Premonitions are strange things.

Visions and signs make grand mysteries that humanity has yet to find the key to solving. And what purpose do they hold? Hope and guidance or simply confirmation of the things we want to hear?

I was alone once more, but I suppose I’d always been as such even when Edward Rochester had called me into his arms.

Thornfield had turned out to be yet another prison, its secrets too tightly held by the manor’s master to be solved by mere premonition. He would take pleasure from my mind and body, but despite my love, he wouldn’t give me his heart or his trust. His secrets went untold, and my devotion was cast aside. Now here I was.

Alone.

Poor plain, unwanted Jane Doe.

“Let her be punished!”

The words were as clear to me as the day they’d been spoken. I hadn’t dwelled on my past in a very long time, but my anguish and despair had brought it all to the surface, and my dreams were riddled with the hurts of my childhood.

I was sure I’d never forget Mr. Brocklehurst’s voice, and if I should ever hear it in reality, I would not cower as I once did. I was stronger now, firmer in my beliefs of right and wrong, and I was willing to sacrifice for them. I’d allowed Edward to go on alone despite wanting to be by his side and help him heal his hurts. I’d sacrificed love—or was it lust—for trust and honesty.

“Wicked child.”

At ten years old, I was dumped on the doorstep of Lowood School for delinquent children, a sort of boarding school for troubled teens and wayward orphans, and it was where I first laid eyes on the terrifying principle, Mr. Brocklehurst.

He was tall, skinny, and harsh looking, and I was sure he’d never smiled a day in his life. In hindsight, he was the kind of man who delighted in causing others pain and suffering, and his position at Lowood was perfect for him—he could dish out his fancies with no ramifications. He was quick to judge and find wanting, and I was on the receiving end more often than not.

I scarcely remembered the incident that caused him to turn on me that first day, nor did I care to. All I remembered was the pain, humiliation, and defeat that had coursed through my little body as I was placed on a stool in the middle of the classroom.

I remembered his words, and I remembered the hours, days, weeks, months, and years that passed after them.

“Listen here,” declared the strong-armed Mr. Brocklehurst. “This is a sad occasion, for it seems our teachings have fallen on deaf ears! Behold this sad, little, frightful creature, and remember her face, for she is a liar, an interloper, and undesirable. Look upon her and remember, for from this day forth, you will shun her. Exclude her from your company, exclude her from your teachings and sports, and shut her out from your conversations.” Turning to Miss Temple and the teaching assistant, he said, “Teachers, you must watch her. Keep your eyes sharp on her movements and words, and punish her as severely as you can. This child is worse than the heathens who skulk on the streets. This girl is a liar!”

There was a lengthy pause in which no one spoke, and I took the time to quell my anger and school my expression into nothing. The entire class stared at me with unblinking eyes, each passing judgment on me. I could feel their disinterest turning into disgust and their light-hearted companionship turning into hatred. Despite their quickness to turn from me, I caught a sense of relief in the air. I would suffer punishment first, and they would escape. I couldn’t blame them for their cowardice. I would have done the same to avoid a painful blow or a night in confinement.

“And how do I know this?” Mr. Brocklehurst went on when he was satisfied his message had sunk in. “Her family. The charitable Sarah Reed, who took this orphan into her home, placing her among her own children and bestowing food and lodgings on her. Jane Doe!” He turned on me, his eyes ablaze with unmasked hatred. “How did you repay her generosity? With lies, insubordination, theft, and fear! You were sent here for your own good, and it was a blessing I happened to be here today. The waters of life shall be stagnant around you.”

My heart twisted, but I continued to stare at my hands. Aunt Sarah had told them lies! I’d done nothing but want to belong, to earn her love, but I’d only found coldness and anger in her heart. I was only a child who longed for a mother, a family, and unconditional love.

It wasn’t my fault my parents had died, nor was it within my control when I was left in the care of the Reeds as nothing more than a swaddled baby. It certainly wasn’t within my power to stop the sickness that took Uncle Reed and left Aunt Sarah a widow. I was cast adrift, constantly reminded of how unwanted I was by the only family I had left. Belittled, shamed, and abused, I was locked in cupboards as punishment for unknown deeds, hit by my cousin John, starved for days, my education withheld, and after suffering all of those things, I was denied the one gift I wanted the most. To be loved.

Aunt Sarah had taken everything from me, including my name, and ensured my suffering would continue once I left her home at Gateshead. What a thorough job she had done. I scarcely knew what I’d done to deserve it, but I suppose living was enough of a slight to cause her to go out of her way.

When I didn’t make a sound or raise an eyebrow, Mr. Brocklehurst scowled at me.

“Let her stand on that stool for the remainder of the day,” he commanded. “And let no one speak to her.”

There I stayed for hours, perched on top of the stool as the class went on around me. My legs shook, my head spun, my throat burned with thirst, and I was denied escape. I was ten years old, forced to grow up faster than any child should, and now I stood upon a pedestal of infamy, deemed the degenerate and wild Jane Doe. Trust her at your peril, for she is broken and evil!

As the sun set and evening chores and dinner were over, the class was finally sent to their dormitories for the night, and still, I stood on the verge of tears. I was tired, sore, and starving, and still, I was ignored.

Just as I was about to collapse, a girl stole into the room and stood before me. Realizing it was Helen Burns—the quiet and sickly Irish girl with brilliant curly red hair—I almost wept tears of joy.

She smiled softly and pressed something into my hand, scurrying away before she could be discovered.

I didn’t dare look at the treasure she’d given me until I was alone again, and when I saw what she’d given me, a spark of hope ignited in my heart.

It was a bread roll.

My memory shifted again. This time, I was older—sixteen—and still in the clutches of Lowood.

I stood in a dark hallway, my feet bare and my hand on a doorknob. Glancing around, I made sure I was undiscovered and unwatched before opening it.

“Helen,” I whispered as the scent of sickness flowed from the room beyond. “Are you awake?”

She stirred, turning over in her bed so she could see who was at the door.

“Jane?” came her tiny voice through the darkness. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” I replied, stealing into the room and standing by her bedside.

For two weeks, she’d been confined, and her loss in class and at mealtimes had been grave, indeed. Helen Burns was my only friend, and our conversations about the world and the things we’d do once we were free of Lowood were the only things that kept me going when I would otherwise drown.

I felt her absence as if a limb had been rent from my body. No other student would talk to me, and I drifted alone and unwanted. They feared they’d be punished severely if they defied Mr. Brocklehurst’s order to shun me.

“Do they still turn from you?” she asked, reading my expression as if I were an open book. Helen had that quality about her. She was deceptively aware.

I nodded. “I miss you dearly.”

“You think too much of the love of others,” she whispered. “You are too impulsive.”

“I have cause for it,” I replied haughtily. “They have judged me without a fair trial.”

Helen smiled at our old argument, for it was a topic we discussed regularly. “Why are you so quick to fall into distress when life is too short already? If death is so certain, why dwell on it and forgo the happiness life has to offer?”

There was no happiness to be found at Lowood. That was why we longed for the day we both turned eighteen. Truly, what was the point of life if I was to spend it hating and longing as I did and doing nothing about it?

“Soon, you will be away from this place, Jane,” Helen said. “You can go anywhere.”

“It’s a fine dream,” I replied. “And what of you?”

“I know my fate,” she replied with a ragged whisper.

At sixteen, we were both well aware of death and the ways in which it could take us, but I was too stubborn to admit defeat. There was still hope among such oppression, and I willed Helen to see it.

“You will be well again,” I assured her. “There are all kinds of medicines to cure everything.”

She smiled, the light dimming in her eyes, and I clutched her clammy hand in mine. She knew as well as I that people like us, children deemed degenerates and orphans, had no money or priority for such miracles. The injustice burned in the back of my throat, but crying it wasn’t fair would do nothing but cause a scene. We were in a hopeless situation.

I was already formulating a plan to escape Lowood and break into the nearest hospital so my friend could live when she closed her eyes.

I tugged on her hand. “Helen?”

“I’m tired, Jane,” she whispered. “I’m not afraid of where I’m going. I’m sure I wasn’t meant for this world. Not yet.”

“Then will you come back?”

She smiled, her eyes opening a crack. “Perhaps.”

I stayed beside Helen all that night. When I was discovered the next morning, I was sentenced to a day and night in the storeroom closet, and she died alone.

Not long after Helen departed, Lowood was brought under investigation by the authorities. Mr. Brocklehurst was sent to prison for crimes against his young wards, the curriculum and conditions were vastly changed, and the remaining two years I spent within its walls passed as quickly as they might but were no less dreary as they’d already been.

When I turned eighteen, I left without so much as a backward glance, having learned the most precious lesson of my life to date.

Protect your soul at all costs.