Page 37 of Fragile Wicked Things
"She knows what I am!"
"And now we will see which way she will turn, just as I had a choice. Leave us, please, Edward. Send the woman home." Neither Rochester nor I moved. "Now, Edward."
Rochester turned to me, tightened his hands in a fist and left, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that it bounced open again as he trudged up the steps into the attic.
"Jane, come near me." Catherine lay back on her bed, and although I agreed to move closer, I grabbed the poker again, the only defense I had against such a monster should he return.
"I had hoped that when the time came, I could have shown you, in some other way, what the darkness is that he carries, for you to understand where it comes from so you can learn to love him as I do."
"I could never love that monster."
"He's not a monster. Not anymore. He found his humanity long ago, and I helped him escape the darkness. My time is almost up. That's why he needs you, Jane, to remain in the light. Come closer so I don't have to speak too loudly. Let me tell you a story of a heroic Edward."
PARTTWO
Catherine
Eleven
When I was five years of age, I witnessed my mother's murder.
That's an awful and extreme place to start a story, but there it is nonetheless. I suppose the appropriate way to begin is to say I was born in England in 1880 and lived in London. Not knowing my father, my mother raised me alone. I had a younger brother, but he passed away like many children did. His life was squeezed out of him. Vaccinations for smallpox were reserved for the wealthy at the time.
We avoided the workhouses, instead staying in a one-room apartment where the kitchen's flame sat near our bed, and we had to worry about fire, not just in our room but from those around us. There wasn't much food, and most days, we had to be content with dry bread that we dipped in unclean water. My mother worked as a laundress, and customers didn't always pay; other times, they couldn't spend more than a shilling for her hard labor. We fell on hard times often, but my mother managed to put something on the table for us to eat. Sometimes we didn't have enough firewood to keep warm. It became worse, much worse when we were evicted from our room and pushed out onto the street to beg. Although I was a child at the time, people still didn't take pity on me and would respond in a gruff manner to my mother. Winter approached, and for the first time, I saw fear in my mother's eyes and sorrow because she couldn't care for me.
We knocked on many doors looking for work, my mother begging to do any menial task as long as it would provide for us and we didn't require much. On good days, people took pity on us and gave us something, anything, but most of our days were filled with hunger and cold and weariness.
We walked along the River Thames, past a chapel and houses that leaned close together, so close that they allowed for hidden nooks and crannies. We would stay there until a homeowner found us and threatened us, throwing rocks our way. One night, the wind whistled past us as we cowered in a doorway of an abandoned building. We couldn't find our way in, which would have eased our situation. The cold ate away at my toes.
People shuffled up and down the alleyway, either on their way home or trying to find shelter. As time passed, fewer people were about. Those who had a home to go to knew better than to stay on the streets at night.
"Stamp yer feet to keep warm," my mother said.
I made such a noise tapping in the cold of that alleyway, the sound of which traveled down towards an unwelcome evil.
"There you be!" A man jumped out of the darkness at us. I screamed.
"Leave us," my mother said.
He stood there and I heard another voice call out to him, asking him what he'd found. Then there were two men upon us. The first man had no front teeth, and above was a large, broken nose, no doubt due to a brawl or two. The second man had all his teeth, but they were blackened, his clothes unwashed, and his fingernails sooty; he probably had some work recently shoveling coal. My mother didn't like the way they looked at us and hid me behind her.
"Please, we are poor and 'ave nothin."
"Knows what kind hides in alleys," the coal man said, smiling.
"We seekin' shelter is all," my mother said.
The men laughed. I had begun to cry.
"Stop yer snivelin'. Where's yer purse at?"
"I 'ave no money. Can't yer see us starvin'?"
The first man grabbed at my mother's small purse wrapped around her wrist, but she wouldn't let go. Finally, the man pulled at it until the string ripped. He peered inside, disappointed to find a sixpence. In anger, he grabbed my mother, and asked her where she'd hidden her money while his hands roamed over her body, and in her struggle, she kicked and scratched him. He jumped back, touched his hand to the wound above his eye and stared at the blood on his fingers.
"You li’l wench!"
The coal man stood behind her and put his dirty hand over her mouth. She sunk her teeth into his fingers until he screamed and let go.
