Just Jane

It was like a paper cut, Jane always thought. One is fine, a hundred and you bleed out. 

When she was 10, she began to be scrutinized by the public eye. Someone would mob her with a camera, which, to an outsider, might seem flattering. In her eyes, the flash would blind her, catch her off guard, and it was a stolen moment of privacy. If you were to see her getting fitted by the finest quality of silk for the thousandth time, she saw it as the thousandth time someone else decided for her, treated her like a doll. There was never a moment of solitude, even a walk around the gardens would she spot a flash of green from the corner of her eye - the emerald shade of a guard’s uniform, standing at bay, keeping an eye on her. 

When she was 15, she would sneak into the village as her act of rebellion. Stolen moments sniffing roses without having to spot where the emerald green was lurking, watching old couples longingly, pausing and closing her eyes to listen to the hum of public noise. It differed vastly from life at the palace, where all noise was kept at a hushed volume.

Contrary to popular belief, her mother, the queen, was a kind, old lady who loved Jane with every fibre of her being, and Jane loved her as well. She had footsteps you could hear from rooms away, and you would be able to tell she was a wealthy woman with a busy schedule. Long, quick strides that left a click from the steel heel of her shoes, and a certainty, like she had important things to do, and knew her place in the world. One thing about her was that she was a lover of photographs - owned all sorts of cameras, every type of lens to capture moments. She insisted to set up a collage of photos in Jane’s room. She hung series of photos, all including bright, pearly smiles shining, watching Jane every night as she fell asleep. In a particular photo, it captured the moment of them in the gardens, a thick of carnations and shrubs surrounding them. She specifically remembered that day because for the first time, her usual pristine manicured nails had filth clouding them from her mom teaching her to garden. She didn’t bother to scrub them off that night. There was a certain quote that Jane’s mom had said which always stuck with her: “Time travel is real, darling, it is all around us.” 

It was the night before her 18th birthday, and Jane was burnt out from rubbing her temple as her tutor would let out a forced chuckle at her work in total confusion to what she had written down. Feeling like she had just been released from a 10 year sentence, she practically pranced back to her chambers, in need for some rest. When Jane awoke, her room looked like something that came from the many movies she watched. It was afloat, with part of it seeming like it was torn off, or blasted, and held in suspense by space, grey space. Her mind raced back circa 10 years ago, to her mother’s bedtime stories. She would cradle young Jane in her arms, and softly tell her about the Grey Space. The Carmic lady would appear to the desperate, and offer you an escape to anywhere you please, in return, something of value. Oh and how Jane was desperate. She then felt a shift on her bed, and knew she was not alone.

The Carmic Lady had grey hair that was in a state of suspense the same way her room was. She had grey feathers in replace of eyelashes, her eyes a piercing gold, but most noticeably, her skin was milky smooth, like she was a painting with the sun dancing on her, even though there was not a light in sight. And in a singsong voice she rang,

“Start a new life, anywhere you want. A life of riches and gold. Living in peace on a farm. I know who you are, Princess. I can give you what you want. One cost, a simple cost. Give up what is most valuable to you.

And so she frantically searched her room. What was most valuable to her? Her tiara, perhaps. That was what was worth all the gold that could fit in a room. She grabbed it, appreciating its weight in her hands, then handed it over to the Carmic Lady. A door appeared from thin air, startling Jane.

“If what you have given up is most valuable to you, you will be able to walk through the door to your new life. Envision where you wish to be, and it will appear.”

Jane cautiously approached the door, attempted to twist it multiple times, then gave up in a huff. 

“Try again,” said the Carmic Lady.

Jane paused and looked around her room. What was the most valuable thing she owned, something she could give up? Gold.

She opened up her jewelry box, a small pink kiddish thing her mom had gotten her for her sixth birthday, one that played a generic piano piece whenever it was opened and had a miniature ballerina that spun in pirouettes. She gathered all her gold pieces that she never cared to wear - thick bulky pieces that felt like a leash around her neck. Jane proceeded to offer it to the Carmic Lady, and made another attempt to open the door. Nothing.

Jane now flung back on her bed, exhausted. There was nothing else to give. If gold and crystals would not let her through the door, nothing could. But perhaps it was for the best. One thing she knew she would miss dearly was her mother. She sat up to be at eye-line with the string of photos hung up on her wall. Her eye caught the photo of the two in the gardens, with hands covered in filth but her face split in a grin, like a kid on Christmas morning.

Suddenly, something came on Jane. Like a camera, with a series of clicks, or eyes blinking, emotions splayed across her face. Sadness, sorrow, then gratitude. It happened so fast one would think they imagined it. 

She removed the photo from the frame, and clutched it so hard she left crescent dents from her nails. Appreciating every detail, she placed it back in the frame. Jane walked past the Carmic Lady empty handed, who wrinkled her nose as if she smelt something foul. Jane continued on anyway, thought about the place she wished to go, and without a doubt, turned the doorknob. A click, and the door opened.

“Interesting choice. Congratulations, Princess Jane.” The Carmic Lady nodded.

“Just Jane.” Jane took a step out and closed her eyes. She stood there, still in the village, and listened to the hum of public noise.