Diary of Jane
Author's note: Based on a few songs and real life experiences. Not only did I base this story on things in my... Show full author's note »
I had returned home with the diary, and the rain was finally letting up. Approaching the door, my foot kicked something unusual at my doorstep. Peering down, I noticed it was a small box. I assumed it was a piece of jewelry I had ordered, scooped it up and took it inside with me. Upon entering my dry mansion, I made my way into the kitchen and placed the diary and the box side by side on the marble slate counter. Figuring it'd take me a while to go through the tiny book, I decided to check out the box first.
Lifting its lid and examining its contents, I was bewildered. There was a scrap of paper with writing on it that was barely legible - it said:
'Sorry I couldn't get you the diamond ring you wanted. Hope this is good enough, and Merry Christmas :) - Jane D.'
I was taken back a bit, not sure what to make of it. Was this somebody's sick idea of a joke? Crumpling the note, I tossed it aside and spotted what lay beneath it. Resting at the bottom was a necklace with beads and plastic charms strung onto it. I removed it from its packaging and held it in front of my face, but was startled by the sound of a voice coming from behind me.
I dropped the necklace and spun around to see who it was; I gasped sharply, and my body trembled at the sight of the figure. It was Jane standing in the doorway with a foolish grin on her face. Impossible! She was dead! I desperately rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times, hoping I was only imagining things. Opening my eyes wide, seeing clearly, I realized she was not a mirage of any kind, though her form was blurry. Was it possible for her to have become a ghost - did such things even exist?
"Is that...really you?" I stuttered. The apparition began walking closer to me; I attempted backing away but was stopped short by the counter. Seeing I was uncomfortable, she came to a halt.
"Duh, it's me," she replied. I hesitated; then, wanting to make sure one last time I wasn't going crazy, I swiftly turned away and tried pretending she wasn't there. Almost instantly, she shouted, "Don't ignore me!!" At that very moment, a loud crack of thunder broke outside, and suddenly the rain fell heavy once more. Shocked, but now certain, I slowly turned back to face her. Her fists were clenched, and she appeared angered. That was the same appearance she had most of the time she had been around me at school.
Wondering what exactly it was she was doing at my house anyway, I cleared my throat and spoke to her, "Why are you here? Have you come to 'bring me down with you' with your supernatural abilities?" She rolled her eyes, annoyed at my comment. However, she did leave to go to living room. Entering the room shortly after, I watched as she plopped down onto my perfectly clean couch and waited to talk to me. At first I wanted to scold her for getting her dirty self all over my furniture, then I realized...
"Big Guns upstairs says I can't rest yet," she informed me.
"Big Guns?" I asked.
She pointed up towards the ceiling. "God."
"He's not letting you into Heaven?"
I paused and thought deeply for a moment. Even I have to admit Jane was not a bad person; misidentified and misunderstood, yes, but not exactly a villain. Based on what happened between us, if either of us were going to Hell, it was me without a doubt.
"I'm stuck here - with you."
I woke up early the next morning to the smell of something burning, the sound of things breaking, along with the immediate thought, "What the hell is she doing?" That's right - she- as in Jane Doe. When Jane said she'd be staying here with me, she literally meant in my house! Unfortunately, she wasn't able to move on to the next life peacefully until I apologized and became her friend again. I couldn't bring myself to do it just yet; perhaps I was too proud or too stubborn. I honestly didn't even know. Thus, I began thinking of other alternatives such as moving to a different location, which she told me wouldn't work. Apparently there's a difference between haunted houses and haunted people.
Sighing deeply, I groggily escaped my satin bed covers and got up. Going over to my Snow White inspired mirror, I slipped on my pink robe, checked myself over and made my way downstairs. I was on the landing when, from the corner of my eye, I witnessed that my kitchen was an absolute mess! Racing to the cooking area, I was appalled. Cabinets were wide open and disorganized, broken glass and silverware were everywhere, 'food' painted the walls, and the oven was overflowing with smoke! At the center of it: a certain ghost girl wearing an apron and angrily juggling a spatula.
"Jane!!" I roared. Instantly, she dropped the cooking utensil and stared at me like a deer caught in headlights. I folded my arms across my chest and tapped my foot irritatedly. "What do you have to say for yourself?" She avoided making eye contact with me as she fidgeted nervously.
"I...I..." she stalled. Then, biting her lower lip and gazing up at me, she explained, "I was tryna make ya breakfast."
I raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Seriously?" She bashfully nodded. Making breakfast for me - how ridiculous. From the looks of things, I doubt she had ever cooked an actual meal for herself from scratch. I would've liked to slap her for wrecking my kitchen, but I would not allow myself. She did, after all, mean well. Anyway, even if I tried hitting her, my hand would probably phase right through her.
Shaking my head, I got down on my knees and began picking up glass. After a minute of hesitation, Jane knelt beside me. "I didn't mean it, y'know. I was having' a hard time holdin' on to the stu--"
"Get out." I didn't want to say it, but the words fell out on their own. Her expression seemed sad as she scanned my face to make sure I wasn't kidding.
"W-what?" I couldn't deal with her at the moment. In a few hours, I had to make an appearance at a local Bras and Body Works store, and my maid wouldn't arrive until two or three hours later. For the time being, I had to get things done.
I made no mistake; staring her straight in the eye, I ordered, "Just get out." She was quiet then. Head low, she stood up and disappeared into thin air, transporting herself to another area of the house. What? Think I didn't feel bad? Though sometimes I may not act it, I am human. Denying the friendship we lost long ago wasn't exactly simple. When she was alive, I treated her like dirt, and I still regret it. I had changed for the worst, and I knew it. However, the first time I saw her in high school, I was too self absorbed to want to be seen with someone like her - that's why I started to hate her.
The past 10 years, my life had been such a blur that I hardly remembered the time I spent with my old favorite companion. But due to recent encounters, the sisterly love I used to feel for her had been stained by hatred. Why did I have to lie to myself? Perhaps it was because I had become the media's puppet. The fame, the fortune...it made me detest the poor and lowly. Even worse: it made Bailey Benjamin hate Jane Doe. Jane Doe, someone who was dead, someone who would leave if I said "We're friends", and life would continue normally without anyone knowing what happened. So...why couldn't I do it?
For the next couple of days, we made little contact with each other, despite the fact the place Jane called her temporary home was where I lived. I would either be at school or dealing with my company while she would be left wandering around my house searching for nothing (none of my maids or servants could see her, so she wasn't a bother to anyone else when she was alone). Was she really searching for nothing, or was she waiting? My conclusion: waiting.
Each time I would return home - whether it be late in the afternoon or midnight - she would be laying on the couch watching T.V or entertaining herself near the door. It was especially apparent she was trying to get my attention when she was near that damn door; she might as well have been saying "Say that we're friends so I can leave already". It was never going to be as easy as that. Still, impatiently waiting wasn't the only thing that bothered me - to some degree, it also bothered me that she wouldn't talk to me. Reading back on her diary and recalling my own memories, it's obvious why she would avoid me, but things were too quiet without either of us bickering. I was craving an argument with my foe. I don't care if that makes me sound like a sadist, it'd give me some normality to hold on to.
Then again, maybe 'argument' was the only way I was able to identify conversation with her. A possibly phrase of what I proposed it could be short for:
"We're both lonely deep down, and let's face it, we both want to talk to each other."