If you've reached this blog, chances are you're already a follower of Alice's or Mary's blogs, or at least that you've found out about this place because of them. I'm Andreas, Alice's friend, and I haven't had the strength to make this blog until now - I haven't had much strength to do anything.
It's hard to know where to begin, but as a wise man once said: Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop.
In December, Alice's old home burned down with her father still inside. The details are nearly non-existent. They tried to find out the cause, and when they didn't find any evidence of a natural cause they suspected arson. Everyone with relations to the family were questioned, even me, at the beginning both Alice and me were the prime suspects. At first, it seemed like they deliberately denied the odd way in which her mother had died earlier last year... they knew about it but didn't mention it, yet after a while they had to realise that this, too, might be something unexplainable just like the spontaneous combustion. Whether this phenomenon is the cause of these deaths or whether it actually exists or not is up for debate, but there's no doubt that Alice's parents died of unnatural causes.
And now for Alice herself. Of course I noticed that she seemed less than well many of the times when we met - but since I knew of her Schizophrenia, I never believed that I was able to help her, and I also knew of the other things going on in her life, how bad she felt over her mother's death, the feelings of guilt plaguing her every day, and despite the ugly things she would say about her old friend Mary, it was still apparent that she lamented the outcome of things. When I found both hers and Mary's blogs and read through them, I felt a pang of horror and guilt, myself... Had I not remembered or experienced certain things, I would have simply chalked everything up as "Schizophrenic drivel" and surely, a lot of what she wrote in those late nights were most likely just that, but no one can be sure exactly how much is true and what is not. I don't even think that Alice herself was sure. I'm not a psychologist by any means, but a lot of the things to be read in her blog seem to be far removed from that disorder - or if it is not, the insanity she was experiencing was of another kind, heavily amplified by her Schizophrenia; for example, I'm not sure if writing in third person is something characteristic of people having Schizophrenia. Perhaps if one were to say that her Schizophrenia was the cause of all the things she saw, and the cause of the man she called The Tailor, one could say that it brought on this secondary, much more serious insanity, but we know better. It was he who took advantage of it and planted the seed of madness.
She would tell me how she was fine, and being a fool I believed her, and even if I almost tried to force myself into her house at times, (do you know how hard it is when you're bound to a wheelchair?) it was all in vain. Perhaps it was only good that I was kept away from her, otherwise the madness might have spread to me as well. Maybe it's already too late for me. In either case, even though she managed to fool the majority of the people in her surroundings she was unable to fool me, yet I couldn't do a thing for her in the end. Everyone else was more or less unaware of her condition, and whenever they did notice things they sighed, saying how it had to be troublesome to have a second personality. The amount of their ignorance both sickens and angers me, but I don't believe they could help it - I don't believe they could help that they couldn't... see. I guess I should have tried to help her somehow, at least be with her, but it felt like she was trying to protect me. I'm not sure if my choice was the right one.
I hadn't heard from her in a while and I was worried, so I went to her place only to find the door unlocked, the house silent, and the bedroom floor covered in blood. Again I had to be questioned, but they found no evidence to support their claims. On the bed lay a pair of large scissors, like those of a gardener. They analysed the blood to the best of their abilities, but then they said that it wasn't blood. It had all the qualities of blood, looked like it, acted like it, was just like it in every way, yet it corresponded with no known blood type. Needless to say, it wasn't Alice's, but who else could it belong to? The rest of the rooms looked fine, no signs of struggle. On the surface it looked like a normal home, but when they dug around they found disturbing things. Sadly none of it seems to have helped the police in their investigation and since she had no other relatives, I got a hold of some things which I plan to write about in the future.
This blog will mostly deal with Alice. The things I experienced while she was alive, and the things she left behind. Next time I post here, I plan to write about the distant past.