Page 5 of Fragile Wicked Things

Three

A storm rattled the windows during the night and I tossed about, pulled the blanket up to my chin for warmth, shivering under its thinness.

Exhaustion overtook me, but I heard scraping against glass somewhere in the distance.

I looked at the window and saw them in the semi-darkness—fingers!

They were dark, pointy, and crooked, and cast a shadow inside the room.

I ducked underneath the bedspread for safety.

"If I don't look at them, they will go away," I whispered the mantra repeatedly, gasping for breath in between.

Silence quieted me, and after much consideration, I lifted the bedspread.

The fingers were gone, having abandoned their resolve to frighten me.

My breath returned to normal; the exhale visible in the cold room.

I crept out of bed towards the window and in the sliver of moonlight, I could see nothing there.

Edging closer, I peered beyond the window frame—the fingers were still there!

I jumped back. What if it tried to open the window?

The lock had been left open, and I could reach over, turn the knob and run back to my bed, but when I stepped forward, I realized they weren't fingers but a small tree branch, naked from the winter months.

Relief overcame me, and I let out a little laugh.

How stupid of me to let myself be frightened by this old house.

The full moon lit the snowy grounds below. The trees swayed in the wind, and I could see a figure, part man, part creature, behind them. He'd returned. He dared to turn my way, his face hidden under his cloaked hood. Then he moved away, dragging the body of a young blond girl behind him. Helen.

A bell rang. A desperate gasp for air escaped me, shattering my nightmare, only I awoke to discover myself in another.

Hours dragged into days, which became weeks, and weeks became months.

Soon, I found myself two years older and still at Lowood.

During that time, I received three letters from my father, written in a hand I did not recognize and in a sweet language I did not know.

The words danced on the page to a musical tune.

I knew the Reverend wrote those letters, but I longed for it to be my father, to show that he did love me enough to write.

After dinner one spring night, some of the girls sat in the living room, sipping tea, knitting, or idly flipping pages of textbooks.

Helen sat near me, looking a little pale and staring at a page of a book.

When I asked her if she felt well, she returned a small smile.

I never told her what I knew, what I had seen all those nights when the creature tormented her.

Helen would tell me I had a wild imagination.

We heard the sound of a vehicle pull into the driveway, which was familiar because of Mr. Brocklehurst's rattling engine. The car door slammed. Heavy footsteps pounded the gravel, followed by the muffled sounds of Mr. Brocklehurst speaking to a woman. He drowned her out, eventually silencing her.

The front door flew open, and Mrs. Temple entered, eyes averted, with Mr. Brocklehurst behind her.

He whispered something to her, then went into his office, and shut the door on her.

Mrs. Temple stood there for a moment, head down, the nape of her neck exposed under her hair that gathered into a tiny bun.

Her shoulders sunk, and she sniffled, wiping her eyes before turning to face us.

What could Mr. Brockleworst have said to her to upset her so?

She pulled her shoulders back, trying to compose herself before entering the room, but they seemed to sink again when her eyes fell on me.

Her voice almost broke when she spoke to me.

"Jane, Mr. Brocklehurst would like to have a word with you. "

I nodded and smiled to assure her that I would be fine with Mr. Brocklehurst, that he couldn't harm me any more than he already had.

Mrs. Temple held my hand, something I thought odd.

Although she had always been kind to the girls, she was never affectionate to the point of physical touch.

Her hand felt soft, warm and pleasing, like my mother's.

Mrs. Temple took a deep breath, then led me to Mr. Brocklehurst's office, knocking on the heavy, wooden door.

"Come in," he called. Mr. Brocklehurst sat at his desk, looking over some papers and waved for me to sit down. "That will be all, Mrs. Temple."

"It's best that I stay."

"Your presence won't change Jane's situation."

What situation could that be?

"Jane, I'll be right outside," she told me before leaving.

I felt awkward sitting in the chair opposite Mr. Brocklehurst, my feet not yet touching the floor. I had the urge to swing them but knew he would disapprove of my impropriety, of which, according to him, I had a great deal of. At least I excelled at something.

He remained silent and continued to peruse his papers, leaving me to wait in silence as though my presence bothered him.

The clock tick-tocked. A mound of paper was stacked high in his in-tray, the key to his filing cabinet sat next to it, and a kerchief of blotted ink lay crumpled nearby.

I stared at the numbers on the big, black phone and wondered whom I would call if allowed—Helen—only that would be absurd because she sat in the next room. Quite by accident, I let out a sigh.

Mr. Brocklehurst looked at me and removed his glasses, cleaning them as he leaned back in his chair. "Do I bore you, Jane?"

"No, Mr. Brocklehurst."

"Are you happy here?"

This question surprised me. While I believed he had no interest in an answer, did he not see Lowood as a prison for poor girls?

"No, sir."

Mr. Brocklehurst clenched his jaw, put his glasses back on and stared at me, the better to see me with, as the fairytale went.

"Insolent reply from an insolent girl. Your two years here at Lowood have been wasteful.

I have tried as much as I could to mold you into an agreeable young woman, but all is lost. You have proven to be a liar and a cheater, yet it is your character that displeases me most. You have been ungrateful for all the goodness provided to you. "

"There's no goodness here, Mr. Brocklehurst."

"Is that so? No goodness from the kind Christian folk who sponsor Lowood's Sunday tea? I know this about you, Jane E. You have no heart as you cannot show goodwill and love towards others. That is why people find it so hard to love you."

"My mother loved me."

"And your father?"

"He did too…once. He'll bring me home soon."

Mr. Brocklehurst became quiet and looked down at his papers again, the fight in him worn down.

I had won. I was unaccustomed to winning against a brute like him.

Once my father sent for me, I would no longer be under Mr. Brocklehurst's control.

I knew then why he had called me into his office and what the papers were before him.

Tossed somewhere in the pile on his desk, lay a letter from my father asking for my return home and promising a brand-new life.

It was not too late for happiness.

Mr. Brocklehurst held a typewritten letter in his hand.

My father would never type a letter, but maybe he had hired a lawyer who typed this formal request that I be released from Lowood and returned to my loving father.

I could barely contain the excitement building within me.

I wanted to shout, to jump on Mr. Brocklehurst's desk; no, to dance on it and kick the papers about. I was going home.

"I'm afraid I received word about your father. A policeman found him early one morning, lying off the shoulder of a road. The cold didn't wake him, so they hospitalized him for pneumonia. He succumbed to it two days ago. Reverend Reed is arranging the funeral service for the third of April."

"That's today."

"Yes, Mrs. Reed felt there was no need for you to attend, and I must agree with her. That life is behind you."

Something grabbed at me, choking me, seizing my every breath. A heat rose within me, through the veins, pumping itself up, up, up my throat and lashed out of my mouth. My body shook, ungovernable to the point of frenzy, as I yelled at Mr. Brocklehurst and Mrs. Reed, even though she wasn't there.

"Mrs. Reed, you are horrible! Horrible! And Mr. Brocklehurst, you're a wolf! You're the worst of them all."

Mrs. Temple ran in, threw her arms around me and tried to calm me, but to no avail. She wrapped her hand around me to hold me back, but my arms kept flailing against the desk, reaching for Mr. Brocklehurst.

"Hold that girl, Mrs. Temple! You are a wicked girl. This darkness has always been with you. Mrs. Reed warned me."

My feet were free and kicked out straight ahead, aiming for his shin, but I found the wooden leg of the desk instead.

The rage I felt overpowered the pain from the kick.

My stubbed toe throbbed in my thin black boots.

A cold air crept in through holes underneath.

Finally, Mrs. Temple threw herself on top, forcing me to the floor so that she could better hold me down.

By then, I had caused such a commotion that Miss Smith came running, pushing aside the girls who had gathered by the entranceway to Mr. Brocklehurst's office.

Mrs. Temple now had re-enforcement as more hands reached around me, sometimes scratching my skin.

In the struggle that ensued, they knocked my head to the cold oak floor by accident.

Thump. Thump. As they held me down, I banged my head against the floor with purpose, causing pain to another part of my body, any part of my body would do as long as it wasn't my heart anymore.

A hand found its way under my head, offering itself as a cushion to prevent further abuse. But I only found another way to harm myself.

Someone cried. It sounded like Helen.

Someone screamed. It sounded like me.

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