My Name is B***h
By Anonymous, Orrville, OH
Author's note: Comment. Please.
Chapter 2: A Girl Like JaneShe awakens on the tile floor. Covered in blood, she doesn’t see the word that has been etched into her stomach, only feeling the pain it makes with each move.
Howard is asleep at the kitchen table, Absolut clutched in his palm. Jane quickly takes a washcloth sitting in the sink and gently washes away all the blood and grime from the cut.
Only when she is finished does she see the word brutally marked into her skin. Tears spring to her eyes
B****. The word scarred onto her stomach, b****. No longer Jane, no longer girl. Just B****.
She quiets the sobs escaping her, as to not stir Howard. She climbs the stairs painfully, grabbing at the splintered railing for help.
Jane changes her t-shirt and throws the bloody one away, if you squint you can almost make out the word on the old shirt.
Jane walks to school, slower than usual. Her beat-up old car is in the shop; hopefully someone would think to fix it since Howard obviously isn’t.
Before going to the office, Jane makes her way to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a girl that doesn’t look as troubled as her story says she is. Her blonde hair, straight and beautiful, reaches to the middle of her back. Her bluish-green eyes reflect only the happy memories she has had, if the only few. Her figure is tall and lean, never having to worry about food or the lack of, for that matter. Jane brushes her bangs out of her face; grateful her dad didn’t etch the word there.
The secretary greets Jane by name, only because she comes in late so often. The secretary suspects a problem, but never reports it; instead she lets the girl slide by without marking her tardy. As if a tardy would make her life more miserable.
Jane makes her way to English, her first class of the day, and one of the few classes she dreads.
“Jane. So nice of you to join us!” Yells Mrs. Carson from the back of the room.
If only Jane had the courage to life her t-shirt up for you, dear Mrs. Carson, then you might understand why the poor girl was absent.
She makes her way to her seat, a desk in the farthest corner of the room. Beside the one boy she can’t stand.
James may have a last name, but the fact of the matter is, Jane doesn’t account for those. Why should everyone else have a last name when Jane is barely allowed to a first?
If not for his stunningly good looks and arrogant manner, Jane may have liked him.
Most days, James doesn’t take a second glance at her. Most days, Jane can’t help but stare at the unmarked, gorgeous face of his. Looking doesn’t mean you like him, right? Jane can admire his looks all she wants, but the fact of the matter is, is that she still hates him.
Jane tries to convince herself of that.
Mrs. Carson doesn’t care much for Jane. She always shows up late and doesn’t do her work as well as the other students; she doesn’t seem to care about the class. But what Mrs. Carson doesn’t notice is that school is only means of a distraction for Jane, not something she looks at for enjoyment. Simply and purely distraction.
The windows let a slight breeze in, cooling Jane down a touch. She tugs at the collar of her shirt, just now finding she is entirely too hot. She stops doodling in her notebook abruptly, finding herself dizzy and strangled for air.
The word “B****,” echoes through her mind, trailing the tail of her intruding thoughts. Jane sways, losing the energy to even attempt to clutch her desk.
But Jane does find the will to focus herself. To chant her motto and remind herself of the disaster it would cause for her to screw up. If she were to faint, she scolds her self, they would find the marks of abuse littering her body. They would find the chapters of bruises and tales of emotions that crowd her mind like a rain cloud. They would ruin her plans, her detailed idea to leave Howard and B**** behind.
James must have noticed Jane’s slight swaying and attempt to clutch at the desk, but he keeps the thought to himself. As well as any idea to voice anything helpful, whether it be a few encouraging words or walk to the nurse’s office.
The room spins, bulletin boards mixing with the cheering posters and the chalkboard of notes she will never write down. Her hands come up and clutch her head, trying to keep her world from falling upside down. As if her hands can physically hold her future, she clutches even harder, making sure the fragile stitching she has done to keep it from falling apart stays in tact.
James watches from the corner of his eyes, readying himself to catch her if she falls.
“James Hilling!” he snaps to attention, embarrassed that he was caught watching the girl. “Would you so kindly point out the dangling participle in this sentence?”
He almost laughs, what the hell is a dangling participle he thinks to himself, and why the hell would I ever need to find one in a sentence?
In the midst of James struggling with the damn dangling participle, Jane’s breathing has become labored, taking in deep breaths at agonizingly slow intervals.
James is suddenly struck with an idea, that he takes no time to analyze its outcome, “I need to take Jane to the office, she can’t-“
At the moment, Jane finds that she can’t breath, not because James shouted her name out in class and created a spectacle of her, but because she honest-to-God could not breath.
“-breath.” Mrs. Carson takes one exaggerated look at Jane, as if contemplating whether or not, not being able to breath was a liable excuse to leave class.
She finally nods her head and sighs, “fine, go ahead.”
He stands and looks at Jane, “you need to come with me.”
Jane doesn’t think to hard on where they are going, only finds herself completely lost in James dark blue eyes. She nods.
He tugs at her hand until she stands, allowing her to lean against his tall, broad-shouldered frame. She fits perfectly into his shoulder, as if made to be there.
They stumble down the hallway to the nurse’s office, James all the while keeping a close eye on her. Making sure she is still alive, and double-checking to see that it may be serious enough to consider the hospital.
Finally when an awful, harrowing amount of seconds pass between Jane’s breaths, James searches for his cell phone. Hidden in his pocket, he tells Jane that he going to call 911.
Jane screeches to a halt. Almost tripping James in the process. He looks dumbfounded at her, wanting to know what’s wrong.
“Don’t… call-9…1…1…Pl-ease.” Her eyes sparkle at James, momentarily jarring him from the task at hand.
He shakes his head, “You can’t breath!” he says incredulously.
She looks everywhere but at him, pausing before she goes on, “No… You... can’t…” pausing again to take a breath, “James.”
It’s like the world stops spinning, the mere saying of his name out of her lips would make him do anything she wanted. He only nods, too choked up at her to speak, but grudgingly accepts the idea without asking why.
In the middle of the hallway, James tells her to sit down. She easily accepts, literally plopping down on the floor. “Now,” he instructs,” put your knees up and set your head between your them.” She doesn’t question his instructions, not asking if they will work, but trusting that his advice is right.
Her breathing comes steadier at easier intervals, her sight becomes less blurry and her dizziness fades. She allows her self the liberty of keeping her head between her knees for a while longer, tracing the scuffs of floor in the hallway.
“Jane?” he says tentatively, wanting to hear her say she is all right.
She pokes her blonde head up, her hair in her face, “yes?”
A breath of relief comes out of his mouth, thankful that she’s OK. He sits down beside her and falls back against a locker, “Thank God.”
She attempts a weak smile, not wanting to waste her energy on a boy like him. Then she lets out a tiny, inconsequential couple of words, “Thank you, James.”
And when she says his name, he almost has to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head and his body from slumping against the lockers. When she says his name, its like butter melting or music to his ears. He tries to dismiss the thought, but the simple memory of her saying his name almost makes him want to curl up in a corner and replay it, over and over and over.
Her butter-melting voice stalls him from his daydream. “Yeah?”
She brushes her bangs from her face, tucking them behind her ear,” Can we go back to class now?”
James, who happened to be caught up in thinking that he wanted to touch her hair and that he would give anything in the world right now to tuck it behind her ear, shakes his head, “Sure, but if you get dizzy or anything, just lean on me.”
Did it seem awful that James hoped she would get another dizzy spell, so that she would grab a hold of him?
She nodded her head, finally realizing that she was talking to James Hilling. The boy who ruled the school, and most definitely someone she could never fall for, let alone crush on. Yeah, he has a beautiful face, a not-so-arrogant personality that she thought he had previously, but it was James for God’s sake!
They walk back to class, but James doesn’t pay attention during the rest of it. He’s so busy wondering what it would be like to kiss a girl like Jane.
Jane didn’t pay attention either, only questioning the odd look James had on his face the rest of class. She didn’t want to believe it was a look of regret, but it sure looked like it. His face seemed sad and, she guessed, ashamed.
A girl like Jane could not have been more wrong.