Page 2 of Zenith
2
Depression is a terrible thing.
When one’s heart has been broken so continuously by the one they love the most, it becomes hard to go on in their company. Their presence is a constant reminder of what you long for but never quite obtain. The world goes on around you, and every soul besides your own seems to achieve that which is just out of reach, only exacerbating the dark maw you are desperately attempting to save yourself from. It is a person of strong conviction who can sincerely claim complete happiness for others and not succumb to bitter jealousy. It is all part of the human condition, after all.
Humanity is flawed, and I was not immune to it. This person I was, Jane Doe—no, Jane Eyre—was not perfect, nor did I claim to be. I had wronged just as I had been wronged. To claim otherwise would be dishonest.
The train I was riding on came to a gentle stop, and the doors swished open. Raising my head, I eased out of the seat that had borne me from the village directly uphill from Thornfield to central London. Other passengers filed off as I eased my duffel bag from the shelf above me, my shoulder and chest aching from the movement.
Seeing that I was struggling, an elderly gentleman stopped beside me and reached up to assist. Placing my belongings on the seat, I thanked him, and he shuffled off the train with everyone else, none the wiser for what he’d done for me. The a small gesture of kindness almost brought me to tears after such a long journey. I’d been wracked with all sorts of pains—the physical pain of the wounds in my chest and the many emotional pains that constantly threatened to drown me. I was broken and alone, adrift in a world where I never seemed to belong.
Stepping onto the platform, I wandered toward the ticket barrier, my heart heavy. My hand felt lighter without the ring upon it, and I wasn’t sure what had become of the jewel. I hadn’t seen it since I was set upon. It was of little consequence when I had no direction.
What was I to do? Where could I go? Those questions taunted me as I exited the platform and entered the railway concourse. I could go left, descend into the Tube, and climb onto a suburban underground train, or I could turn right, go out onto the street, and alight wherever my feet took me. Anywhere was a daunting prospect, and I was at a loss.
Holding my bag in my hand, my fingers started to go numb, my shoulder and chest aching. I wondered if the scars would ever heal, both figuratively and physically. The mad ex-wife of the man I loved—the same woman he’d hidden in the eaves of Thornfield and had kept secret—had stabbed me, and it was a terrible shock. I knew Edward had secrets, but this… It still pained me to think I’d been so grievously harmed.
My gaze followed the vast swath of commuters walking in every direction imaginable with fascination. They were all determined to get to their destinations, and I was jealous they had someplace to go. It didn’t matter if it was work, school, errands, or holidays. They had a purpose. A reason to live. I was lost.
The bright yellow facade of a sandwich shop pulled my attention, and as my stomach rumbled, I cut across the flow of commuters and purchased a baguette laden with cheese, ham, and salad. I sat on a bench, my bag at my feet, and ate half, putting the rest aside for later. What was I to do now?
I remained for another twenty minutes, watching the world go by, racking my exhausted brain for what I should do. Obviously, I should consult my own holdings, withdraw some cash, then travel to one of my newly acquired properties, and begin anew there, but I found myself hesitating. Edward was a man of considerable wealth and power. If he searched for me, it was only a matter of time before he learned I was not Jane Doe but Jane Eyre, and that would lead him directly to me. I could not turn to my cousin Georgiana at Gateshead, for he knew of her, also.
Reader, it might seem strange to you that I did not want to be found or draw on my fortune, but I didn’t know how to use the funds to hide myself away. It was an alien concept to me, for I’d always had nothing, and there’d been no need to learn of bribes, false identities, and the comings and goings of secret people. I’d never had to hide myself away. I was too afraid to claim what was rightfully mine, so I labored to think of where I could go with only fifty pounds in my pocket.
All my friends were back at Thornfield…apart from one. My heart began to beat wildly as I realized I might have aid where I least expected it. I had an invitation, but would I be welcomed unannounced? And would Edward think to look for me there? I knew my money would not last through tomorrow,? so I had no other option but to take a chance. ????????
Taking out the mobile phone Georgiana had helped me pick out months ago, I searched for the address of John Rivers’s art studio. Luckily, it turned out he had a prominent Internet presence, and I was able to find its location in Shoreditch. Outside the train station, there was a bus that took me most of the way there, and I was left to walk a few blocks.
Unfamiliar with this part of London and having acclimatized to the sleepy ways of the country, I was soon confused, not knowing which direction corresponded with the map on my mobile phone.
I stood on the street corner, looking to and fro, not sure which way I was supposed to go. No other soul lingered near me, and I began to fidget, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to myself lest my confusion was taken advantage of. What would people think when they saw a tired looking young woman hovering by a sign post at a back alley looking lost and forlorn? I might be questioned, or I might be ignored. It was hard to tell.
I began to fancy the walls around me had eyes, so I hastened on, moving in the direction I thought I was meant to go.
Soon, I realized the numbers on the passing doors were increasing, and I was at last on the right track. Venturing over another crossroads, I came upon the entrance to Rivers’s art studio.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but an industrial garage sat at the address, and not many businesses sat around it. It was the rear of the shops on the high street, and a variety of doors, skip bins, and driveways were present. Hardly a refined art gallery, but I suppose he merely worked there, not showed his paintings to rich buyers.
The roller door was open, letting in the afternoon light. Music filtered out of the space along with the chemical scent of paint and turpentine. Lingering on the footpath, my eyes discerned spots of color all over the concrete floor and even where it had flowed outside onto the street. Within was a cavern of canvas, drop sheets, rickety old cupboards, and metal lockers all dashed with splashes of color. The walls were adorned with a variety of posters, sketches, and an assortment of works in progress.
Once, I would have put my head down and kept walking, thinking my arrival foolish, but I was no longer plain Jane Doe. My experiences at Thornfield had changed me irrevocably, and I was no longer afraid of what others thought of me. Let them have their judgments, for I could not change them if their minds were set.
Curiosity drew me in, and I stepped across the threshold.
“Hello?” I called out, not seeing anyone at first. There were definite signs that life was here, but Rivers was absent.
Moving further within, I called out again, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
A crash echoed from further within the maze of easels and assorted surfaces, and then the music was turned down. A moment later, Rivers appeared through the chaos, and I was flooded with such a sense of relief at the sight of a familiar face I almost crumpled to the floor.
He looked just the same to me as when I saw him six months ago at Thornfield. His dark hair was a little longer at the front though just as unruly, and his state of dress was just as bohemian. He wore a pair of black jeans spotted with paint, his feet were in a pair of sloppy leather combat boots, and a fitted, washed-out black ribbed jumper completed his ensemble. A long piece of black leather wove around his neck and disappeared under his clothes—whatever was hanging on it hidden from view—and a rather hipster trilby hat sat upon his head. I saw the edges of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his collar and supposed he must’ve gotten that rather recently because I hadn’t noticed it before.
When he saw me, his expression lit up like a Christmas tree, and I began to hope I’d made the right decision coming here.
“Jane!” he exclaimed, opening his arms in greeting. “What a surprise!”
“Hello,” I said as he stood before me. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.”
