I'm reading "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" and I'm proud to say it now graces the top of my favourite books list. There was one line in particular that made me think of writing some fanfiction about this wonderful book. Here it is: "There were times when Jane almost prayed for Blanche to lose her looks, to grow old and ugly like—like she should. There were times..." And so this story was born.
My story is based on the movie and the first of the three parts of the book. The latter because in the second part we were told Jane's true point of view, and it clashes with my story. I used the movie version of Blanche and Jane's looks simply because I think it fits Blanche to be a brunette and Jane a blonde, and not the other way around. But in any way, the differences between the book and the movie weren't so grave as to make this story unclear for the ones who've only seen the latter.
This story takes place before the events of "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?". I hope you'll forgive me for using a few sentences from the book; I just couldn't come up with a better way to put the words.
I hope you enjoy, and please leave me a review if you do! :)
The bedside lamp sent its yellowish stain across the room, reaching with its soft fingers for the wheel chair and the desk in the farther side of the room. Blanche had forgotten to switch the light off. In comparison the shadows seemed to grow with every passing moment in their deepness. It almost made her feel as if someone was watching her from the darkness.
The lamp didn't make this a bit easier for Jane. She stood right next to the bed, staring down at the beautiful woman between the covers. Her perfect cheekbones caught the light just like everyone in the movie business had always wanted them to. Even without any make-up her complexion was perfect. Her face lacked the girlish prettiness of her youth, but through her years of invalidism she had gained a delicate loveliness transcending even the charm one used to see in her motion pictures up on the silver screen. Blanche's ebony hair was spread over the pillow in elegant waves, framing her face with soft curves caressing the flawless skin.
Blanche's full lips were slightly curved into a forming smile, leaving Jane wondering what she must be dreaming of and—more importantly—why was she having pleasant dreams and not her. There was a perfect calm about her, her chest moving in the even rhythm of her breathing.
It was so unfair! Blanche was the crippled one—the incapable, damaged one. Jane was still walking on her own two feet, she was still as talented as ever. Why was she getting no sleep? Why were all of her dreams unpleasant and scary? Why did her sister's beautiful face invade all of her dreams, making her feel miserable and unimportant?
Jane leaned in closer, lowering her face towards her sister's so that she could study her closely and yet so that her messy blonde locks wouldn't touch Blanche as they dangled above her face. With bitter disappointment Jane had to admit that Blanche looked every bit as good in close observation—not a wrinkle, not one small piece of sagging flesh.
Jane had to be very quiet now. Blanche, as was common with invalids, was a very light sleeper. The smallest of sounds could wake her in an instant.
Jane breathed in slowly. Blanche had always smelled good. There was never even a hint of alcohol around her, and Jane didn't like the smell of spirits no matter how much she loved to consume them. She secretly enjoyed this part of helping Blanche into bed—breathing in her pleasant scent.
But that was about it. Jane hated having to wait at her sister's hand and foot. She hated having to climb the stairs every time Blanche thought it would be a good idea to use the annoying buzzer. Jane hated having to remember every medication her sister had to take. She hated helping her in the bathroom. She hated preparing and bringing her her meals. She hated seeing her wheeling around the room in her chair as a constant reminder of the horrible accident.
She hated it when Blanche asked her to bring her stuff from downstairs or the shop. She hated her carefully telling her she should not drink so much. She hated her laughing lightly at Jane's sullen frowns and pouts. She hated her melodious voice breaking in on her brusquely spoken sentences. She hated her unfounded concern for their future. She hated her warm gaze and her kind words. She hated her gentle touch. She hated her... She hated her. She hated her.
Jane clutched the kitchen knife she'd brought with her tighter in her hand. She hated her. She wanted to make her suffer, to make her feel some of the pain Jane had to feel every day of living together with her. She wanted to wipe that small happy smile off her perfect lips and make her scream in agony. Yes, that's what she wanted. That's what Blanche deserved for making her spend her whole life tending to her every need. That's what she would do.
With cold determination Jane brought the knife up to Blanche's face, holding it so close it almost touched the fair silky skin of the sleeping woman. She wanted to take away Blanche's unnatural beauty. It wasn't fair that she was so good-looking while Jane was growing old and ugly. It just wasn't fair.
Her eyes growing wide with anticipation, Jane touched the tip of the knife to Blanche's cheek just under the eye and her long voluminous lashes. She could picture the terror in Blanche's eyes when she woke to the sharp pain of the blade cutting through her skin. Jane could see the thick dark blood streaming down her pretty face as she cut again. And again. And again. And again. And then Blanche would not be the pretty one any more. Then she would have to respect Jane again. Then she would know how much she had hurt Jane every day. She would know how much Jane hated her.
But try as she might, Jane couldn't bring herself to pull the blade across Blanche's cheek. She wanted to all right, but at the same time the sight of her sister so unsuspecting and helpless under her mercy already gave Jane a wonderful feeling of satisfaction. She didn't want to see this picture shattered.
After a moment of consideration Jane moved to shield Blanche from the ring of light that the bedside lamp had spread over her. Now she would not hesitate. Now she would do it.
But as she moved, Jane brushed against what she realized must have been her sister's leg under the covers. A momentary panic seized her. Blanche mustn't wake yet or Jane's perfect moment of surprise would be ruined. And then she realized her own silliness. Blanche couldn't have possibly been woken by their involuntary collision because she couldn't feel her legs. Jane wanted to grin at her sister's bad luck. Had she brushed against her right leg, she might have woken, but what little life Blanche still had in that leg couldn't help her now. The accident's impact was still so grave.
And suddenly Jane felt a cold hand clutch at her heart—a hand that she realized must have belonged to guilt. She had forgotten what it felt like—not being able to draw a breath because of the tight sinking feeling inside her, not being able to move a muscle as she gazed down at her crime.
How long had it been? Ten? Twenty years? Jane had buried her own pain under her drinking and the delightful memories of her childhood. But for Blanche nothing had changed since the accident. She was still a cripple, she still spent her days quietly in her room, cut away from the world by her lifeless legs and Jane's malicious jealousy.
And yet she was always so nice to her, she always asked what Jane was thinking, how she was feeling. Even Daddy hadn't cared to ask her, she'd always had to tell him herself. It astounded Jane. How could Blanche be so good to her after she'd destroyed her life? She should have hated her for it. But she never even mentioned the accident—and not because Jane had asked her to, because she never did anything she asked her to do. But why didn't she ever mention it? Jane knew for certain that if something like this had happened to her, she wouldn't give her sister a moment's peace from the guilt.
Looking down upon Blanche's serene face, Jane shuddered. Suddenly the small smile seemed to give Blanche a sad look—a look of defeat and of a life wasted away. The cold grip around Jane's heart turned into a merciless dagger. Jane removed her knife from Blanche's face and stumbled a few steps backwards into the shadows.
No. No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't bear the guilt of taking this one last thing from Blanche. She couldn't take away her beauty.
As much as she hated her, Jane couldn't imagine her life if Blanche truly started to hate her back. She couldn't bear to live alone if Blanche decided to leave her. All they had was each other. There was no one and nothing else for them in the world.
The End