CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

The next day had been the funeral. Jane had watched as they lowered her mother's body into the cold ground. And though she had whimpered into her father's side, still no tears came to her. And she felt as though this sorrow would not leave her until she could cry again.

The house seemed cold and empty now, despite it having been repaired by some people from the Ministry. Jane avoided the upstairs bathroom like it carried a deadly plague. She would never go in there again so long as she lived.

Mostly, Jane sat in her room and pretended like everything was normal. She pretended as though her mother was still alive; she was only locked away in her room having another episode. And so, Jane entered into denial.

Jane walked around the house as if nothing were wrong (though she still avoided the scene of her mother's death). She was sure that it was all a dream. It had to be. Her mother couldn't really be dead. Her mother wouldn't take her own life. Her mother wouldn't leave her like that.

However, she still felt the pangs of reality throughout the day. And while she pushed them to the back of her mind, ignoring them, there was a part inside of her that constantly mourned the loss of her mother.

Nights were the worst of all. No matter how okay Jane pretended to be, it seemed that all the demons came out at night to play. She would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, because no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that her mother had never died, it had still happened, and she dreamed about it often.

Before long, Jane hardly ever closed her eyes anymore. And she didn't have much of an appetite. And the fatigue increased her delusion that this all was just a dream.

Jane's father had been frightened by Jane's loosening grip on reality, so she had begun to see a therapist every Thursday afternoon—a witch from St. Mungo's, named Hellen Richmond. She had finally gotten Jane to admit out loud that it wasn't all a dream, that it was really happening. However, Jane explained to Hellen that if she pretended her mother was just having one of her episodes, then it was almost like she wasn't really dead at all.

"But you do understand that she is dead," Hellen had asked Jane.

Jane had sat with her hands in her lap before quietly answering:

"She can't be. She's my mum. What am I supposed to do without her?"

And for the first time since her mother's death almost three weeks prior, Jane had cried real tears. She had almost forgotten what it felt like. What a relief it was to be able to get the sorrow out of you.

"It's my fault," Jane had cried. "I should've saved her! I should've done something! I'm a witch! I could have fixed her! Why didn't I save her?"

"There is nothing you could've done," Hellen had assured, trying to comfort Jane.

"Then why do I feel so guilty?" Jane had wailed, trying to make sense of all the emotions she was feeling all at once—despair, anger, regret, guilt, fear; there were just so many.

For the duration of the month of July, Jane's emotions overwhelmed her to the point that she wasn't sure if she could actually feel anything anymore. She felt hollow on the inside. And she felt alone despite the letters she received from her friends. They lay in a pile on her dressing table, unopened. And though she let Asha out to fly around, she never once sent a letter to them. She just didn't have the motivation to do so, nor the heart to write out letters explaining what had happened. She wanted them to leave her alone.

On the eighth of August, she received her Hogwarts letter. This was followed by a letter from James in which his owl refused to leave until Jane gave a reply. But Jane didn't want to go to Diagon Alley with her friends. Jane didn't want to go to school. Jane didn't want the world to carry on without her mother. James' owl stayed there for two nights before it finally left without getting a reply from her.

Jane just stared at her calendar. It had been almost two months now. The only thing keeping her sane was Hellen, and even sometimes Jane still felt as if she were going crazy.

On the tenth, Jane's dad had to go on a business trip. Jane couldn't tell if he was reluctant or eager to get out of the house. She had despised him for going back to work. Despised him for actually continuing his life when her mother's had ended. However, as Hellen pointed out: the world doesn't stop spinning for the loss of someone we love. Her father had to go back to work; Jane knew that. It didn't mean she had to like it. Plus, there was the added fact that he never said anything to her anymore.

After he left, Jane stayed in her room for a while, but the overwhelming silence that filled the house made her sick. She was all alone there, and she was scared. She knew how to take care of herself just fine, but the house haunted her, and she found herself outside most times than not.

That first night alone in the house was too much for Jane to bare. It frightened her to stay there, in the dark, all alone. And so at around nine o'clock, Jane did the only thing she could think of. She ran down the street and knocked on the door of one of the neighbours. A person that she had relied on from an early age. A person that had understood her. A person that she hadn't spoken to in years.

Sarah Camden stood in the doorway of her house, expecting to see her mum and step-dad back from there date night. However, she found the last person that she expected to see.

"J-Jane?" Sarah stammered, not really believing it was her.

"I-I know that we haven't spoken in almost two years now," Jane started; she was on the verge of tears. "An-and I know it's my fault. You were right; I replaced you, and I never should've done that."

Sarah didn't know where all of this was suddenly coming from.

"You were a good friend to me; you were my best friend, and I replaced you, and that wasn't right of me," Jane continued.

Sarah immediately felt pity for Jane. She had seen her at her mother's funeral, looking as though the world had ended, and maybe for her it had. Sarah didn't know what it was like to lose a mother.

"That…it happened so long ago, I—"

"Look, I know that I'm the last person in the world that has any right to ask you for a favour," Jane interrupted. "But my dad, he's away on business, and it's-it's just for a couple of days, but it's the first time I've been alone since," Jane's voice caught in her throat, and Sarah's pity for her increased, "since…well, you know. A-And I just—I-I was wondering if maybe it'd be possible for me to s-stay here for a couple of nights…until he gets back? I just really can't stay there by myself."

Sarah had been mad at Jane for a long time. She had vowed to never speak to her again. She had promised that she'd never show her any kindness so long as she lived. But Jane and Sarah had been best friends for a long time, and even after two years of angry silence, you don't just forget a bond like that. Not when that person needed you.

Sarah stepped aside, opening the door further.

"Um, yeah, of course," she said. "I-I'm really sorry about what happened to your mum."

Jane just looked at Sarah, and Sarah mentally kicked herself. Why did she say that? Why did she mention her mum? Why hadn't she asked if she wanted some tea?

"I miss her so much, Sarah," Jane said quietly, starting to cry. "She's really gone, and I'm never going to see her again."

Jane fell onto the couch, her face in her hands. Sarah felt tears sting her own eyes as well. Mrs. Hensworth had been a good person, and she had been a part of Sarah's life as well.

"And you know, I try," Jane said, "I try to pretend that she's still here, that she's just having one of her bad spells, and I pretend she's locked herself away in her room. But I can't—I don't feel her anymore. I can't feel her there anymore. And I just feel so alone all the time, and it never stops. And I can't make it go away."

Sarah watched as Jane cried, and she acted on instinct. She sat down beside her, and cried with her, as they had done when they were young and one of them was upset. There was just something about seeing someone you care about in so much pain that made you hurt too. It was a way of sharing their pain almost. And though the girls had grown apart and into two different people, there was no doubt that they still cared for each other.

So that night, Sarah's mum and step-dad came home to find the two girls asleep on the couch with tear-stained faces.