jane hailsham, district four | finished

She doesn't remember the start.

There's no grand tale of her origins to be told. A mother with nothing to her name, a household on the verge of collapse — a cradle left empty. It's not her story to tell. How a woman couldn't afford to raise another child, selling the infant to an institution spoken of only in whispers and lining her pockets with enough hush money to take care of a starving family. Fuck that last daughter, right? The means to an end, or so they say. It's all a fucking joke.

And it's not her story to tell.

Her life begins at three, memories of scraped knees and a toothy grin. 'Little Shark,' the carers would often call her, but what's that supposed to be? None of the books in the library have pictures. And her childhood was good, better than what it could have been, but too sheltered. Too caged. Windows shut at all times and Sir watching the doors like a lazy hawk. No freedom. No sense of adventure. They enrolled her in dance classes because she never sat still.

She stayed because she liked the rush of it. Five years of age and throwing herself into reckless leaps, spinning in the air and crashing against the floor with a thud. They tell her she's a tiny terror — she tells them there's no harm in having a little fun. And bruises hurt, fractured ribs take weeks to heal, but what counts are the stories. They belong to her, a thousand splinters across ivory and each crack has a past of its own. A secret to share.

Like when she tried to climb up to the roof at seven: a snapped wrist. When she stole two delivery carts and forced Roan to race her at nine: a twisted ankle. And his arm was in a sling for a month, sure, but at least it was easier for the kids to sign it. Well, at least in the space that was left after she scrawled 'JANE' in giant letters. The pain goes away, broken bones mend themselves — it's all just a temporary distraction. She makes a journey out of her suffering.

At twelve, they refuse to answer her when she asks why she can't leave. She's too restless, too anxious and too flighty and she just wants to experience something new. She's tired of charting hallways that never lead anywhere unknown, of counting the same amount of faulty lights above them, of knowing the exact number of stairs that creak within the institute. Of which window to climb out of if you want to fall on purpose. She's too young, they say. Where else is there to go?

The stage is warm, a community theatre where all the kids come to show off their talents. She's fourteen and Rose is the star, but she still performs. She still gives her all to her art — and she breaks her scheduled routine to do a series of flips and handstands that ends with a messy split. Everyone laughs, they talk about how wild and fun she is. Mother scolds her for not sticking to classical ballet, but she can't stop smiling. She thrives off the unexpected.

Roan and her make no sense, but that's why they're perfect. The quiet boy content with his cage, the loud girl that never stops trying to get out. She dips the handle of a spoon in boiling water, tells him to grab it and smiles as he shouts. "That's red! Y'know, because it's hot? Can you picture the colour?" She's a lover of extremes, looking at the highest point and trying to jump there rather than climb. Gentle, too, in her own way. A palette of labelled shades, just for him.

Rainbow on her tongue,
one day she'll find what's at its end.

Fifteen and she wants to see the ocean. It's maddening to only hear it. She says she's going with or without him, so he follows as she scales the fence and he winces when she cuts her knee on the spikes. She doesn't notice. The ghosts of Dan and Deb yell at them to turn back, but it's only Roan's anxiety. It's only the wind. She runs through the forest and doesn't stop until her feet hit sand. And it's soft, somehow harsh against her skin, and everything she had hoped for. She wonders why it took her so long to escape.

Sunset reflected in the water, a thousand hues and salt burning blistered toes. Everything is stinging, but everything is also real. There's lights in the distance, a world she wants to know, but she looks to the side and Roan is lost. Sad. Everything's still grey for him, even outside of the institution. And it hurts her to see him so conflicted, but she has nothing to say. She splashes him in the face with a cold wave and quirks an eyebrow. The sky and the sea are nothing alike. She teaches by example.

To sink and to crash are different deaths.

They kiss for the first time three months later, fingers against his jaw and a fire in her gaze. And it's sudden, reckless and nonsensical, but she convinces herself that it's the right thing to do. She ignores that his eyes are open — that hers are, too. The line between close friends and something more blurs out of focus, and she thinks that this is the right step to take. She doesn't bother to talk about it with Roan. She just rushes in, unafraid of drowning and almost hoping to experience it. To see what the collapse of lungs would feel like.

If not love, then what do they share? She doesn't give it a title. It doesn't need one. They're just Jane and Roan — the cautious and the fearless. Almost. Jane's on the edge of sixteen when the truth is finally revealed, locked in the cafeteria for her group's fifteenth ceremony. She's given something to be afraid of in the form of a fate set in stone. There are no parents waiting to adopt her, no permission to leave at the age of eighteen. Just a shortened lifetime and a cold table waiting in a dark room; a knife to her stomach and all her organs in a freezer. Her heart in someone else's chest.

Furious and screaming —
but still beating;
still wanting to be free.

There's a way out, so she takes it. Panicked and on edge and unable to face what she can't change. She ducks into a vent, crawling away from Mother's shouts and she doesn't stop until her palms are raw. Curled up and crying, she hides for an hour. And then he appears, closing the distance between them and offering a patient smile. Not Roan. Not her boyfriend — her best friend. Just a boy and just a friend. Wade places a hand on her shoulder, but he doesn't say things will be okay. He doesn't lie to her. "You can't stay here forever." He's right.

Seventeen arrives suddenly, a clock ticking in her ears and her emotions at war. She sees the way Roan looks at Rose, how he looks at her and how she looks at him — how she's been looking at Wade — and nothing matches. Nothing makes sense anymore. It all feels forced and plastic and she wants to run from it; like always. And her harvest is an inevitability, but she can't accept it. There's so many routes to take, so much she still wants to experience, and dying at eighteen isn't an option. Not in a way that's not on her own terms. Not when there'll be no memory to speak of.

Let her be free;
let her be her own undoing.