Disclaimer: I do not own Jane Eyre, which would be really weird if I did, because I'd be dead now.
A/N: So I wrote this for an English assignment last semester, and I came across it when I was deleting all my useless documents and thought Why not? I mean, it's not like anyone's going to read it anyway…
Well, I usually don't go looking for Jane Eyre fanfiction, but that's just me.
oOoOoOo
1st, 1846, Monday--
Old Mrs. Fairfax has finally managed to obtain a governess for the little French brat. I have had the opportunity to see the governess already this evening-see her, yes, but I have already met her once. And what a meeting it was! I was riding my horse to Thornfield (Damn Thornfield! The cursed wreck of a home!), when my horse slid on the icy road, and I fell- spraining my foot in the process. I despise the winter; what the deuce is it good for, anyway? But I ramble- there she was, like a little imp, staring at me through the darkness with that pale face. Were I not occupied with my position, I am sure I would have attempted to defend myself from her somehow, deeming her an evil spirit. But she was not so, and she told me who she was. Jane Eyre, she said, governess at Thornfield Hall.
Oh, she is an intriguing creature; she is like a fairy drawn towards the light when she feels its warmth, and then disappearing again into that blanket of darkness when threatened. I have not yet determined her character, having only been given two chances to study her. But I know that she is a complicated being, conflicted even, and rather stubborn and bold under that doleful farce. Well, I shall know her yet; I will be staying here in this damned place for a while because of this blasted foot! Meanwhile, I should take care of some neglected business that such a residence requires of me. Oh, this house is Purgatory! And I am stuck here, here in this place between Heaven and Hell, between pleasure and torment, stuck here with only Jane Eyre to keep me company now.
I am here, trapped in these hellish memories, with Liberty standing outside the door! Thornfield, when shall I be rid of you at last?
--Edward Rochester