5Title- The Sanguinary Martyrdom
Author- 4give4get
Rated- T
Disclaimer- I own nothing.
Serena- Wow, you all have no idea how excited I was when I realized there was a Jane Eyre section on fanfiction. I was like, "Hell yeah, I can do that too…" …And then Jane's lovely daughter was born into my mind. Please R&R!
And I am aware that my title is an oxymoron.
Chapter One; The Beginning…
I have never written anything more than a letter before. Of that I will be honest. But I suppose I ought to start now. And just where do I start? Well, I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any—
Melanie Cassandra Rochester was the name given to me upon my birth. Melanie Cassandra was the name my mother gave me, and Rochester was the name my father already had. I looked like my father ever since I was a child. Ebony black eyes, and ebony black hair, all from the Fairfax side. Except the one feature inherited from my mother—pale, pallid skin. And then the sheer paleness of my skin caused my eyes and hair to looked blacker, therefore causing my skin to look paler.
When I turned twelve, I realized I would never be pretty. How could I have been? Neither of my parents were handsome in the slightest—why would their daughter be any different? My skin was too pale, no roses graced my cheeks in a healthy, soft spurt of color. My eyes were too black—no kindness could be seen in them. I was, all in all, too dark to be considered fair. My cheekbones stuck out, my jaw was too large, my mouth too thin, and my forehead to wide for a handsome praise.
My mother was a small, thin, frail thing of a woman. I was not. At fourteen years old, I stood one inch taller than her, and had always been quite strong physically. To many people, I was considered even stocky. My bones were hard, and my muscles toned. My physique I had inherited solely from my father. As a child I was never sick, but strong and healthy for as long as I could remember. My mother told me that as a baby I rarely ever cried.
My father was Edward Fairfax Rochester. And about seventeen years my mother's senior. As I always remembered him, he was impossibly old, his ancient hand would pat my head, and I could only think off all of the years that weathered hand had lived. My mother was exactly the opposite. Jane Rochester, small though she was, her countenance was youthful and sharp—she had only been twenty-two upon my birth.
Edward Fairfax Rochester got his money from his father. And then from his father before him. Indeed, money had been in the family for quite a time, and I would not be lying to say he never did a decent day's work in his life. Of course, I always saw him as a beaten, mangled, old man—because he was. He had one hand (the other a mysterious stump, that he would snap at me if I poked it with my finger.) and was blind as a bat. From an early age he would point to a label and ask me what it said, and be quite cross indeed when I thought it would be funny to lie, and say something different.
"The evil, malicious girl that she is," he ranted at my mother, "She certainly did not get it from my family—I recognize none of her traits in myself nor any of my relations!"
"That is because you and all of your relations have your noses so high in the air it is a wonder you can see where you are going at all, and not trip over everything in your path," I would reply calmly.
"Damnable thing," he would then mutter and storm out of the room, angry as usual.
And then my mother would look down at me sternly and hold my face in her hands, "Melanie, you cannot say such things," she'd sigh, petting my hair.
"Why not?" I demanded, "They are true!"
"Perhaps," she allowed, "But that still does not mean they are subject to conversation. Many things are true—but they are still considered impolite to note all the same."
"And why must I care about being polite?" I wanted to know—an eight year old asks many questions as such, I suppose.
"If you respect someone, then you must be polite to them," my mother told me.
I pulled away from her embrace, and looked her straight in her green-hazel eyes with my own black onyx ones and tightened my jaw, "But if I find I cannot respect them, I shall be as dastardly and impolite as I please." With that said, I turned on my heel and left the room, to go back to my bedchamber and sulk.
I was a strong-willed, passionate, wild sort of girl. My tongue was my weapon, and I used it frequently. My father came close to striking me with his one good hand many times, and only my mother stopped him from doing so.
And my brother must be included in the story by this point. My brother—two and a half years my senior, was of a strong, muscular physique like myself, but was neither so pale, nor so dark-haired as me. Alton—was his name, was quieter, and rather somber. He rarely ever spoke—and if so, only when spoken to. He read often, and was quite smart besides. But all in all, he kept mainly to himself.
Alton was also my father's favorite of his children. He was the first-born, the eldest son, and simple to get along with. My second brother, Bradford was a year younger than me, and was still not as dark in the hair and eyes, nor as pallid in the skin. We were close our whole lives—for he was chirp and cheerful and smiled and laughed often. Bradford was my mother's favorite of her children—as hard as she tried not to show favoritism. He was her last, and therefore the dearest. He was always so happy and joyful, she could not help but smile whenever she looked at him.
I was not put off by the lack of affection I received from either of my parents. If I had wanted it, I would not have acted the way I did. My mother loved me dearly, I am sure, but never fully understood me.
"I was quite passionate as a child as well," she said to my father at one point, "But I quickly grew out of it at Lowood."
"Perhaps such a place would be good for her," he grumbled.
She narrowed her eyes at him, "I would rather die than send my own daughter to such a place! I do not want her to have the same experiences I did—why can't her vision of the world be untainted for as long as possible?"
"Janet, my dear," he spoke up, "It is not the world that is tainted, but the girl. I suppose I see some of you in her, and I am glad of it—but why is she so unlikable?"
"She is only extreme and vehement—she shall be fine," my mother closed the subject, and I slipped back from the door, so they would not catch me eavesdropping.
But it was not the end of the topic. Not at all. My mother had put her foot down. I would not be sent away to school, without her deciding it was a satisfactory establishment—by her standards. She would not have me sent to some horrid school. But my father did win on some degrees. I would be sent away. He said perhaps I needed a change of scenery. My mother did not like it—but saw that I would not be treated any less than I was already. I would be sent to my great-aunt Fairfax in her London residence.
"Bradford, keep your eyes open!" I shouted across the large, green lawn that stretched like a forest-colored lake in front of Ferndean. My left hand was behind my back, balled in a fist, and in my right arm (my throwing arm) I had a lumpy ball of mud, grass, river sludge, and a combination of both of our saliva, and held it before me like a large, priceless diamond.
A beauty like that in my palm took a half an hour to make, but it was quite worth it in the end. I grinned, and walloped the sludge ball at him as hard as I could, and Bradford just managed to hit it with a croquet bat. It did not go far, and only splattered into a puddle of filth on the doorstep of the house.
"That was weak," I yelled, laughing in joy, "Give me that bat and I'll show you how it should be done!"
We switched positions, and I spat on the bat for good luck, and waiting for Bradford's pitch. When it came, I connected the bat to it, and the sound it made was sticky, but good. It sailed much higher than my brother's hit, and splattered on the second floor window of Ferndean, covering most of the glass panes.
The reason I say that it was worth the half of an hour it took to make those sludge balls, was that they smelled awful and stuck wonderfully well. I didn't know glue that was much stickier. It was near impossible to get off, once it splattered somewhere.
Bradford cheered for me, and pitched another. This one hit the window next to the one I just got. We rotated again and used up all of the sludge balls we had made that morning. Later, my father would mention (purple faced) that balls of filth had mysteriously rained all over the property that could not be removed even after being scraped at with a spade. Bradford and I exchanged secret looks of triumph, but my father, and my mother's looks would go straight to me, expecting me to explain myself.
"Perhaps the birds dropped them," I said simply, as if I were not concerned.
"Perhaps," he agreed, angrily, but I was sent to bed without a meal all the same.
Before the lights were completely snuffed out, a light knock on the head of my large, oak bedroom door signified that my mother was not yet done with me. My mother—she was always gentle with me. Even when I deserved much worse. I suppose it was just to make up for how hard my father was. She opened the door, saw curled up on the high ledge in the corner, and stared up, holding the glowing yellow lamp.
"Come down from there, Melanie," she sighed, "How long have you been climbing up there? Did you ever think you might fall and get hurt?"
"No," I said, but obeyed and let my feet fall over the edge and on to the wooden stool I'd used to hoist myself up.
"Have you packed your things? Your father insists you leave this week," she warned.
"No."
"Oh, Melanie, do you want to leave? Because if this is too much for you, I'll—"
I cut her off with a wave of my hand, "No, I don't want to leave—but I will. Think no more of me, Mother."
She looked at me with a faraway look and set her hand on my shoulder, "I was like you. Exactly like you. Perhaps it was just the change of scenery that cured me of such passions. You father insists that you are simply like your mother—and the same cure will suffice. I was ten years old—you are fourteen. And now I feel like these last four years I have neglected you because of what he said. As if I let it go on for far too long. When you are older, do you really intend to act this way?"
"Yes."
"A Christian woman? We are not savages, like the Hindu in India!"
"That's a horrible thing to say, Mother. How do you know they don't think us savages? Perhaps we are! Perhaps we all are!" I shouted, "I would trade my life here to go and live in India and be Hindu at any price if I could!"
"I am so sorry, Melanie," she whispered, pale in the face.
"Do not think so, Mother," I interjected, imagining the whole scene between my parents, "I like who I am, and I thank you for letting it go for so long."
"Oh, Melanie," she said for the second time, and shook her head, "This will be good for you. Only for a year, though. I shall write you every week, I promise."
"And I shall reply to those letters," I sniffed, "Telling you of how London reacts to Melanie Rochester, putting them all in their rightful places!"
My mother did not have anything to say to that, it seemed and stood up, but before she closed the door on her way out, I heard her mutter, "Yes, this will be good for you…"
I threw a book lying carelessly upon my nightstand at the door as she closed it in a fit of temper. "Maybe a little less prejudice of other cultures would be good for you!" I snapped, even if I was the only one to hear it.
End Chapter
Serena- Don't like Melanie, then don't read. I won't change her—my own darling creation that she is. Please review, flames accepted.