by Zephya
Jane’s parents had always been good decision makers. She never knew them any differently. And they loved to make decisions.
To them Jane was a doll to be dressed in the latest fashions, but never in the colors she liked. She was to wear braids and bows in her hair, but never pinned the way she wanted. She was to walk, talk and behave as she was taught, and any disobedience was met with the palm of her mothers or fathers hand. And if neither were around to discipline her, then a slap from a maid would do. In some humorless way she liked to think that her natural rouge was really just a permanent redness that’d been created through countless slaps. Jane didn’t get to have a say in who she wanted to be either. That, just as everything else had been, was decided for her. The roles she played, and the statements released to the press as well. She was never under her own control.
However unintentional, Jane often found her mind spiraling back to such memories when she had a moment to herself. And however angry they made her, she couldn’t bring herself back to the present. So of course, the logical answer was that someone else would have to. On set, it was the assistants running to and fro, carrying a steaming cup of coffee meant for her. Or hearing her name spit out when changes to the script were being discussed. Normally her co-stars had a lot to say about her too, but Henry had been strangely silent. At least, around her. And it bothered her. She could have used every distraction she could get.
It was difficult finding a distraction as she began to slump into her bed. The day – week – had been exhausting. Jane nearly spent the entire time indoors, only stepping outside twice into the garden to argue with her mother during her visits. About how she should’ve gone to that event, and how she should be more worried about her image. But Jane didn’t care. Tried, but couldn’t bring herself to. For years there had been a gaping hole in her chest. An open void that wouldn’t close. And it was heavy, and it drained her. She had been aware of its presence for a long time, and eventually it simply became a part of her. It wandered to the back of her mind as the years pressed on. Slowly the feeling had begun to be comforting. But perhaps the stress had built up that week. Perhaps she hadn’t been angry and insufferable enough, for it started to fill her with dread and hopelessness. It happened so quickly she barely managed to excuse herself from an afternoon tea with her mother before she broke down in her bed chamber. She cried and heaved and shook, and her head spun far too quickly. It wasn’t anything she had ever experienced before, and she was confused and scared. And for the entire week the experience had completely drained her.
And in her confusion and fear, with an emptiness in her heart, Jane Audley made a fatal mistake.
© Zephya 2023-06-17