Alice breathed writing. She wrote she felt as though she was possessed; sometimes by seemingly demonic forces, other times by angelic ones. It often felt as though someone, or something, was guiding her hand across the page of her notebook. Alice re-read her story, pausing at the conclusion, wondering why all her stories were so similar. She did not know why harm always seemed to befall the children in her narratives. Perhaps it was that she saw herself as a little girl, innocent and naive, with all the terrors and realities of the world forced upon her. Life, Alice had learned, was never constant, nor stable. It was up and then down, left and then right, rude and then courteous, easy and then unbearably difficult. It wasn’t that her childhood had been unpleasant. She had been a reserved child who preferred the company of herself to others, playing dress-ups and chasing imaginary lions – Alice believed she had been a content child.

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