Jane Gayre By Charlie-Anne Butterworth

                                                                                                                         Jane Gayre
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​I
I obey his directions and Mr Rochester pricks me. I say nothing, but judge. Mr Rochester does not take much time, did no better - did nothing wonderful. He, so risen, before I would even fancy him. In each case, distance. Relief was the mast, flecked with foam. My drowned corpse spread, in what used to be a woman’s shape. Now I am dim, a pale reflection - a vapour. This was the pinnacle of dim lances. I rose, throwing myself into the distance.
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II
Blanche. I regarded her with special interest, imagine the fancy taste of her. Her shape was splendid, physically speaking, and by candlelight perfect: throat inflated, features darkened, in a position fierce. She mouthed inflection short, her voice a shawl. My sloping shoulders, ringlets all unfurrowed. Point for point: bust, neck, dark eyes, arched lip. Face low, I entered into flowers. She sang to her mama. Wild Miss Ingram - her execution was brilliant. Open skin, eye lustre. I would know the taste of female beauty, attired in Miss Ingram. I liked her, did admire her.

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III
Mr Rochester summoned Colonel Dent. Dent looked at the man’s fastening head - he allowed the other down, observing the notion. The bulky figure chosen before him, draped in Mr Rochester. Rochester knelt while Dent took up behind. A ceremony, a show, a marriage - at its termination the Colonel called out, as Mr Rochester fell, rose, then elapsed elaborately. The two recognised admiration, incredulity and delight. They laid their heads together, not word or syllable spoke.

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IV
The collective of ladies and gentlemen form black sparks over my figure. Mary Ingram, Mr Eshton, Mrs Dent, Henry Lynn, Mrs Fairfax - I feel akin to their searching eyes; they took influence from my own power that mastered me. Saw them sweet, harsh and gentle. Penetrating movements, drinks from my well of divine draught, acute pleasure, pure gold - colour rises in my brain and my heart as the guests at last rendered my lap full. At last, full.

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CHARLIE-ANNE BUTTERWORTH is a Creative Writing graduate, speculative fiction author, satire poet and urban cryptid from East London. She is usually a science-fiction writer but likes to give motion to her personal identity through experimental fiction and poetry. She refers to her creative process as ‘word wrangling’ and is inspired by the works of Octavia E. Butler and Margaret Atwood. Her work has been featured in Fincham Press’s The Unseen anthology and Pyre Publishing’s Reap What You Sow zine. Follow her on Twitter @cabwrites.

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