietly, and went to sit at the table.
My father didn't look away from his newspaper.
It wasn't until we were all seated, and had been eating in silence for several minutes, that he finally folded the paper and set it on the table beside him. He leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him.
"Now I'm sure you all know what today is," he started, sounding a bit pompous.
Other than my birthday, I thought wryly.
"Tonight is our dinner with Mr. McLaughlin's family." He paused, beaming at Mama.
I sensed that he would say more, but I interrupted.
"Why do I have to go?"
His smile faded immediately as he turned to look at me.
"Our family is dining with his family, and you are part of this family."
"Cynthia doesn't have to go," I said, frowning.
"She is only a child." I opened my mouth to speak again, but he cut me off. "And while we're on this subject," he said, a little louder than was really necessary, "I am going to give you fair warning. If you don't restrain your...yourself tonight, there will be consequences."
"Papa, I can't." I closed my eyes, bowing my head in shame. "I can't control my visions. You know that. Please don't make me go."
"You are coming, and you will behave yourself. That's final."
I looked down at my food for the rest of the meal, but I didn't eat another bite.
The taxi ride to the McLaughlin's home was silent and very short. I was too nervous to notice the city rushing by, or to take in what the exterior of their house looked like. My parents and I were shown in to a parlor, where Mr. McLaughlin's family, his wife, his two sons -- both about eighteen, more or less -- and himself, sat. We were introduced, and I tried to stay calm enough to be friendly. I didn't remember their names for more than five seconds.
After that, all of us were brought into the spacious dining room, where the talk continued as we waited for the meal. I noticed one of the boys, tall and handsome, with intelligent, dark eyes, smiling at me bemusedly. I smiled shyly, too.
The food was brought in then, an impressive feast. I ate in silence, as no one ever spoke to me. I couldn't help but think again how pointless it was for me to come here.
It was then, when everyone was just finishing their main course, that it happened.
The voices around me died out...the room faded, only to reappear a moment later, but the table was suddenly cleared...two men in white shirts and black aprons walked in, bearing silver trays covered with round lids...the one behind tripped over his own feet, and both of the men fell, the dessert scattering across the floor....
And then the vision died away, but I still heard nothing. Then I noticed that it was because everyone at the table was staring at me in blank shock. Heat flooded my face, and I looked hurriedly down at my hands. They were gripping the table, and so I released it quickly.
My mother recovered first.
"Do you feel alright...dear?" she said, her voice surprisingly calm.
I couldn't look at her, or find my voice. I just shook my head.
"She was complaining of lightheadedness earlier this morning," Mama invented on the spot, explaining to everyone. "I beg your pardon, Mr. McLaughlin, but perhaps I had better take her home."
"Yes, that is quite alright," he said with an understanding smile. "Why don't you stay for dessert, though, Mr. Brandon, and we can discuss this position at the Company?"
Mama and I stood, as did all of the men at the table. She thanked the McLaughlins for the meal, apologizing again.
"Allow me to escort you home," said the one who had been watching me.
He gestured politely for my mother to go first, and then offered me his arm, smiling kindly. I took it, but this time, could not find it in me to smile back.
The taxi ride back home was just as silent, but seemed to take an eternity. We finally pulled up in front of the house, and the McLaughlin boy helped us both out of the car, walking with us to the porch steps.
"Thank you so much for your help," Mama said. "You are most kind."
"It was my pleasure," he replied with a slight bow. Then he took my hand and kissed it lightly. "I hope you feel better soon." His sincerity was very clear.
I swallowed hard. "Thank you," was all I managed to say, and my voice shook slightly.
He left us then, and we went into the house.
"Get upstairs," Mama said at once. She looked like she wanted to hit me. "And stay there."
I did so immediately, locking the door to my room.
My father arrived later, and though I could hear the hushed voices of my parents, but I only picked out one phrase, spoked more loudly than the other words.
"Something must be done about her."
I laid awake, tears streaming down my face, long into the night.

The next morning, I awoke to hear the sound of my father talking on the telephone in the hallway, speaking in a low, urgent voice. I was shocked when I heard him say my full name, Mary Alice Brandon, but he was obviously not
calling me. I tiptoed to the door, listening.
"She needs to be there.... No, I don't care what you do with her. Just as long as she stays there.... No, absolutely not. No one can hear about it.... Fine, that's fine....Yes, we'll pay you now, and then later, after we get more money.... Today, preferrably.... Yes.... Alright. Thank you very much."
The receiver clicked down on its hook, and then I heard him walk down the stairs, calling my mother.
I crept back to my bed, an unexplainable feeling of unease spreading through me. Whatever Papa had been speaking about, it didn't sound good, but I couldn't make any sense of it.
I stared out my window for a long time, my thoughts traveling around in circles. All the while I could hear my parents talking -- to Cynthia, by the sound of it.
I was extremely surprised when, a little later, there was a knock at my door.
"C-come in," I called.
My father opened walked inside, leaving the door open behind him. He came towards me and sat down on the chair near my bed.
"Mary," he said, looking at the wall behind my head, and folding his hands in his lap, "Mr. McLaughlin has agreed to give me the job."
"Congratulations," I said quietly.
He paused for a moment, shifting uncomfortably.
"We are moving to New York City."
My face lit up as the infinite possibilities that such an enormous, bustling city held, opened up before me. Papa looked at me then.
"I mean to say that your mother, Cynthia, and I are moving to New York."
I stared at him, my mind blank.
"I'm not...going with you?" I asked, shocked.
"I have arranged a situation for you, here in Biloxi."
"A situation..." I mused. "Like a job?"
"No," he said, shifting again and looking away. "Mary, you are sick. Today they are bringing you to the...hospital. When you are better, you can...join us in New York."
Just then, an image of a large, white building on a green lawn that I had seen only in photographs appeared before my eyes. I felt my stomach drop, and I suddenly felt dizzy. But the next instant, I jumped to my feet.
"You're sending me to the asylum!" I accused, my voice very high.
My father stood as well, his eyes filled with revulsion as he realized what I had just seen.
"I'm not insane!" I cried, my voice raising in volume with the terror I felt. "You can't make me go there. I'm not insane!"
"That's enough!" my father shouted, towering over me. "I am your father, and I will decide whether or not you go!"
I stared at him, speechless. He closed his eyes, composing himself.
"Your sister...is to believe that you will come to New York...when you are well again, and you will...not breathe a word to her otherwise. I want her to be happy. You are...a bad influence on her, and it is for her benefit that we...leave you here. I don't want you near my daughter...again...."
"Papa...please," I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. I stepped towards him, but he turned at sped out of the room.
It took me some time to compose myself. But I had to calm down, because I needed to talk to Cynthia.
I stole quietly across the hallway, and knocked lightly on her door.
"Cynthia?" I murmured.
She was there, on her bed, staring out the window. She turned when I shut the door.
"Cynthia, did...Papa tell you what is happening?" I asked, sitting beside her and putting my arm around her shoulders.
She nodded, curling up against my side.
"Will you get better soon?" she asked sadly.
A lump rose in my throat. I didn't want to lie to her. I tried to speak, but I couldn't find my voice, so I lowered it to a whisper.
"I'll try."
We sat there for a long time; I stroked her hair as she leaned her head against my chest. Then I heard the loud, harsh thrumming of an engine, pulling up in front of our house. My stomach dropped.
"Cynthia," I said desperately, getting to my knees in front of her and gripping her wrists. "Cynthia, promise me something."
She nodded.
"Promise that you won't forget me."
She nodded, her bottom lip trembled, and then she started to cry. I got back on the bed, cradling her in my arms.
"It's okay," I said soothingly. Somehow, protecting and comforting her gave me strength. "You be a good girl, now. Be brave."
Just then, Mama opened the door. There were conflicting emotions in her strangely ashen face.
"Come now, Mary," she said, her voice calm...too calm. I could tell it was forced. "Say goodbye to Cynthia."
I bit my lip, and then bent down and kissed my sweet, baby sister's hair one last time.
"I won't forget you, either," I promised in a quiet voice, only for her.
I pulled away from her gently, my throat tight again, and suddenly I felt unsure. I walked toward my mother, trying to block out Cynthia's heart-wrenching sobs.
"Mama," I whispered, begging. "Please let me stay."
"I'll see you in New York," she said, falsely cheerful, as if she hadn't heard me. "You'll like it there."
I let her know through my eyes that I knew she was lying. What she did next surprised me. A frightened, almost strangled look crossed her face as she looked at me. She raised her hand, hesitated, and then placed it softly on the
side of my head, running her fingers through my hair. Then she leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
"I can't...." she whispered, and tears filled her eyes. "Goodbye, my beautiful, darling daughter."
I knew then, as I looked into my mothers dark eyes, that she had always loved me. She was embarrased of me, even afraid of me at times, but she could not completely supress the love that a mother naturally held for her daughter...even if her daughter was a freak.
I managed to smile at her, to tell her silently that I knew, and that I loved her as well -- that, somehow, I could forgive her.
"Get downstairs now, quickly," she breathed, working in vain to sound light-hearted again. She walked quickly toward Cynthia, and I couldn't turn to look at them. I don't know if I would have been able to move if it weren't for the burning desire inside myself for Cynthia to believe that I was coming back. I knew that I was doomed to a life of misery, but more than anything else, I wanted my sister to be happy. So I steeled my courage, and walked down the stairs.
Two unfamiliar, thickset men waited in the living room, along with my father. Instantly, my bravery vanished. I stumbled to where my father stood, and grabbed the front of his shirt.
"Please, Papa!" I cried, uncontrolable tears streaming down my face.
He stepped back, revulsion evident in his eyes. He pulled my hands from his chest, and so I fell down at his feet.
"Papa, you can't send me away!" My voice was high and frantic as my tears fell onto his highly-polished black shoes.
"Take her," he said, disgusted.
"No!" I screamed, holding onto his ankles. "No, Papa, no, please!" Two pairs of large, rough hands grabbed my arms, pulling me up and to the door. "I'm your daughter!" I shrieked at him. "I'm your daughter!"
I screamed and cried for him, and for Mama and Cynthia, but he merely watched me with cold, unfeeling eyes as the two men dragged me into the car, oblivious to my frantic struggles.
Conflicting emotions raged through me as I sat huddled in the back of the car -- anger, betrayal, misery. The two men in the front seats ignored me completely as I sobbed, with my father's face, repulsed and devoid of tender feeling, forever before my eyes.
The asylum was several miles away from the city, but at last, as I looked out the side window, I saw a large stone sign with the words, Harrison County Mental Institution, carved onto its weathered face. A growing feeling of dread began to block out all other feelings as I stared up at the large, faded white building, my tears stopped short.
"Come on, now," said the man in the passenger's seat, as we stopped before the front steps. He spoke slowly, as if he thought I couldn't understand him clearly. He climbed out, and the opened my door for me. "Time to go inside."
He helped me out of the car, and, now that I wasn't fighting, he was much more gentle with me. I turned to gaze over my shoulder, at the wide green lawn bathed in sunlight, as he guided me up the steps and through the front doot, his hand firm around my arm.
Once inside, the man led me to a bench, and made me promise to wait there. Then he walked through a door with the words, Front Office, printed on it in even, black letters.
I was too nervous to look up from my hands, folded in my lap, but I could tell that everything around me was painstakingly clean, but there was no color inside except for a few green plants. Everything else was varying shades of white, gray, or black -- the walls, the floor, even the long coats or loose uniforms the few people bustling around me were wearing. I didn't like it at all; it felt like a prison.
Just then, the door that the man had walked through opened, and a middle-aged woman wearing one of the gray suits came directly towards me.
"Hello there, dear," she said. The way she smiled at me made me feel very self-conscious; it was like she was reassuring me that she didn't mind if there was something wrong with me...but that there was something wrong with me nonetheless. "You must be Miss Brandon."
I nodded.
"Why don't you come with me, dear, and I'll get you settled in your room?"
It was a question, but I knew I didn't have a choice in the matter. I stood up and followed down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and down another, shorter hallway. Then she stopped at one of many identical doors, lifted a bolt-lock, used a key to open a small padlock, and opened the door.
"Here we are," she said, smiling at me again and gesturing for me to go first.
I walked forward, into the small room which was much the same as the outer hall -- whitewashed walls and a hard, gray floor. A wooden stool and a small cot made up the furnishings, and a bit of light came from a small, high window in the wall opposite the door.
"Change into those," she said, gesturing to some gray cloth, folded neatly on the cot. "We'll send one of the doctors up to see you soon." With one last sympathetic smile, she closed the door, and I heard both locks click shut.
Bleakly, I walked over to the bed and picked up the garment. It was nearly identical to the one the nurse had been wearing -- light gray, heavy material -- except fot that mine was all one piece. I sighed, but I knew I had to obey. I undressed, pulled the thing on, and then I sat down on the cot to wait. I fought back tears.
It didn't take long. In a few minutes, I heard the sound of the locks being released again, and the door opened. Three people walked in. The first man was elderly, with gray hair and glasses, wearing one of the long coats. He held a clipboard in his hand. The second was much younger, and rather burly. His gray suit had the letters ASST embroidered on the front. The third person was the same nurse as before.
"Good evening," said the first man softly, extending a hand to me. I took it hesitantly. "My name is Doctor Mansfeld. And you are...?"
"Mary Alice Brandon," I replied, trying to sound as sane as I could.
But he smiled at me just the way the nurse had, like there was something wrong with me.
He sat down on the stool, balancing the clipboard on his knee. The other man stood slightly behind him, leaning against the wall. I didn't know why he was here, but I guessed that maybe he was the frail-looking doctor's bodyguard. The thought made me feel nauseated.
"Now, Miss Brandon, I am going to ask you a few questions. The more truthfully you answer, the better we can diagnose your problem and find the best treatments for you. We want you to get well soon, don't you?"
I didn't answer, and his smile faded slightly.
"Well let's get to it," he said, looking down at the clipboard. "I hear that you have been...seeing things that aren't there. Is that correct?"
I looked down at my hands and nodded.
"Hmm, yes..." he muttered, writing something on a paper. Then he looked up again. "Could you describe these hallucinations to me?"
"They aren't hallucinations," I said quietly. "They're real...or at least they will be." I looked back at him, and his head was cocked to the side.
"What do you mean?"
"I see things before they happen," I said. "They don't all happen, but some of them do. I see them in my head, like a vision. Sometimes they...move, but most of the time they're like a picture."
He was gazing at me over the tops of his glasses now, his lips pressed together tightly. Then I noticed that the other two were also staring at me, so I focused back on my hands, feeling extremely uncomfortable. He wrote a short note on the clipboard, and then stood, turning to the nurse. He began speaking to her in a very low voice. She nodded a few times, glancing at me now and then...uneasily, I thought. Like I was contaminated, or dangerous. My sick feeling worsened.
Then the doctor turned back to me with the same, pitying smile.
"Well, Miss Brandon, I think I've decided exactly what you need. Perhaps we will start your treatments tomorrow. For now, get some rest. We'll have you better in no time."
They all walked through the door, and Dr. Mansfeld turned to look at me.
"I'll see you in the morning," he said, cheerily, but I took the sentence to be ominous rather than comforting.
Then he closed the door.
I looked miserably around my prison for a few moments. The sun must have been beginning to set by now, because barely and light came from the tiny window. The room darkened slowly, but steadily, until a single lightbulb, which I hadn't noticed hanging from the ceiling, flickered on. It gave a pathetic amount of light.
I laid down on my side, my arms tight around myself. I thought about sleeping, but then everything went black, and before my eyes came a picture of a large, brick house...It is in New York...Papa and Cynthia are inside...He speaks to her....Cynthia, I'm so sorry...We received a telegram this morning...Your sister's condition worsened...There was nothing they could do...She is dead...Cynthia begins to cry....
And then my cell resolved again before my eyes, but everything was blurry. I realized then that tears fogged my vision, and choked sobs were shaking me uncontrollably. I was alone -- utterly alone. Outside this place, I was dead -- soon to be forgotten. Inside, I was a nobody, just one of many freaks who was less human, less valued than everyone else because I was different. I had no one to love or care for me.
I curled up tightly on the cot, trying vainly to block the omnipotent, crushing terror that surrounded me and threatened to destroy me.
I was dreaming. I knew it. My father would never really act this way. His arms were around me as I sat on his knee. He told me that he loved me; he told me he was sorry. Sorry for what? He didn't say.
I noticed that I was uncomfortable then, but I tried to hold onto the dream. It was better than facing the real him. Why was I uncomfortable? My bed seemed harder than usual, and springs creaked when I turned. I had a down mattress, didn't I?
Then a series of images chased away the dream -- Cynthia, sobbing...my father's cold eyes...the two men in the black car...the big white building.... The asylum.
My eyes snapped open. They stung, and I remembered crying myself to sleep the night before. I rubbed my eyes, but just then I heard the locks on my door, and so I sat up quickly. A woman, dressed in a gray suit, walked in carrying a tray laden with a single bowl.
"Good morning," she said. She too gave me the pitying smile. I felt a surge of dislike; I didn't need or want her sympathy. Why couldn't they all just keep it to themselves? She set the tray on my bed; inside was slimy, unappetizing mush. "How did you sleep?"
I just shrugged my shoulders.
"Eat up, now," she said, still smiling.
"I'm not hungry." Not now that I had smelled the glop in the bowl, anyways.
"Eat it, or you won't get another chance until dinnertime tonight," she snapped. She was clearly rather short-tempered.
"I don't want it."
She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. Then she picked the tray back up and left the room, muttering to herself.
The smell lingered in my room, making me nauseous, but it wasn't much longer until my door opened again. This time, a man came in, an assistant rather than a nurse by the embroidered initials on his gray uniform. He said nothing, just came to me, grabbed my shoulders and guided me out of the room.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, but he said nothing.
His legs were so long that I nearly had to jog to keep up with him. He led me silently down the outer hall, but the opposite way I had come in, and then up a flight of stairs. He turned into the first door in the hall. Inside the door was another white room with a kind of bed in it, but this bed had no padding, and there were six leather bands attatched to it. A strange machine was next to the bed.
"Hello, there!" said a cheerful voice. I hadn't noticed Dr. Mansfeld in the room. He came forward, smiling. "Did you find your room accomidating?"
"Barely," I muttered, looking at the floor.
"Ah, well, we'd be broke if we gave all of the patients recliners and Indian rugs!" he said with a chuckle. " Now Miss Brandon, why don't you sit there for me?" He gestured to the strange bed.
I walked over to it and tried to climb up, but it was rather high, and I was very short for my age. I felt the assistant's large hands grab me under my arms and lift me onto it.
"I'm sure you're wondering what this is," he said sociably, but not waiting for my answer. "Well, Miss Brandon, this is what we will be using for your main treatments." He patted an long lever on the machine. "Shock therapy...it's one of the most effective methods I've ever used."
I glanced apprehensively at the lever. I didn't like the sound of my "main treatment" at all.
"If we're lucky," he said, raising his eyebrows and gazing at me over the tops of his glasses, "you'll stop having those nasty visions in no time. Now, lay down, please."
I did as I was told, a nervous flutter in my stomach. The assistant immediately began to strap the leather bands around my wrists, forearms, and ankles. He also shoved something in my mouth. I tried stay in control of my breathing as Dr. Mansfeld stuck something to each of my temples. The assistant stepped back, and Dr. Mansfeld walked to the lever. With one last reassuring smile, he pulled it down.
Fire shot through my bones, the most acute pain I had ever felt, and I completely lost control of myself. My body thrashed against it's bindings, and a muffled scream escaped me.
And then the fire was gone, as quickly as it had come, but my body continued to jerk uncontrollably. I didn't even have time open my eyes before I heard the sound of the lever again, and the agony of the fire took over my consciousness, sent my body writhing into anguished convulsions.
The next thing I knew, Dr. Mansfeld and the assistant were removing my restraints. Cold sweat covered my whole body, and tears were streaming down my face as I gasped for breath, trembling still from the torturing fire. A weak sob broke from me.
"That should do it for now," Dr. Mansfeld said quietly. He looked down at me for a while, mild pity softening his features. "The shock treatment has never failed me before. I'm sorry it has to hurt so badly, but you should be free of those...hallucinations for some time."
I couldn't make sense of his words. All I could comprehend was that I was in agony, every inch of me aching. I couldn't find it in myself to care when the assistant lifted my shivering body, and carried me back to my cell. He laid me gently on my cot, and left without a word.
The pain was worse now, when I was alone, because there was nothing at all to distract me from it. I wanted someone, anyone, to come to me, to hold my hand. I wanted my papa to come and cradle me in his arms, like he had been in my dream. My heart began to ache worse than my body as I thought once again of my family. There was a gaping hole in me that would never be filled. I twisted my fingers in my hair, trying to block out the longing with other pain. I screamed, and then tried to muffle the sound into my sheet.
I was alone.
Alone forever.
Why me? I thought, tears leaking out of my sore eyes, and staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Why is it always me?
I didn't know how long I'd been here. Every day was almost the same -- disgusting food, sympathetic, but not repentant nurses and doctors who put me through excruciatingly painful treatments that never stopped the visions, the bland walls of my room, and the growing darkness of night that almost always brought me to tears.
The workers at the asylum were unintentionally skilled at making a person feel useless and unloved. Without fail, each one of them treated me as if I was something unclean or that I had a contagious disease. They attempted to hide this from me with their simpering smiles, calling me "dear" or "sweetie" all the time, but all that they accomplished was to make my stomach squirm with unease, and to deplete my already almost non-existant self-esteem. Before long, needless to say, I began to lose my sense of worth. Why should anyone want me around? I was simply a burden to all of the workers here, as was evident by the way they treated me. I no longer attempted to behave politely to anyone; I never spoke if I could help it. I even overheard two nurses speaking about me, and one of them said what a little monster I had become. I didn't have enough left in me to care what they thought.
The worst part of being at the asylum, though, was the way every day seemed to chip another piece from my memory. I forgot my father's face first, almost as though I wanted to forget. When I thought of him now, I could only remember how large and intimidating he was. I was also beginning to lose the sound of my mother's voice, but because she had rarely had anything kind to say to me, this did not worry me too much, either. But every day, the fear grew inside my mind that I would begin to break my promise to Cynthia -- that I would forget her. I thought about her as often as I could bear, but the fact that I would most likely never see my sister again made remembering painful.
But absolutely nothing was as painful as the shock treatments. Dr. Mansfeld bluntly insisted that they were helping, despite my frequent protests to the contrary. Several times I lost control with him, and started to scream at him that I hated him, after which they would tie me up in a restricting white jacket, and place a cloth over my mouth which would make me lose consciousness for hours.
Yes, it was true. I was slowly losing everything I had been in the outside world -- daughter, sister, human. Was I really going insane?

This day had been exactly like all the rest -- woken by the nurse, forcing down the only meal I would get until dinner-time, and laying on my cot. According to the nurse, I wasn't scheduled for treatment today.
But I was surprised when there was a knock on my door. No one ever knocked. I pretended not to care, and I rolled over on my bed, my face an inch from the wall. I heard the door creak open, a single set of footsteps, and then the door swung shut. Whoever had come inside was very still, but I stubbornly ignored whoever it was.
"You're eyes are open. I know you're not sleeping," said a deep voice with a slight English-Irish accent. The voice sounded amused.
"No," I said tersely. "I'm not. What do you want?"
"I simply wanted to introduce myself." He paused, but I waited too. I just wanted him to leave. "Would you be so kind as to sit up? It's a little awkward talking to the back of your head."
I sighed, rolled over and sat up. Then I gasped, my mouth dropping open.
I had never seen anyone like him before. He looked very young, much to young to be a doctor here, but at the same time, something about him gave the impression of ancient wisdom. His face was perfectly proportioned, with a firm jaw and a straight nose, and his clean-shaven skin was snowy pale. His wavy, dark mahogany hair was carefully styled. He was utterly beautiful and perfect...and that was an understatement.
I found myself staring at him like an idiot, struck dumb with my mouth hanging open.
Then I was self-conscious and embarrassed. When was the last time I had brushed my hair? It probably looked like a rat's nest...and my eyes were probably red from all the crying I had been doing....
"My name is Jonathan Greenmun," he said softly, walking closer and extending a hand. His eyes, stunning and alert, but shadowed, were the most incredible color. They were like molten gold. "I'm a new doctor here."
I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed hard, realizing how stupid I must look, and I took his hand shyly, smiling in spite of myself. His fingers were icy cold.
"I'm Mary," I said. "Mary Alice Brandon."
"That's a pretty name," he said, smiling. The expression made him seem so different from all of the other workers here. His smile was polite, but warm and friendly. It alone was enough to ease some of the pain and longing that had been my constant companions at this place.
"Th-thank you," I stammered.
"Would you mind speaking to me for a few minutes?" he asked. "I've been introducing myself to some of the, well, more aware inmate's here, because I'd like to see this institution from the patients' point of view before I begin my work."
I waited.
"Tell me, Miss Brandon, are you comfortable here?"
I looked down at my hands.
"It's all right," he said, and then he laughed lightly. "I won't take offense to anything you say."
"I hate it," I said, quiet anger in my voice. "They treat me like I'm not human...like I'm an animal."
I looked back up, and I saw that he was gazing at me with his piercing golden eyes.
"How so?" he asked softly.
"They don't listen to anything I say." I found that being honest with him was surprisingly easy. "They hurt me."
"They hurt you?" he asked incredulously. "Oh, they give you the shock therapy, I see," he answered his own question. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "I don't support the use of painful treatments. I can't administer them with a clean conscious. I find them..." he paused, smiling at me again, "...inhumane."
I nodded.
"And most of the time, they don't seem to really help. Don't you agree?"
I nodded more vigorously.
"They never listen to me, though," I said. "Dr. Mansfeld always tells me that they do help. He won't listen to what I tell him, no matter how many times I say it. They don't help." I was desperate for him to understand.
He smiled kindly. "How about I speak to Dr. Mansfeld for you? Perhaps I can convince him to change your treatments, or at least decrease their frequency. Would you like that?"
"Yes, thank you," I said, smiling back.
He looked out my window for a moment.
"Miss Brandon?"
"Yes?"
"When was the last time you had fresh air? Been out of doors?" he asked, looking back at me.
"Oh..." I said, a little startled by his question. "I...I don't know for sure, but not since I've come here."
Dr. Greenmun looked even more surprised than I felt. "They haven't let you out into grounds? Ever?"
I shook my head. His dark eyebrows pulled together, and he put one hand up, rubbing his jaw. He was quiet for a while.
"Well," he said after a moment, "I think that there is definitely room for improvement here. I will speak to Dr. Mansfeld, and see what we can do about your treatments," he promised with another pleasant smile.
"Thank you," I said sincerely.
"It's no trouble. Personally, I find the natural treatments of the sun and the sky to be far more beneficial than electric shock." He chuckled lightly, and then stood, holding out his hand again. I placed my hand in his. "Well, Miss Brandon, I hope that you and I will be good friends. Perhaps I will see you again tomorrow, if you like."
I nodded, smiling timidly. His brilliant ocher eyes were warm as he smiled at me for a moment.
"Until tomorrow, then," he said in his soft accent, and then he turned and walked out.
I stared after him for a long time.

As he had promised, Dr. Greenmun did come to talk to me again the next day, and the next, and nearly every day after that. He seemed to enjoy my company as much as I needed his. As time went on, I began to depend on him to be able to get through the day without falling into depression. His constant kindness was like nourishment for my mind and soul, as essential to me as bread and water.
Every day he came to me, he would tell me that he was trying as hard as he could to convince Dr. Greenmun to change my treatments, and to let me outside -- with an attendant or a nurse, of course. But Dr. Mansfeld was unyieldingly stubborn to a ridiculous degree that he was right about my treatments. I argued with him every time I saw him, so desperate was I to never have to go through the excruciating pain of electric shock again. I was beginning to feel permanently weakened by the agonizing therapy, and that worried both Dr. Greenmun and me.

And so, my monotonous life went on with few changes, other than the brief moments of solace I received while with Dr. Greenmun, but even with his frequent presence, I was beginning to lose any last shreds of hope that lingered in my mind.
One morning, I was woken by the sound of angry voices outside my door.
"They aren't good for her." I easily recognized the usually calm voice of Dr. Greenmun. "The shock therapy has been known to cause cognitive impairement if continued for a long period of time, and you have had her on them for --"
"Now, now, Jonathan," Dr. Mansfeld said, laughing nervously. "There's no need to over-react. She needs her treatments to keep her visions away."
"She says they aren't going away. And besides, the visions aren't hurting her. She just needs --"
"I know what she needs, Jonathan. I have been her doctor ever since she's been in this hospital, and --"
"I am convinced that she doesn't even need to be here!"
"What do you mean by that?" Dr. Mansfeld asked, sounding astonished.
"You know what I mean." There was silence, so he continued. "Tell me something, Dr. Mansfeld," he said. His voice was low and angry. "Tell me how much they had to give you before you would allow her to come here?"
There was silence for several long moments. I struggled to understand what he meant.
"H-how dare you!" Dr. Mansfeld spluttered. "I...you...you will not speak like that to your superior! And I don't even know what you're talking about! You act like they...bribed me to take her! The very idea!" There was silence for a long time, and I imagined them staring eachother down. Then I heard a pair of footsteps receding down the hallway.
A few moments later there was a knock at my door, and it opened. Dr. Greenmun stepped in, his expression troubled.
"Hello," I said, smiling.
Dr. Greenmun returned my smile, but his dark golden eyes remained unhappy.
"I'm so very sorry, Miss Brandon," he said, sitting on the stool. "I...no matter what I say, I can't change his mind. I'm sure you heard our discussion just now."
I nodded.
"I swear I will keep trying," he said earnestly, "but I don't know if I will be able to convince him."
"I'm just glad that you care enough to try at all."
He smiled at me, and then I had a sudden thought.
"Dr. Greenmun, can I ask you something?"
"Certainly," he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"Do you think I'm...insane? You said that I didn't need to be here...."
My question seemed to surprise him. He watched me for a while, his head cocked to the side.
"Does it matter what I think?" he asked.
"It does to me."
I felt color rising in my cheeks. That made him smile slightly, and he leaned forward to take my hand in both of his. Again, they were strangely cold.
"Well," he said, his softly accented voice very gentle, "no, Miss Brandon, I do not think you are insane."
"But you do believe that I see things, don't you?"
"Yes, if you say so then I believe you. But I does simply seeing things before they happen make you insane?" The question was obviously rhetorical. "No, I believe that these visions are a gift. You are gifted to an extraordinary degree, beyond anyone else I have ever met. I wish that you could be free from this place."
I looked down at our hands, which were still entwined, and nodded.
"Now will you answer my question?" he asked.
"Of course."
"Then tell me, do you think of me as your doctor, or as your friend?"
I looked up at him, smiling now.
"Friend," I said at once.
He smiled back. "Well then, if we are no longer merely indifferent acquaintances, perhaps you and I should find something less formal to call eachother. You may call me Jonathan, if you like, but just between the two of us."
"Jonathan," I said, grinning, and then I said, "You can call me Mary."
He cocked his head to the side. "Mary..." he said, trying out the name. "It's a very pretty name, but it doesn't seem to fit you."
I pursed my lips, a little confused. He seemed to think for a moment, and then he said, "Didn't you say that your middle name was Alice?"
I nodded.
"Hmm...Alice," he mused. "Has anyone else ever used it for you?"
"No."
"Well then it's perfect." He smiled. "May I call you Alice?"
"All right," I said, smiling.
He gazed into my eyes for a moment.
"Yes," he murmured, "it fit's you very well. Alice...." He placed one hand to the side of my head, his golden eyes very soft. "Dear little Alice...."
He stood then, and I followed suit.
"Friends?" he asked, holding out his hand.
I looked at it for a moment, and then I was overcome with emotion. I threw my arms around his waist.
"You're my only friend in the whole world," I said, my voice trembling.
He was extremely still for several seconds -- he didn't even seem to breathe. But then, just before I decided to pull away again, he put his cold arms very gently around me, stroking my hair.
"Then I will always be your friend, Alice," he whispered. "I promise."
And pure joy bubbled up inside me for the first time in a very long time.

why is he always trying to hurt squirrel

yeah