Jane Doe - Dead or Alive

*Trigger Warning – this book does contain and explore some topics that may be upsetting and difficult for some* Please be aware this story deals with child neglect and mental/physical abuse from the onset. It is not graphic but is detailed. (First 5 chapters only – Jane/Skylar’s back story) For those who have not read my other books and have no idea who Skylar is, don't worry, you don't need to have read the other books! Although it does have references to both books, everything is explained, and it is not essential to have read them to follow this story and can be read stand alone. For those of you who have read one or both of Leah Barnes stories, this is Skylar’s story. Skylar and Jane are the same person, and all will become clear as you read. Just a heads up – This has a much different vibe and feel to Leah’s story and will be much shorter – but I hope you enjoy it all the same . Jane’s POV I was 5 years old when I found out my mother had never wanted me. I was a ‘Blip’ in her otherwise perfect world. I had an older brother, and two younger ones. They were children my mother wanted. My mother was Cretan and my father Irish. I had olive skin, long dark thick hair but my eyes were uncharacteristically green. They were almond shaped and on a good day, the green in them popped. When I was little, people always told me I was pretty. I loved the attention. That was short lived. My mother didn’t think I was pretty. This confused me, as I looked very much like her, other than my green eyes. ‘Why did I have to have you! You are a mistake. Girls are weak, slutty whores’ She spat that at me as she handed me a small bag and told me I wasn’t wanted. I didn’t understand. I was 5. My big brother put his hand on my shoulder and led me down to the basement. I cried as he walked away, up the rickety wooded slatted stairs and shut the forboding door, locking it on the way out. I sat on the cold hard concrete floor, wondering what I had done wrong. I was a good girl. I was polite, did as I was asked and never got into trouble. I cried myself to sleep that night, cold and alone. The following morning, the basement door opened, and light crept in down the stairs. It was bright, and it hurt my eyes. I stood and started to climb the stairs, happy to be allowed out. The happiness didn’t last long. I was met with a slap to the face. I fell to the floor and cried out in pain. ‘Cry again, and next time it will be twice as hard’ she said barely over a whisper. Her deep brown eyes held so much contempt. She wasn’t my mother anymore. I didn’t dare cry in front of her after that. My brothers looked on. Johny was 8, he had tears in his eyes as he looked at me on the floor holding my face. Jake was 3, he didn’t understand it, as much as I didn’t. Josh was 1, he was in his highchair, oblivious to what was happening around him. They were all carbon copies of one another, short dark hair, light olive skin and chocolate brown eyes. They were handsome, with soft features and bright cheeky smiles. I loved my brothers, but it wouldn’t last. Evil spreads and seeps into the pores and souls of the young when faced with it daily. Johny took my hand and I stood up; the red mark marred across my cheek. It stung and tears silently ran down my cheek. Johny shook his head just slightly and I quickly wiped away the tears before she saw them. I didn’t want to make her angry. Johny walked me to school, it wasn’t that far from our house. He waited with me until the teacher let me into the class. ‘Oh Jane, what happened to your face?’ She asked, eyes full of concern. ‘She fell on the way to school’ Johny was quick to respond. I guess he didn’t want mother to get into trouble. I didn’t either. I think I must have been bad. It was my fault. She accepted the response without question, seeing the dirty marks on my dress, it would appear as though I had just fallen. She took me to the washroom and cleaned me up, brushed my hair and tied it into a ponytail. I loved school, I loved to learn, enjoyed listening to the happy chatter of the children around me, but I also learnt it was a safe place. Here I was safe, and it was the only place I got to eat. It soon became apparent to me that the basement was now where I belonged. I was locked in when I returned from school and let out in the morning so I could go. It was a bleak place, large and damp. It smelt funny and the concrete floor was uneven and cold. The walls had no windows, and the small ceiling light was dim, and flickered constantly. The wooden stairs creaked, leading to the only door into the main house. A small chipped, stained, basin sat alone in the corner, and the water sputtered as it came out, a murky colour and freezing cold. I washed myself, and my own clothes in that sink daily. I was given a broken comb to try and do something with my thick dark unruly hair. I wasn’t allowed to eat with the family. Ever. On the weekends, without school, I was lucky to eat at all, occasionally she would let me up to clean the kitchen, if there were scraps, I could have them. If the school rang to say they were concerned about me, I was met with a beating. ‘She’ as I now called her, no longer deserving the title of my mother, learned quickly after the first day, to hurt me where the bruising couldn’t be seen. Unlike my brothers, as I grew, I was insular, quiet, and weak. I was skin and bones, my hair lacked lustre and my green eyes were dull and lifeless. They had started to grow into beautiful young men, but their beauty was only skin deep. At first Johny would leave his food for me, but She realised what he was doing. She never hurt him, but she would cover the food in washing up liquid in front of us both and throw it in the bin. The first time She did it I still ate it. I spent the rest of the night being sick. He ate all his food after that. I always prayed and dreamed one day that my dad would save me. He never did. In fact, after that first day in the basement, I never saw him again. I didn’t dare ask where he was. As the years went by, the younger boys grew up to see our way of life as normal. Johny had hardened to the abuse as well, no longer sticking up for me or trying to help. I didn’t resent him for it. It wasn’t his fault. He had become conditioned. By the time I was about 9, I had become good at learning to live with my situation. Part of me knew it wasn’t normal, but I had nothing to really compare it to, other than the stories in the books I read, I believed them all to be fairy tales. It was easier not to have friends, remain solitary and quiet. If I didn’t speak, I couldn’t say anything wrong. But one day in school, we learnt about our family and family tree. When it came to mine, the entire class laughed at me. I didn’t know who my family was. I knew my mother, and my three brothers, I had no idea who my dad was, I had long forgotten what he looked like. I had no aunties or uncles that I knew off, no grandparents. We had to draw our home, so I did. She was in the kitchen, with an angry face, my brothers in the garden playing happily and I was in the basement. Where I belonged. It was my life. So I drew it. I was sorry I did. I thought I had done well, I was expecting to get praise from my teacher, praise I craved for. But my teacher just looked at me in shock and asked me to explain my picture. So, I did. I was taken to the canteen, and they gave me something to eat. I was happy and gorged myself on the food they gave me. It was Friday, and I knew I would have nothing else for the rest of the weekend. I dreaded the holidays. If I was allowed out of the basement, I often resorted to stealing food from the neighbours’ bins. I drank water from the sink in the basement and hoped it wouldn’t make me sick. It tasted funny. I prayed every night for one of the boys to give me some scraps so I could make it through another day. The teachers looked on at me eating, with wide eyes. I stopped mid mouthful and put down the sandwich on the plate in front of me. Suddenly aware all eyes where on me. I thought I was going to be in trouble for being a pig. I was a dirty, filthy, good for nothing pig. I knew that. She told me often. But I had forgotten myself. I had allowed myself to become greedy and selfish and I knew in that moment I would regret it. And I did. ‘Jane, don’t stop, it’s ok, you can eat’ the soft voice of my teacher soothed. She was young, sweet, innocent and had kind eyes. But today they looked different. Those eyes looked at me with pity. I didn’t know that look then, but I learnt very quickly what that look meant, and it made me feel worse than when She beat me. I hated that look. I told them I was full, and I couldn’t eat anymore. It wasn’t true. They let me go home, but of course, I was late. She made Johny beat me. He didn’t want too. He was still kind then. She told him if he didn’t do better, she would do it herself and he wouldn’t be allowed out at the weekend. So, he did better. He was allowed out. By Monday, I had almost recovered from the beating Johnny inflicted on me. In a way, it was worse than when She did it. It hurt more, not physically, but I loved Johny, and he hurt me. My heart hurt. When I returned from school on Monday, I was locked straight into the basement as usual. I curled up in the corner with the only book I had, and re read it for the thousandth time. I knew it off by heart. There was a commotion upstairs, and panic set in. I didn’t know what was happening, but I had a feeling it was something to do with me. When the basement door creaked opened, panic set in, She stormed downstairs and started to scream at me. I knew it was bad, She never came down here. ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!’ ‘I…I… I don’t…’ fear paralysed me. I had never seen her so mad. ‘Social services’ She spat in my face ‘I told them you were at a friend’s house. They are coming back tomorrow, and I swear to the Almighty God, if you say one thing out of turn, you filthy piece of s**t, I will give you a beating so bad, you will wish you were dead’ She didn’t beat me. She just stormed upstairs and left me locked in the basement. On Tuesday morning, the basement door was unlocked, and I was called upstairs. I walked into the kitchen and the smell of freshly baked bread filled my nose. It was heavenly. But I knew better than to ask for any. I made my way to school and when I returned, I was met with something I had never seen before. She was standing in the doorway with a smile on her face. I had never seen her smile before. Not like that anyway. It was usually a smirk. It all made sense when I walked into the house, there was a lady in a suit sat at the kitchen table. ‘Hello Jane, my name is Laura, I’ve come to see you’ I looked confused, why did she want to see me? And then She spoke, causing me to shudder slightly. ‘Jane, why don’t you pop upstairs to your room sweetheart and get changed? Laura will be here to talk to you when you come down’ She was sicky sweet, it frightened me more than when she was angry. Upstairs? I hadn’t been up there since I was 5, I didn’t even know if I would remember where I was going. I was apprehensive, but then Jake took my hand tightly. ‘Come on Jane’ he grinned and dragged me upstairs giggling. When we were out of view, he shot me a look of disgust. ‘Me and Josh had to give up our room today for you’ he spat ‘Get changed and be nice to the lady so we can have our room back’ and he pushed me to the door of the room that had a sign with my name on it. I opened the door, and the bed had pink sheets and a teddy on it. There were toys in a box by the bed, pictures of cute animals on the walls and a stack of books on a bookshelf. There was a new dress laid out on the side for me and a pink hair band. I got changed into the dress and put the band in my hair. I felt like a princess as I twirled in my new dress. I took the teddy and went downstairs. The lady was nice, but I knew she wasn’t going to be able to help me. She wanted me to show her my room. I hesitated but She told me it was ok, to take her upstairs to my room. So that’s what I did. Laura asked me some questions, and I lied. I wanted Laura to go away. Laura made Her angry and when She was angry, I got hurt. I didn’t want to hurt. I lied so that I wouldn’t get a beating. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. It was a wistful dream that wasn’t about to come true. That night, when Laura had gone, she ripped the head off my teddy, gave the room back to the boys. She burned my new dress and hair band. She didn’t beat me. She didn’t have to; she had already beaten me by making me watch her destroy the things she had let me have.