This is just a little story I thought of a couple of months ago in the shower. You know, the place where all the best ideas hit you. Remember when in the movie Blanche said, "I don't want to upset her again, if I can help it." This is what got me thinking about this story. It meant that Jane had behaved erratically before the events of "Baby Jane", too.
I hope you enjoy, and please leave me a review if you do! :)
"Blanche… I… I love you… I would never hurt you. You know that, don't you? I would never… Just like Daddy said, we must stick together, you and me. Blanche…"
Slowly Blanche became aware of the painful grip on her left upper arm, of her hands wound together behind the back of her chair. She couldn't remember how she'd ended up like this.
"I'll keep you safe. I'll… I'll look after you, Blanche. It's not true… No, it's not… What they said…"
She felt hot repulsive breath against her face.
"I told them I… I couldn't do a thing like that… Not to my own sister. I-It was something else… Not… Not me…"
Her breathing quickened. The words started to make sense now, and Blanche felt mortified.
"But I don't remember… Blanche, I would have never… I would never hurt you… Never, Blanche."
A wrinkled hand played shamelessly with the loose black hair next to her pallid face. Blanche fought the urge to move away from her touch and instead tried to pull her hands free of the twine cutting into her wrists—but to no avail. Her apprehensive, restrained voice came to her belatedly. "Jane…" she whispered. "Please, let go of my arm."
"I will take care of you, Blanche. I'll look after you and help you and you'll like me again. You can't hate me, Blanche."
Her hold on Blanche's arm became stronger, her fingers pressed five long marks into her skin. Blanche bit her lip, attempting to tame the tremble that would surely extend to her voice. "Jane, please…"
"You can't!"
Jane took her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. Blanche felt numb with shock—Jane had never treated her like this before, never physically harmed her. Blanche's eyes finally flew open when Jane threw her back against the chair and marched away from her decisively.
It must have been night-time. There was no light on and yet in the darkness she could faintly make out the outlines of the window, of the cabinet and the writing desk, the shapeless figure of Jane's moving about.
Jane had been drinking again. Even when she moved across the room to pick up what must have been a glass of Scotch, Blanche could feel it—the poignant smell that penetrated her nostrils. And she wondered what might have upset her this time.
She remembered having tea with Jane in the evening. Faint fragments of a cool conversation hovered on the threshold of recall before abruptly and ultimately sinking back into the colourless reaches of her consciousness. Blurred images of her own room passed before her eyes like a rapidly reeling filmstrip, spinning about, becoming clearer and then dimming again.
Another memory surfaced—one of a hand clutching at her jaw, of something small and light-coloured being forced into her mouth. A drowning gulp of tea, a painful knot in her throat. Harsh, ungodly words echoed in her mind as they'd been mercilessly hurled at her.
"I want to braid your hair." Jane's voice was small and timid for a change. "You'll be pretty again, Blanche. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Through the shadows Blanche could see her sister slowly coming her way, and she shook her head quickly. The thought of Jane's touch disgusted and frightened her in a way it never had before. The quickening of her heartbeat caused a sharp pain in her chest, and she wondered if Jane had hit her earlier.
Jane's dry fingertips brushed her cheek as she made her way behind her sister. Blanche's body tensed up at the touch, and she squeezed her eyes shut when Jane started, very gingerly, to gather her loose hair into her hands.
"You're the pretty one, Blanche," Jane spoke quietly, and Blanche felt a shiver run up her spine—one that was definitely not caused by the chill in the room. Jane started to gradually pull harder at her hair. She tugged at it painfully as she ran her fingers through the tangled knots. Blanche clenched her teeth to restrain a cry of misery.
When Jane started to yank her hair into place to form a braid, Blanche gasped. In a thin, heedful voice she managed to say, "You're hurting me."
"Hush now, Blanche," Jane said with the eeriest and most alarming calm in her tone. She continued to pull at the thick ebony strands and Blanche felt tears welling up in her eyes.
She couldn't imagine why Jane was doing this to her nor what had brought on this sort of unreasoning behaviour. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the days previous to this one. And Blanche always took good care to stay quiet and out of her way when Jane started tippling. Aware of her sister's erratic behaviour, Blanche never wanted to upset her; anything like this, however, she had never expected.
Jane yanked at her hair again and Blanche shrieked in pain. Jane reached forward and caressed her head gently, muttering something incoherent. Blanche asked herself how they could ever go back to the way things had been before.
Blanche opened her eyes against the glare of the sun in her window. She squinted her eyes, turned her head to the other side and then stared blankly at her wheel chair. Unpleasant memories from last night started flooding her mind. Or had it even been last night? How long had she slept since Jane had carried her into bed?
With a chilly feeling of fright she pulled her hands up from under the covers and examined them. There were no signs of the rope she'd remembered cutting off the circulation in her fingers. She wondered briefly if it had all been a feverish nightmare. With a growing sensation of worry she reached behind her head and gave a sigh—whether one of relief or horror she wasn't sure. She clutched the thick braid in her hand and started to weep. The messy French braid and the black bruise on her left cheek gave mute testimony of her lasting sanity—hers only.
The End